The Moving City: Processions, Passages and Promenades in Ancient Rome 9781472528001, 9781474219235, 9781472530714

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The Moving City

Also available from Bloomsbury The Roman Empire, Peter Garnsey and Richard Saller Written Space in the Latin West, 200 bc to ad 300, edited by Gareth Sears, Peter Keegan and Ray Laurence The Last of the Romans, Jeroen W. P. Wijnendaele

The Moving City Processions, Passages and Promenades in Ancient Rome Edited by Ida Östenberg, Simon Malmberg and Jonas Bjørnebye

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square London WC1B 3DP UK

1385 Broadway New York NY 10018 USA

www.bloomsbury.com BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2015 © Ida Östenberg, Simon Malmberg, Jonas Bjørnebye and Contributors, 2015 Ida Östenberg, Simon Malmberg and Jonas Bjørnebye have asserted their rights under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editors of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury or the authors. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: HB: 978-1-47252-800-1 ePDF: 978-1-47253-071-4 ePub: 978-1-47253-449-1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. Typeset by Fakenham Prepress Solutions, Fakenham, Norfolk NR21 8NN

Contents List of Illustrations Acknowledgements Notes on Contributors

Introduction Ida Östenberg, Simon Malmberg and Jonas Bjørnebye

viii x xi 1

Part 1  Elite Movement

11

  1. Power Walks: Aristocratic Escorted Movements in Republican Rome Ida Östenberg

13

  2. ‘Moving through Town’: Foreign Dignitaries in Rome in the Middle and Late Republic Richard Westall

23

  3. Livia on the Move Lovisa Brännstedt

37

  4. Fast Movement through the City: Ideals, Stereotypes and City Planning Monica Hellström

47

  5. Veiled Visibility: Morality, Movement and Sacred Virginity in Late Antiquity 59 Sissel Undheim Part 2  Literary Movement

73

  6. Rolling Thunder: Movement, Violence and Narrative in the History of the Late Roman Republic Isak Hammar

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vi Contents   7. ‘A Shouting and Bustling on All Sides’ (Hor. Sat. 1.9.77–8): Everyday Justice in the Streets of Republican Rome Anthony Corbeill   8. Urban Flux: Varro’s Rome-in-progress Diana Spencer

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  9. Augustan Literary Tours: Walking and Reading the City Timothy M. O’Sullivan

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Part 3  Processional Movement

123

10. Moving In and Moving Out: Ritual Movements between Rome and its Suburbium Kristine Iara

125

11. Augustus’ Triumphal and Triumph-like Returns Carsten Hjort Lange

133

12. Rite of Passage: On Ceremonial Movements and Vicarious Memories (Fourth Century ce) Gitte Lønstrup Dal Santo

145

13. The Laetaniae Septiformes of Gregory I, S. Maria Maggiore and Early Marian Cult in Rome Margaret M. Andrews

155

14. Movement and the Hero: Following St Lawrence in Late Antique Rome Michael Mulryan

165

Part 4  Movement and Urban Form

173

15. Towards a History of Mobility in Ancient Rome (300 bce to 100 ce) Ray Laurence

175

16. ‘Ships are Seen Gliding Swiftly along the Sacred Tiber’: The River as an Artery of Urban Movement and Development Simon Malmberg

187

Contents 17. Monuments and Images of the Moving City Anne-Marie Leander Touati 18. Mithraic Movement: Negotiating Topography and Space in Late Antique Rome Jonas Bjørnebye Notes Bibliography List of Abbreviations Index

vii 203

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237 321 357 359

List of Illustrations Cover image: Drawing by Jonathan Westin. © Jonathan Westin. Fig. 1.1. Denarius minted by Marcus Junius Brutus. British Museum, Reg. No. 2002, 0102.4364 © The Trustees of the British Museum. 14 Fig. 3.1. Sestertius minted in 22/23 ce. British Museum, Reg. No. 6358 © The Trustees of the British Museum. 43 Fig. 5.1. Virginal topography and range. Map drawn by Margaret M. Andrews. 71 Fig. 7.1. Roman Forum during the late Republic. Map by Philip Stinson. 91 Fig. 8.1. Silver denarius minted 29–27 bce. R.6171 © The Trustees of the British Museum. 103 Fig. 8.2. ‘Vestigij del Circo Massimo che fu cosi cognominato dalla sua grandezza’, 1607–20 (Stefano Du Perac Parisino). British School at Rome Library, Thomas Ashby collection, tapri-L611.D9.011. 109 Fig. 12.1. Damasian epigram in the Crypt of the Popes. © Archivio Fotografico, Pontificia Commissione di Archeologia Cristiana. 147 Fig. 12.2. Map of the holy sites, itinera ad sanctos and staircases in the San Callisto catacomb (from Vincenzo Fiocchi Nicolai, ‘Itinera ad sanctos’, Fig. 2a). © Archivio Fotografico, Pontificia Commissione di Archeologia Cristiana.148 Fig. 13.1. Plan of Gregory’s laetania septiformis in 590 with hypothesized routes of procession to S. Maria Maggiore. Map by Margaret M. Andrews. 156 Fig. 13.2. Plan of Gregory’s laetania septiformis in 603 with hypothesized routes of procession to S. Maria Maggiore. Map by Margaret M. Andrews. 157 Fig. 13.3. Plan of S. Maria Maggiore and other Marian churches dedicated in the late sixth or early seventh centuries. Map by Margaret M. Andrews. 163 Fig. 14.1. The Lawrentian churches of Rome. Map by Margaret M. Andrews. 166 Fig. 14.2. The Lawrentian churches in relation to S. Lorenzo fuori le mura. Map by Margaret M. Andrews. 171 Fig. 15.1. Space as a keyword (from David Harvey, ‘Space as a Key Word’). 177 Fig. 15.2. Principal foci of the spatial turn. 178 Fig. 15.3. Integrating approaches to space and society (after Bob Jessop, Neil Brenner and Martin Jones, ‘Theorizing Sociospatial Relations’). 179 Fig. 15.4. Application of the intersection of territory, place, scale and networks to Ancient Rome. 186 Fig. 16.1. Plan of harbours at Rome. Map by Simon Malmberg. 188 Fig. 16.2. Plan of the harbour in Testaccio excavated in 1868–70 (from Guglielmo Gatti, ‘L’arginatura’). 194 Fig. 16.3. Plan of harbours in the northern Campus Martius (from Rodolfo Lanciani, Forma Urbis Romae, modified by Simon Malmberg). 198



List of Illustrations

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Fig. 17.1. Trajan’s Column, east axis, scene 6. Photo: Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 91.150. 205 Fig. 17.2. Trajan’s Column, south axis, scene 4. Photo: Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 91.148. 205 Fig. 17.3. Column of Marcus Aurelius, view from the Via Flaminia (east axis). Photo: Henrik Boman. 207 Fig. 17.4. Arch of the Argentarii, exterior view of west side of west pylon. Giovanni Pietro Bellori, Veterus Arcus Augustorum Triumphis Insignes (Rome, 1690), pl. 7. Source: http://digital.library.villanova.edu/Item/ vudl:38641.210 Fig. 17.5. Severan Arch in the Forum, panel reliefs of column base. Photo: Ron Reznick. 212 Fig. 17.6. Arch of Constantine, looking towards the Coliseum. Photo: Fototeca dell’Unione Internazionale – American Academy in Rome. 214 Fig. 17.7. Arch of Constantine. Great Trajanic Frieze, panels showing the emperor charging enemies. Photo: Ron Reznick. 215 Fig. 17.8 Great Trajanic Frieze, simplified sketch of the eight relief panels reused on the Arch of Constantine, drawn by Marika Leander. 216–17 Fig. 17.9. Great Trajanic Frieze, fragment with emperor in the Villa Borghese Pinciana. Photo: Faraglia, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 8436. 220 Fig. 17.10. Hypothetical reconstruction of the Great Trajanic Frieze. Sketches of the slabs reused on the Arch of Constantine by Marika Leander, Borghese fragments by Gudrun Anselm, Medici fragment by Jesper Blid. 221 Fig. 17.11. Column Court, stone plan with scaled reconstruction of the Great Trajanic Frieze. Map adapted from Packer, Forum of Trajan, vol. 2, fol. 0, by Lars Karlsson, Jesper Blid and Anne-Marie Leander Touati. 222 Fig. 18.1. Topographical distribution of mithraea in late antique Rome. Map by Margaret M. Andrews. 226

Acknowledgements First of all, we thank the contributors to this volume for their persistent enthusiasm, engagement and patience. The volume was delayed because of a serious illness among the editors, and we are particularly thankful to our co-authors for their support during the difficult situation. From our first workshop in 2011 and all through the preparation of the manuscript, we have had the privilege to work together with professional, tireless and friendly colleagues, and for this we are very grateful. Also, thanks are due to all the participants of our two workshops, including Alexandra Busch, Ragnar Hedlund, Katariina Mustakallio, David Newsome and Michele Salzman, who, for different reasons, were unable to contribute to the present volume. The editors at Bloomsbury have provided excellent support as we prepared this volume. Special thanks go to Charlotte Loveridge and Anna MacDiarmid, who have guided us through the process of manuscript preparation, constantly providing instant and cordial help in matters large and small. We are also deeply grateful to our copy editor, Stig Oppedal, who has provided indispensable assistance in preparing the chapters for publication. Stig has corrected the texts, made suggestions for improvements and carefully set them in a uniform style. A very special thanks goes to Jonathan Westin, who drew the brilliant cover of the book. Further thanks are due to the Swedish and Norwegian Institutes in Rome for hosting our first workshop, and to the Norwegian Institute for its generous hospitality during our second workshop. We have also received generous financial support from the Royal Swedish Academy of Letters, History and Antiquities (Stiftelsen Gihls Fond and Stiftelsen Enboms Donationsfond), Riksbankens Jubileumsfond, the Norwegian Institute in Rome, the Department of Historical Studies at the University of Gothenburg and the Department of Archaeology, History, Cultural Studies and Religion at the University of Bergen. Finally, our deep gratitude goes to our families, who have moved alongside us in Rome and other cities all through this project, from initial idea to published book.

Notes on Contributors Margaret M. Andrews is a PhD candidate in the art and archaeology of the Mediterranean world at the University of Pennsylvania. Her dissertation is a study of the topographical development of the Subura and Cispian hill in Rome from the Republican period to the early medieval period. She has published multiple articles in the American Journal of Archaeology and has co-edited the excavation publication for the imperial villa and medieval monastery of Villamagna near Anagni, Italy. Jonas Bjørnebye, PhD, is a scholar of ancient Roman religion and archaeology. He is an expert on the Roman cult of Mithras, particularly as it appeared in late antique Rome, and this was also the topic of his 2007 doctoral thesis, ‘Hic locus est felix, sanctus, piusque benignus: The Cult of Mithras in Fourth-century Rome’. He held the Stein Erik Hagen Chair in Cross-Disciplinary Studies at the Norwegian Institute in Rome from 2009 to 2013, and is now an independent scholar as well as a serving officer in the Norwegian Army. Lovisa Brännstedt is a PhD candidate in classical archaeology and ancient history at Lund University. Her dissertation, ‘Femina Princeps: Livia and the Fundamentals of Female Imperial Power’, is a study of Livia’s political position and status as empress. Anthony Corbeill is professor of classics at the University of Kansas. He is the author of Controlling Laughter: Political Humor in the Late Roman Republic (Princeton, 1996), Nature Embodied: Gesture in Ancient Rome (Princeton, 2004) and Sexing the World: Grammatical Gender and Biological Sex in Ancient Rome (Princeton, 2015). Isak Hammar defended his doctoral thesis ‘Making Enemies: The Logic of Immorality in Ciceronian Oratory’ (Lund University, 2013), in which he analyses the use of immorality as political argument in the late Republic. He is the co-editor of a book on antiquity on film and television to be published in 2015. Monica Hellström, PhD, is junior research fellow of classics and ancient history at Durham University, after defending her dissertation ‘Public Construction under Diocletian’ in classical studies at Columbia University. Her main research interests are the history and culture of the Roman Empire in the third and fourth centuries ce.

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Kristine Iara is the collection development librarian for classical studies at the American Academy in Rome. As a classical archaeologist with research focus on Urbs Roma, she earned her PhD at the University of Cologne in 2007 with a dissertation on the architecture of the imperial palace on the Palatine hill in Rome (forthcoming as Hippodromus Palatii, 2015). Later on she initiated a research project at the LudwigMaximilians-Universität of Munich on the topography of pagan cults in late antique Rome, as a post-doctoral fellow at the German Archaeological Institute in Rome (DAI). Various aspects of this research have been submitted for publication, and a monograph on the subject is in an advanced state. Carsten Hjort Lange is assistant professor/DFF-Mobilex research fellow at Aalborg University. He is the author of Res Publica Constituta: Actium, Apollo and the Accomplishment of the Triumviral Assignment (Leiden, 2009) and has written several articles on political and military history, including ‘The Battle of Actium: A Reconsideration’ (Classical Quarterly 61, 2011). He is currently completing a monograph on the Roman triumph and civil war and has just published a conference volume on the Republican triumph in cooperation with Frederik Juliaan Vervaet, titled The Roman Republican Triumph: Beyond the Spectacle (Rome, 2014). Ray Laurence is professor of Roman history and archaeology at the University of Kent. He has pioneered the study of space in the Roman city, and developed the study of the role movement played in shaping urbanism in antiquity. He is the author of Roman Pompeii: Space and Society (London, 1994) and the co-editor of both Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space (Oxford, 2011) and Written Space in the Latin West (London, 2013). He also publishes on the life course in the Roman Empire. Anne-Marie Leander Touati is professor of classical archaeology and ancient history at Lund University and former director of the Swedish Institute in Rome. Her specialties cover narration in Roman imagery, reception studies, Pompeii, and digital documentation methods, 3D visualization and online publication in building archaeology. Her publications include The Great Trajanic Frieze (Stockholm, 1987) and ‘The Piranesi Marbles from Rome to Stockholm: An Introduction to Research in Progress’ (Opuscula Romana 30, 2005), and since 2000 she has served as director of the Swedish Pompeii Project. Gitte Lønstrup Dal Santo, PhD, is a historian of mentalities. She is an expert on the Roman cult of Sts Peter and Paul and its fourth-century export to Constantinople, the New Rome. Her dissertation ‘Concordia Augustorum – Concordia Apostolorum: The Making of Shared Memory between Rome and Constantinople’ (2010) is in part published in the anthology Patrons and Viewers in Late Antiquity (Aarhus, 2012). She was assistant director at the Danish Institute at Rome from 2011 to 2014 and now works as an advisor and consultant in Copenhagen.



Notes on Contributors

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Simon Malmberg is professor of classical archaeology at the University of Bergen. He has published on how movement shapes urban development and local identity in Rome and contributed chapters to the volume Via Tiburtina: Space, Movement and Artefacts in the Urban Landscape (Rome, 2009). Malmberg has also written about Roman capital cities, the ritual use of imperial palaces and the political significance of imperial banquets during the late antique and Byzantine periods. He is currently studying the development and character of harbour quarters, mainly in Rome and Ostia, but also in Ravenna and Constantinople. Michael Mulryan is honorary research fellow at the University of Kent and is volume editor of the journal Late Antique Archaeology. His doctorate (University College London, 2008) looked at the spatial impact of religious buildings in late antique Rome. His recent book Spatial ‘Christianisation’ in Context: Strategic Intramural Building in Rome from the 4th–7th Century ad (Oxford, 2014) refines this question. His other publications largely focus on the religious topography of the late antique city. He was assistant director and archivist for the Kent section of the Late Antique Ostia field project from 2008 to 2012. Ida Östenberg is associate professor in classical archaeology and ancient history at the University of Gothenburg and research fellow at the Royal Swedish Academy of Letters, History and Antiquities. She has published extensively on the Roman triumph and is the author of Staging the World: Spoils, Captives, and Representations in the Roman Triumphal Procession (Oxford, 2009). She is currently writing a monograph about memories of defeat in ancient Rome and articles on various Roman topics such as damnatio memoriae, civil war, proscriptions and aristocratic funerals. Timothy M. O’Sullivan is an associate professor of classical studies at Trinity University in San Antonio, Texas. He is the author of Walking in Roman Culture (Cambridge, 2011), and has also written articles on Virgil’s Aeneid, Statius’ Silvae and Roman attitudes to ceiling decoration. Diana Spencer is professor of classics at the University of Birmingham. Most recently, she is the author of Roman Landscape: Culture and Identity (Cambridge, 2010) and co-editor of The Sites of Rome: Time, Space, Memory (Oxford, 2007). She has written on a wide range of Latin authors, and her forthcoming monograph, Varro’s Guide to Being Roman, explores Varro’s De lingua latina as a handbook for Roman citizens’ experience of a world shaped by Latin. Sissel Undheim is associate professor of the study of religions at the University of Bergen. She has edited a volume on Roman religion for a Norwegian series on holy texts, and written articles on sacred virgins in antiquity and late antiquity, as well as on didactics, religion and school in contemporary Norway.

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Notes on Contributors

Richard Westall is guest lecturer for the Pontificia Università Gregoriana and affiliated faculty of the Catholic University of America Rome Program. A former Oscar Broneer Fellow of the American Academy in Rome, he has written articles on a wide range of topics in Graeco-Roman history from the archaic period through late antiquity. His forthcoming publications include Caesarian Soundings and ‘Constantius II and St Peter’s Basilica’, which he is now expanding as a second book.

Introduction Ida Östenberg, Simon Malmberg and Jonas Bjørnebye

The Moving City: Processions, Passages and Promenades in Ancient Rome deals with movement in public space in the city of Rome. This topic represents a novel approach to the Roman cityscape that pays attention to movement as interaction between people and monuments. Movements give form to the cityscape by tying together areas and monuments through, for example, commercial activities, power displays and individual strolls. The city, on the other hand, shapes movements, by way of its topographical settings and built environment. The volume at hand comprises revised papers that were initially presented at two workshops held at the Swedish and Norwegian Institutes in Rome in May 2011 and June 2012. At our first meeting, titled ‘The Moving City’, oral papers were presented and discussed in a traditional conference manner. The follow-up, informally labelled ‘Moving On’, was arranged according to a different pattern. While new participants delivered oral presentations, those who were present for the second time put forth the written versions of their papers, which were scrutinized by two specifically appointed readers and discussed by the group at large. We found this arrangement highly stimulating. Having papers peer-reviewed in a friendly atmosphere made the academic discussion more constructive and strengthened the collective sense of a joint undertaking beyond a one-time conference meeting. In order to continue the process of a grouped production, all articles were distributed to the contributors also after our meetings. Each author has therefore been able to comment upon the other pieces throughout the process and to make relevant cross-references. It is our hope that this arrangement has furthered the possibility that this conference volume could be read as a coherent whole. The participants at our workshops and the contributors in this volume are ancient historians, Latinists and classical archaeologists, a mixture that we have found to invigorate the interchange of ideas and knowledge. Moreover, the participants’ fields of expertise cover a wide time span from the Republican era, through the imperial age, and into late antiquity. Our aim has been to present a volume that shows both depth, as it focuses on a single topic, and interdisciplinary breadth, as it embraces close but still different areas of study. Further, while some of our contributors are senior professors, others are early- and middle-career scholars. One of the aims of our

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The Moving City

workshops has been to generate dynamic meetings and creative discussions between academic generations. It is our belief that an open and constructive workshop setting bears fruit also in the quality of the finalized papers. Topography has long been a cornerstone of classical studies. During the last decades, scholars have taken the traditional study of single monuments into broader analyses of context and space. These discussions have done much to further the study of the ancient cityscape. Still, it is only with the recent interest in movement that topography and space studies have come to include the very lifeblood of the ancient city, namely the inhabitants. One of our main aims is to promote the study of interaction and communication between peoples and places within the field of Roman studies. Hence, in all the chapters, whether they deal with elite movements, daily walks, processions or literary tours, the aspect of communication within the city, between buildings, places and inhabitants, forms a central core. In the study of the Roman city, a gradual shift has occurred from the study of architecture and topography to that of space and movement and their importance for ancient society. This paradigm shift has come to be known as the ‘spatial turn’ and has enabled scholars to better understand people and buildings in their larger physical and cultural context. One of the first to apply this new perspective on ancient urbanism was William MacDonald in his 1986 study of Roman architecture. He dealt with different forms of what he called ‘the urban armature’, which not only organized movement but also defined the city and gave its inhabitants a shared identity.1 MacDonald’s work was followed by a flurry of studies on Roman urban movement. Some of these, like the vignettes penned by Nicholas Purcell and Paul Zanker, sketched out what a person might have perceived when moving through Rome.2 Diane Favro ventured a more ambitious approach in her study of the ‘urban image’, that is, the impact of the physical city on a person’s senses. This is illustrated by the contrast between two journeys through Rome before and after the Augustan transformation of the city.3 The urban image is also the focus of an essay collection edited by David Larmour and Diana Spencer, titled The Sites of Rome: Time, Space, Memory, which deals with perceptions of Rome as they come across in Latin authors, often involving movement through the city. This combination of literary analysis and urban movement is also at the centre of Timothy O’Sullivan’s study of the different layers of meaning inherent in the walking done in Rome by members of the upper class.4 Not surprisingly, Pompeii is among the places that has received most attention in research on Roman urban mobility. Because of its level of preservation and the extent of excavation, this city presents unequalled archaeological opportunities to investigate movement and its effects. Works by Zanker and Ray Laurence represent two of the earliest, and most influential, attempts to understand Pompeii primarily from aspects of its spatial organization, including movement.5 Most studies of movement in Pompeii have focused on the organization, development and use of the city’s street network. This interest has in recent years branched out to cover urban traffic flows more generally in the Roman world.6 In recent years, Ostia has also received more attention because of its potential for investigating urban movement.7 Scholarship on Pompeii has in turn influenced the study of movement at Rome. Combining texts and archaeology allowed new locations and new aspects of mobility

Introduction

3

to be addressed at Rome, for instance by Robert Coates-Stephens in his study of a traffic node in Rome’s periphery. In a similar vein, a team of Swedish scholars conducted a study of the Via Tiburtina, where they covered both urban and suburban movement along the road.8 Furthermore, there is potential in the integration of texts, archaeology and digital visualization, providing a third dimension in analysing perceptions and possibilities of urban movement. This has been explored by the contributions in the volume Imaging Ancient Rome and in several digital projects on Rome.9 Several important works on movement in Rome have dealt with a wide array of topics, such as the intermingling of religion and politics, and involved generals, emperors, senators and bishops, as well as soldiers, visitors and sizeable parts of the city’s population, thus covering essential aspects of urban movement.10 An important trend of the last decade has been the combination of essays into interdisciplinary volumes on specific themes related to movement at Rome. Three such anthologies deal with emperors and aristocracy and how the relationship between them could be expressed through the built environment and related rituals. The essays in The Emperor and Rome combine text, archaeology and art to study a number of key locations and their use in imperial ritual from Augustus to Constantine. Kommunikationsräume im kaiserzeitlichen Rom deals with the question how the urban spaces of imperial Rome influenced communication processes within and around them from Augustus to the early fifth century. The collection is focused on the fora, but expands its perspective to include literary analysis of the views of a diverse set of ancient authors, ranging from Ovid to the writers of the Historia Augusta to Augustine. The anthology Rom und Mailand in der Spätantike is similar in its approach, but with a more narrow chronological focus on late antiquity. It covers literary representations, the relationship between city and emperor, and Rome as a landscape of memories and its role in Christian discourse.11 Other collections have applied a broader perspective on space and movement at Rome. One of the earliest examples is L’Urbs: Espace urbain et histoire, which ranges widely from topics such as corn distribution, harbour districts and the urban form of Rome, to the Forum, imperial palaces and spaces for the imperial cult. This important collection of no less than 36 essays straddles the divide between traditional topographic studies and the new focus on space and movement. Another broad collection is Lebenswelten, which examines both public and private space in Rome, Pompeii and Ostia. Later examples of this trend are the first issue of the journal Fragmenta, on the theme of Urbs, concepts and realities of public space, and the collection Perspectives on Public Space in Rome, although both can be said to be more concerned with space than with movement.12 The essays gathered in Rome, Pompeii and Ostia: Space and Movement could be said to be the previous publication most related to the present one.13 It has the same broad thematic perspective, but does not limit itself to Rome, nor does it cover the same length of time. The present volume could be said to complement earlier collections through a clearly stated focus on movement, providing a comprehensive view of Rome through its 18 essays, which cover many different aspects of urban mobility, and by analysing changing patterns of movement for almost a millennium.

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The interaction between monuments and people, cityscape and movement, is at the heart of this volume. Communication between people and places is discussed as a contemporary discourse but also in interplay with the past. Monuments and routes were bearers of memory, and Rome’s past, manifest in monuments and rituals, took an active part in the contemporary construction of the moving city. In addition, movements are described in texts, and texts themselves invite movement, through both the present and past cityscape. In Rome, collective values were exposed, strengthened and challenged by way of daily visible movements, both grouped and individual. The perspective of movement encourages us to catch sight of arenas of communication within the different social strata, as also between different groups. For example, elite movement could be interpreted both as aristocratic communication and competition and also as dialogue between the elite and the populus Romanus. Identity is central to this discussion and will be noted as both inclusion (movement as expression of common ideals) and exclusion (restricted movements, and movement as expression of power, status and gender). Performance, visibility and participation are also key words. Recent scholarship has emphasized that Rome was an open-air city-state of face-to-face meetings. Performance has become a subject à la mode, especially in works focused on political culture.14 Political spectacles are often discussed in relation to place, but more seldom as movement. For example, influential new studies on the contio discuss visual and oral encounters in Rome as spatially static,15 whereas little has been written on how the elite met with the city and its people while walking or riding through town. The recent outpour of works on processions undoubtedly forms an exception. Even in works focusing on the grand pompae, however, discussions on performance have tended to target the conclusive speech (funerals) and the content and message (triumphs) and only to a lesser degree explore movement as a decisive factor.16 In addition, very little has been written about other kinds of political and religious processions, as also of daily passages through the city. One of our aims is to add the perspective of movement to the prevalent discourse on performance. By way of its longue durée, dense location and variety of available sources, the city of ancient Rome offers a unique possibility to study movements as expressions of power, ritual, writing, communication, mentalities, trade, and – also as a result of a massed populace – violent outbreaks and attempts to keep order. Other themes that were discussed at our workshops and that are present in several chapters are the sensory and emotional aspects of movement, the visibility of movement, movements and halting, slow and fast movements, movement as social activity, gendered movement, and changes in movement patterns between Republic, Empire and late antiquity. The chapters in this book cover large time spans and multifaceted approaches, but our ambition has not been to present a conclusive volume on movement in Rome. Rather, it is our hope that the chapters in this book will provide insights into the significance of processions, passages and promenades in the Roman cityscape and inspire others to inquire into both Rome and other cities from the perspective of movement. We have chosen to present the chapters according to four rather general themes: elite movement, literary movement, processional movement and finally movement

Introduction

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and urban form. Certainly, several contributions would fit perfectly well into two or more of the categories. We have nonetheless strived to group together contributions that treat similar topics and touch upon common issues, in order to facilitate reading the volume as a conceptual whole. While the section on literary movements focuses more narrowly on the late Republic and the Augustan age, the other sections cover much larger time spans, ranging from the middle Republic to late antiquity and the early Middle Ages. Within each thematic section, we present the chapters in a basic chronological order. The first part, ‘Elite Movement’, opens with Ida Östenberg’s chapter on escorted movements of the Roman aristocrats, labelled power walks (pun intended). Östenberg points out that the Roman elite seldom walked alone and analyses how their grouped movements interacted with cityscape, participants and spectators. She argues that escorted elite movements included elements of form and route central to the triumphal and funeral processions, and that they repeatedly imitated, played with and indeed challenged the form of the grand pompae. A central notion in this chapter is that grouped aristocratic movements staged the prime Republican political ideas of competition and consensus, which engaged the society at large, both elite and people. Richard Westall’s chapter also focuses on grouped elite movement. His analysis scrutinizes the physical appearance of foreign embassies in the Roman cityscape. Westall shows that embassies were a common sight during the middle and late Republic and follows their movements from their arrival at the Porta Capena or by the Tiber, on to their registration at the Temple of Saturn, their admission into the Senate, their offerings at the Capitol, and finally, their departure. Westall concludes that moving embassies were visual marks of diplomacy and foreign relations at a time when Rome became an imperial Mediterranean power. At the same time, the Senate meticulously controlled the embassies’ movements through town, hence transmitting an image of a Rome in command of foreign others. The next chapter deals with the movements of a specific and prominent representative of the Roman elite in the early Empire, namely the empress herself, Livia Drusilla. Lovisa Brännstedt discusses Livia’s presence in both processions and promenades, proposing that her movements through the city reflected her gradually increasing authority. Her argument is that two main factors authorized Livia’s public movements through Rome: her role as representative of the Julio-Claudian dynasty, and the already established public position of the Vestal Virgins. After Augustus’ death, for example, Livia was granted a lictor and later the right to travel in a carpentum, both privileges previously attached to the Vestals. Monica Hellström takes up the discussion of the Republican public movement of the Roman elite and explores the theme well into the age of the Empire. By examining how imperial authors such as Dio Cassius and Herodian described movement, particularly as concerned velocity but also noting location, company and time of day, she is able to present new insights into the literary, moral and political landscape of the early third century. Hellström argues that fast movement was a cliché employed to portray emperors and other elite males with flawed and weak characters. Continuing her inquiry into the fourth century, Hellström notes that the literary stereotype of fast movement had by this time fallen out of fashion. She proposes three explanations for

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The Moving City

this circumstance: Rome’s loss of political power, changes in the topographic fabric of the city and novel imperial ideals less based on senatorial values. In the concluding piece of the part, Sissel Undheim analyses the postulated immobility and potential movements of aristocratic, Christian virgins in late antiquity. According to the Latin Church fathers, immobility and isolated solitude were powerful testimonies of chastity, and virgins of the true religion remained inside, preferably locked up in their bedrooms. Certainly, virgins of aristocratic families did walk the city, but Undheim shows that their movements were highly regulated by the norms and social control of both the theological authorities and the community at large. The restricted movements of the Christian virgins bear witness to how the new aristocracy navigated in a changed moral and religious landscape. The second part of this volume focuses on how Republican and early imperial movement was described, represented, imitated and negotiated in ancient literature, and indeed how the texts themselves used movements as a stylistic device. Isak Hammar’s chapter on late Republican violence and narrative strategies opens the section. Hammar argues that Roman and Greek historians used the concept of movement as a narrative technique to explain, make sense of and construct moral lessons from the violent events in the late Republic. He shows that historical texts frequently focused on how violence commenced, how it moved and how it ceased. Hammar concludes that in the narratives of ancient historians, elite manipulation triggered violent motion, and only elite invention had the means to halt it. In the end, however, the elite lost control and the movement of violence caused the fall of the Republic itself. The next chapter targets Horace’s well-known Satirae 1.9, in which the poem’s persona strolls down the Via Sacra. Anthony Corbeill analyses the concluding lines, in which the poet is finally spared the company of a bothersome man referred to as ‘the pest’, as the latter gets dragged off to court. Corbeill finds context for this episode in Cicero and Catullus, and shows how the practice of Roman self-help caused swarming and violent movements in the heart of the city. Defendants and plaintiffs gathered clamorous crowds of supporters who moved through the streets and in the Forum, at times even hindering the free circulation of others. Again, as in Hammar’s chapter, violence moves through late Republican Rome. Furthermore, the practice of publicly displayed self-help confirmed elite status and legal privilege. ‘The pest’ never stood a fair chance. Diana Spencer continues along the lines of Hammar and examines the relationship between language and movement at this time of political, social and topographical transformation. By way of a close semiotic reading, she explores Varro’s etymological topography in De lingua latina. While Varro’s descriptions exclude all practicalities of movement, Spencer investigates the ways in which he embeds connotations of motion all through his verbal exploration of the cityscape. She is particularly interested in the citizen experience, and argues that Varro could be read as a guide to the historical power of Rome for an audience at loss in their own city after decades of turbulence. By way of his language, Varro, in Spencer’s words, transformed the Roman urban landscape into inhabited spaces, ‘ethnoscapes’. Timothy O’Sullivan’s chapter on Augustan literary tours might be read as a sequel to Spencer’s argumentation. Here too, the texts are literary monuments that co-exist

Introduction

7

alongside the physical ones. The audience might not only read the city through the texts; O’Sullivan also adds the dimension of bodily and mental experience of movement into his analysis of the interaction between literature and cityscape in Augustan Rome. By scrutinizing the developed itinerary genre in Horace, Virgil, Propertius and Ovid, O’Sullivan demonstrates just how radically the idea and experience of the city changed with the Augustan revolution. The urban tours describe, reflect, interact with and indeed challenge the novel physical landscape, in which new paths of movement were created and others closed. Our third part investigates processional movement in Rome, to Rome and indeed in and out of Rome, as some chapters explore processional interaction with the city’s extramural sanctuaries. Hence, in the first chapter, Kristine Iara analyses religious processions that moved between the Urbs and the suburbium, specifically the March festival of Magna Mater, the transvectio equitum and the festival of Dea Dia. Although these rituals manifested the crossing of the pomerium in markedly dissimilar ways, Iara shows that all three rituals treated the Urbs and the suburbium as an interconnected space. Cross-boundary processions moved through a coherent area of ritual topography. Carsten Hjort Lange analyses Augustus’ triumphs and in particular his triumphallike returns, arguing that the returns became substitutes for proper triumphi. Augustus’ arrivals at the city also set the trend for the future imperial ritual of adventus. Lange shows that Augustus’ entries formed part of a wider ideological framework of his reign. His very movements left footprints in the monumental landscape, as is testified by the altar to Fortuna Redux and the Ara Pacis, dedicated at his returns from the East and the North. Both altars were topographical and symbolic markers of the new Pax, mirroring the non-triumphal returns. As part of his analysis, Lange also discusses the route of returning generals and their armies, asking how they moved from the arrival at Via Appia to the Circus Flaminius, from where they entered the city. In her contribution, Gitte Lønstrup Dal Santo explores ceremonial movements to and within the Christian catacombs that surrounded late antique Rome, and how space and its perception could influence the experiences of visitors. The monumentalizing interventions by Bishop Damasus in the second half of the fourth century did much to structure visits to the catacombs. Pilgrimage to the graves from then on evolved into organized bodily re-enactments that were designed to keep alive the memories of the founders of the Christian community, and to legitimize the authoritative status of the Roman Church. Margaret Andrews writes about Christian processions within the city itself, specifically the unprecedented litanies that occurred in 590 and 603 to alleviate sufferings from flooding and plague. These processions departed from seven different churches around Rome and converged on the papal basilica of S. Maria Maggiore. This was the first time this church had become an important processional location. Andrews suggests that the main reason for this development may have been the dedication of the church to St Mary, inspired by similar developments of Marian worship in the East, infusing the cult with a special protective power. It was significant that representatives of Rome as a whole, comprising all social groups and from every region of the city, had to participate, signalling Christian unison and dominance of the urban landscape.

8

The Moving City

In the final chapter of this section, one may observe the narrative rituals of the catacombs merging with urban processions. Michael Mulryan looks into the construction of a series of churches dedicated to St Lawrence between the Forum and the saint’s extramural shrine. These foundations claimed to be built at locations where significant events had taken place in the martyrdom of Lawrence. From at least the seventh century, this shaped an itinerary which allowed devoted Christians to follow in the footsteps of the celebrated martyr. The hagiography of Lawrence created something more than a processional route by linking the different foundations into one comprehensive narrative. This new type of devotion in time transformed Rome into a Christian mythological landscape. The next section deals with movement and urban form, that is, how movement may have shaped Rome on a macro level, whether by way of its sheer scale, its traffic flows, the layout of monuments or the distribution of sites of worship across the city. The section opens with a chapter by Ray Laurence, who analyses the relationship between space and movement in late Republican and early imperial Rome on a theoretical level, primarily influenced by the spatial turn. According to Laurence, it was the scale of the city of Rome that created a different form of urbanism. This mega-city produced new technologies of mobility, new views on walking and systems of traffic flow, a new language of space and genre of urban discourse, and new concepts of space itself. Laurence suggests the use of four analytical categories (territory, place, scale and networks) to gain deeper insight both into the relationship between space and movement and into mobility as a key feature of Roman urbanism. In the following chapter, Simon Malmberg investigates the mutual impact of river traffic and urban development at Rome in the long term, which forms an important addition to Laurence’s focus on roads. Malmberg sets out the limitations and variations in the use of the river, and how these could be pushed by new infrastructure, technology and organization to increase the volume of river traffic, producing five moments of change in movement on the Tiber between the second century bce and the fifth century ce. Malmberg also compares Rome’s links with the Tiber valley through its northern ports and with the Mediterranean through its southern ports, thereby hoping to understand the Tiber’s role in the dispersed hinterland of Rome. Anne-Marie Leander Touati addresses the relationship between movement and monument in the next chapter. She argues that certain monuments, such as statecelebrating reliefs, were to be approached from a certain direction, and that they in this way also might have shaped people’s movement through the city. By investigating several image-bearing monuments from Augustus to the Severans still in situ, Leander Touati brings the artwork into relation with its topographical surroundings as well as the movement and perspective of its potential audience. This allows a fuller understanding both of the intended movement paths and of the potential impact of the imagery. The last chapter, by Jonas Bjørnebye, compares two types of mithraea and their related movement patterns in Rome. One type of mithraeum served the neighbourhood and involved contemporary movement by locals converging at the same place. The other type of mithraeum had a more public character, often located near important traffic nodes of the city, and involved a wider group of people. Since the

Introduction

9

Mithraic celebrations were kept behind closed doors, the coming and going to the mithraea were among the most visible actions of the cult adherents. These movements might have had a measurable impact on social cohesion both on a local and a city-wide scale.

Part One

Elite Movement

1

Power Walks: Aristocratic Escorted Movements in Republican Rome Ida Östenberg

Introduction: Brutus on the move On the reverse of a well-known denarius minted by Marcus Junius Brutus in the 50s bce, four people move in a row towards the left (Fig. 1.1).1 The letters BRUTUS written underneath name the moneyer. They also identify the principal character of the group, placed as number three in the line, as his ancestor Lucius Junius Brutus, who according to tradition expelled the last king Tarquinius Superbus in 509 bce and introduced the Republic. The obverse of the coin features the head of Libertas. The elder Brutus was Rome’s first consul, and the coin stresses the authority of his magistracy. He is depicted between two lictors carrying the fasces, and the group is preceded by yet another person, interpreted as an accensus, an attendant to the higher magistrates. The image signals the hierarchic system of the Roman Republic. Consequently, the consul is represented as the tallest in the group, led and escorted by servants, who carry his insignia, the fasces, for him. But the point of the Republic was also that it did not have one single leader. Hence, all four people are equally dressed in togas, and government is symbolized by a group in which the foremost person has only a temporarily superior position. Indeed, although Brutus is the main character of the picture, the presence of the officials of the res publica indicates that next year one of his equals will have taken his place. The image sends a dual message of Brutus the elder having restored the power to the people and Brutus the younger opposing Pompey’s ever-culminating powers and claiming renewed Libertas for Rome. Now, the consul and his attendants are not depicted standing or seated at one fixed position, but on the go, walking, moving. The group heads to the left, led by the almost hurrying accensus, while the consul and his lictors stride slowly, as to match his dignity. The image is a condensed excerpt, symbolically showing two lictors when in reality there were 12, and placing the magistrate between the lictors, who generally led the way. No point of departure or arrival is specified, but the presence of Brutus, the institutor of the Republic, suggests that the group is walking to perform some important business on behalf of the state. The attendants strengthen that meaning, showing that the central figure is not engaged in a private mission, but that he is walking in the service of the community.2 The group is in a sense the res publica itself

14

The Moving City

Fig. 1.1  Denarius minted by Marcus Junius Brutus. British Museum, Reg. No. 2002, 0102.4364 © The Trustees of the British Museum. on the move, heading forwards with a dignified haste to solve the military and civil affairs of the state. Certainly, the main function of the lictors was to escort the magistrates, and a representation of a consul standing, flanked by lictors, would have made a less dynamic image. Still, it is significant that the denarius chooses to represent Brutus and his attendants walking. In this way, the coin presents an image of an energetic and forceful Republic. Moreover, as we must assume that the coin carried meaning for its viewers, the image most certainly reflects a common sight in the cityscape in Rome: an aristocrat moving through the city accompanied by an escort.

Escorted movements I would suggest that the Brutus coin unveils a neglected aspect of Roman political life. Republican political culture has been the focus of many recent studies, and a



Power Walks: Aristocratic Escorted Movements in Republican Rome

15

number of contributions have deepened our understanding of the importance of visual encounters, public speech and mass meetings such as the contiones.3 However, the Brutus coin reminds us that Roman powerful aristocrats met with the city and its inhabitants not only at non-mobile events but also while moving through the cityscape. The image on Brutus’ denarius also underlines that Roman Republican aristocrats, especially the male political elite, rarely walked alone, but performed their movements in groups, with escorts. Hence, for example, aristocrats were daily led to work at the Forum, powerful men at risk were protected by bodyguards and upperclass men and women were carried in litters by groups of bearers. As recently pointed out by Timothy O’Sullivan, even Horace does not stroll alone on the Via Sacra in his famed satire (1.9), but is accompanied by a slave.4 In fact, when Horace in another passage, in Satirae 1.6, specifically writes that he walks without company, wherever he wishes, he does so in intentional contrast to the practice of the political elite.5 Horace owns his freedom, whereas the political elite is restricted by codes and norms to move in certain places with enforced entourages.6 In this chapter, I will discuss aspects of Republican aristocratic escorted movements, focusing in particular on some examples that carried powerful political meaning: magistrates with imperium who moved attended by lictors; patroni and candidates who were escorted from their house to the Forum and around the city; and popular generals who were met with and led home at their return to the city. It is my argument that the elite and their escorts were potent and inclusive moving images that communicated with the cityscape and its people and shaped Roman views about society. Now, escorted movements must be read in context, and one should start by pointing out that Rome was a culture rife with performed movements. Processions, corteges and escorted walking were ubiquitous in the city on both common and festal days. The most evident forms of grouped movements were the three major pompae: the triumphus, funus and pompa circensis. These grand pompae were full-blown formal processions with ritual aims that included sacrificial animals, music and dancing. They used special transport carts and biers for items on display, incorporated the whole people and ended with a pronounced ceremonial peak. These moving ceremonies have been the focus of much scholarly interest in recent years.7 In particular, several books have scrutinized aspects of the triumph.8 Besides the larger processions, there were numerous smaller but still formalized ritual walks, such as religious processions toward temples: the equus octobris, the transvectio equitum and the processus consularis.9 Unlike the larger pompae, these smaller processions have hitherto been little discussed. The Roman aristocrat who walked the city with his entourage also formed a grouped movement. Although these moving groups were not proper pompae, they did embrace elements of formal procession. Though less formalized than the pompae, they were certainly not informal; though less ritualized, they included elements of ritual. Some escorted movements were seemingly spontaneous, but most were highly organized. They embraced several elements central to ritual procession, in that they included a large number of participants, followed a given sequence, strived at specific ends, moved through the city centre and used symbols and insignia. And similar to the formal pompae, they were certainly watched, noted and discussed. Except for one

16

The Moving City

chapter in Timothy O’Sullivan’s recent monograph Walking in Roman Culture,10 these movements have not been analysed in the scholarly literature. The escorted aristocratic movements should thus be read as part of a culture that expressed itself through grouped movements. What does this phenomenon tell us of Republican Rome? What were the functions and meanings of escorted walking? In the following, I will discuss some central aspects of escorted movements that I believe to be crucial to their understanding. One is rather obvious, and underlines the importance of visual displays as a political and social factor in Rome. The second aspect centres on the interplay between escorted movements and the cityscape, noting the active participation of both places and people. The third and final aspect concerns the Roman will to divide society into categories and orders, a practice that I believe to be evoked and negotiated also through grouped movements. In all of these aspects, I aim to show that the escorted movements included elements of form and route central to the grand processions, and that they repeatedly imitated, played with and sometimes contested and challenged the form of the pompae, in particular the triumph and the funeral.11 I will also argue that the escorted aristocratic movements acted out the Republican political ideas of competition, hierarchy, participation and consensus that involved both the elite and the people.

The importance of display Increased attention has lately been given the importance of display in ancient Rome. In the wake of the performative turn, scholars now stress that in order to understand the political and social mechanisms of Republican Rome, we need to look beyond constitutional history and analyse the political culture as practised in the city.12 It has been underlined, not least by Karl-Joachim Hölkeskamp, that Rome was a pronounced outdoor community, a face-to-face culture that performed daily interaction and communication between her people and places.13 The city centre was a public stage, on which people acted out their capacities, authority and habitus. Public display was crucial both to the individual in his striving for magistracies, commands, honours and memorials, and to the community as a whole, in its building of identity and strengthening of values. In the Roman ‘civilization of spectacles’, it was crucial to see and be seen.14 Prominent and successful people were rewarded with visual honours: a monument, a house, a statue, an inscription, symbolic insignia – or an escort. For example, after Gaius Duilius had celebrated Rome’s first ever naval triumph in 260 bce, he was not only bestowed a columna rostrata,15 but was also provided with torch bearers and one or more flute players who accompanied him home at night.16 The flute player(s), and possibly also a lyre player, walked before him and ‘testified to his outstanding military success by way of a nocturnal celebration’.17 With this retinue, people would have noticed his movements both in sight and sound, the music announcing that the successful general was approaching or just passing at some distance away. Ancient authors stress that the escort provided Duilius with an eternal kind of triumph.18



Power Walks: Aristocratic Escorted Movements in Republican Rome

17

Indeed, the ever-present honour must have reminded people of his success, and the flutist(s) would have recalled and evoked the triumph itself, in which Duilius also had moved through the city accompanied by music.19 In the competitive and visual Republican culture, power and status could be effectively expressed by the size of an escort, as demonstrated by the number of lictors attached to magistrates of diverse rank: six lictors accompanied the praetor, 12 the consul and 24 the dictator.20 Hence, the lictors formed explicit visual expressions of the cursus honorum. The numbers were determined by the mos maiorum, so when Caesar had as many as 72 lictors accompanying him in one of his triumphs of 46 bce, the act set him far beyond Republican practice. The display of such a multitude, according to Dio Cassius, was taken as an offence.21 The Roman magistrate never walked alone. The moment he left his house, and wherever he went, lictors led his way.22 The movement of a magistrate was in effect never that of a private citizen, not even when he walked to the baths, but was always announced as public, carried out for Rome. Lictors approaching in a single file and announcing that everybody (except Vestals and matrons) should make way was a striking audio-visual mark of authority, both of Rome at large and certainly also of the individual magistrate. This potent moving display was set at its peak at the Roman funeral. In this procession, the successful family members of the deceased, whether living or dead (represented by actors), were all led by lictors with fasces, their number depending on the individual person’s rank.23 Together, this huge moving group of leading men and their retinues marked Roman mastery of both past and present. The size of an escort was important also in other contexts. This applies not least to the candidati. When seeking office, the candidati went about the city centre all day, accompanied by friends and clients, promoting themselves with speeches, handshakes and promises. The Commentariolum petitionis, possibly written by Quintus Cicero to his brother Marcus for the consular elections in 64 bce,24 stresses the importance of a large number of followers, adsectatores. Their number offered signs of popularity and future success (nam ex ea copia coniectura fieri poterit quantum sis in ipso campo virium ac facultatis habiturus).25 The size of the entourage was so crucial that the Commentariolum insists that not only should both volunteers and debtors be included, but that those who could not attend in person must send a substitute.26 The Commentariolum divides a candidate’s attendants into three groups: the salutatores, who perform the morning visit; the deductores, who lead him to the Forum; and the adsectatores, who follow him around the city during the day.27 In status, the adsectatores ranked below the other groups. Their number was more important than their status.28 The value of a massed escort is reflected in Cicero’s speech for Murena, who was accused of bribing men to play the part of adsectatores. Cicero defends Murena by underlining the normality of the practice.29 The case shows that Rome was observant of the advantages that could be gained from moving around with a larger group of attendants.30 In addition to the size of the retinue, the status of the attendants – deductores were ranked the highest, followed by the salutatores – presented an effective means to stage one’s political and social capital on the public scene.31 Distance was another key factor: when Cicero tells us that Atticus and friends went all the way out to the fifth milestone

18

The Moving City

to meet Caesar,32 this is an act of exceptional and humbling reverence. Germanicus’ welcoming committee went even further; according to Suetonius, when Germanicus returned from war, he was met and escorted by ‘all the cohorts of the praetorian guard, although orders had been given that only two should go, and the whole populace, regardless of age, sex or rank, poured out of Rome as far as the twentieth milestone’.33 Welcoming committees that met up with homecoming dignitaries is a recurrent theme in the sources, and distance, number and status are noted as key signs of popularity and power.34 The welcomers were agents too, and by escorting the homecoming person, they re-included the Roman leader into the city realm in both a physical and symbolic sense. Besides number, length and status, Suetonius’ description of Germanicus’ entry reveals another essential factor involved in escorted movements: to be accompanied by as many different parts of the people and city as possible. For example, when describing Scipio Africanus walking down to the Forum for his trial in 184 bce, Livy underlines both that the escort was the largest ever and that the crowd included all kinds of people.35 When Scipio continued up to the Capitol to perform a supplicatio, an act that manifestly imitated his triumph, all the people followed and were thus included as active partakers in Scipio’s performance.36 Cicero, for his part, claims that when returning from exile in 57 bce, he was met and escorted by ‘all men and women of all classes, ages and ranks of society of every circumstance and every position’.37 It seemed, Cicero writes, ‘that Rome herself had dislodged herself from her fixed abode to go forth and embrace her saviour’.38 Similarly, Appian writes of how Caesar arrived at the Senate on the Ides of March: ‘There had been no bodyguards around Caesar, but he was accompanied by the usual attendants of office, most of them officers, and a large crowd of citizens and strangers, of slaves and freedmen, had accompanied him from his house to the Senate.’39 The point is that all Rome – citizens, foreigners, freedmen and slaves – led Caesar from his house to his last meeting with the Senate. The contrast with what happens next is striking: Caesar lies dead on the Senate floor, and everyone rushes out – the most powerful man in Rome is left alone, stripped of his marks of honour, the otherwise ever-present escort. A little later, three slaves – the lowest of the groups who have led him there – finally come in and carry his corpse in a litter, though in a halting manner (litters should have four bearers) and bumping along the road, so that Caesar’s limp arms fall out. The change of escorts reflects the ultimate fall from power but also the imposed imbalance on a traditional political system. Caesar losing both his life and his escort is a symbolic representation of the end of the Republic.

Cityscape and participation It seems clear from the sources that escorted aristocratic movements had a few recurring topographical points of departure and arrival: the house, the Capitol, the Forum and the city gate. These, I believe, are physical and symbolic sites that in tandem mark the very essence of the res publica. The house, the Forum and the city gate



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19

formed three main nodes that conducted the movements involved in civil and military service, that is, the two central activities of the Roman community performed by the Roman elite. The fourth node, the Capitol, added religious obligations and included the gods in the communal affairs. Against this background, one might argue that the ambulatio was, and was understood as, the antithesis of an escorted movement.40 The idea of the ambulatio (walking around) was to not have a specific point of departure and destination of arrival. The walk was not set between house, Forum, Capitol and gate, and it was not escorted but performed with equals and friends.41 Ambulatio was linked to otium, escorted movements to negotium. The starting point of the elite male’s military as well as civil undertakings was his house. Let us first consider the military activity and route. When taking command of an army, the magistrate or promagistrate set out from his house and his household gods.42 Escorted by his lictors, he went up to the Capitol to perform his vows to Jupiter and to change into war clothes.43 From the Capitol, he proceeded with the Senate, officers and well-wishers by way of the Forum to the city gate, where he crossed the pomerium and entered the sphere of war.44 If victorious, and if the general was voted a triumph, the route was reversed.45 At the city gate, the commander entered the civic domain.46 In a triumphal procession, he returned to the Forum and up to the Capitol to fulfil his vows. An escort then took him back again to the point of departure, his house. This escorted route – house, Capitol, Forum, gate – from the innermost centre of the city out to war and back again was engraved in the cityscape of Rome. Changes in the route did not exchange these fixed points, and Augustus’ addition of the Temple of Mars Ultor on his Forum as a starting point and destination only supplemented the basic route.47 In fact, the indispensable inclusion of the gate, Capitol and house in profectiones and triumphi seems to have set a standard route of other escorted departures and homecomings as well, both those performed as magistrate and as privatus. Going into exile in 58 bce, Cicero hence dresses in black and, escorted by a compassionate entourage, walks up the Capitol to sacrifice and dedicate a statue to Minerva before he proceeds out of the city gate.48 At his return the following year, Cicero is proud to announce that ‘the Roman people honoured me by escorting me with immense numbers and loud demonstrations of joy from the gate to the Capitol, and from the Capitol home (a porta in Capitolium atque inde domum)’.49 Gate, Capitol, home – the triumphal connotations are clear,50 and in Cicero’s case, his re-entering not only the city but also his house certainly carried profound meaning.51 Civil duties also started up from the house. Every morning, the male aristocrat received his saluting, toga-dressed visitors in the centre of his house, the atrium.52 After the salutatio, the guests led him down to his daily affairs in the Forum, to be performed in the Curia, at the juries and the rostra. On his very first escorted deductio, the young male was introduced in a most physical sense to the civic duties on the Forum. Dressed in his new toga virilis, he was led from the atrium down into the Forum, where his public life commenced.53 His first deductio continued to the Capitol and back again to his house, possibly via the Forum.54 While a Roman man entered public life by way of an escorted movement from house to Forum, his final escort also took him that same route, from house to Forum,

20

The Moving City

in a funeral procession. Just as the escorted movement to and back from the city gate interplayed with the triumph, I would argue that there was an interactive symbolic play between the morning walk and the funeral. The funeral procession could be interpreted as the aristocrat’s final salutatio and last deductio, now accompanied by lament and a retinue dressed in black. Upon the death of a public figure, his corpse was placed in the atrium (collocatio), where, as at the salutatio, visitors paid their respect. From the atrium, the pompa funebris started off.55 The guests then escorted the deceased to his final public appearance in the Forum, at the rostra.56 After the funeral act, his corpse was accompanied through the city gate, not dissimilar to his departures from Rome in life. But such ever-recurring public displays did not stop even in death: while the corpse was led out, an image of the dead was placed at the very centre of his house, the atrium.57 From there the aristocrat could reappear, represented by an actor, at yet other funerals and participate in escorted movements set between house, Forum and city gate.58 Also after death, he continued to accompany his peers in their funeral pompae, his own representation being escorted by lictors.59 Participation is key to all grouped movements. A procession and an escort are very inclusive in their movements, embracing not only one group placed at a specific arena, but all people and the cityscape as such, that is, the buildings and places passed by. As Cicero puts it when describing his return, ‘even the walls, buildings and temples of the city seemed to show their joy’.60 Spectators were able to watch all along the route, at the streets, from porticoes and on roofs. They were indispensible partakers in the moving displays. Furthermore, while it was crucial to have a sizeable escort, those who participated in that retinue also shared in the act.61 This may be seen from the terms themselves: the walk is called a deductio, the aristocrat is the deductus or elatus and the escort form the deductores, who lead the group down.62 The entourage is in other words not led to the Forum. They lead – they are the active ones, strengthening the image of a Republic that is in charge of her movements. The idea of the Republic was very much that of balance between competition and consensus, as not least Hölkeskamp has shown,63 and I believe that all those groups walking down to the Forum every day expressed and reflected that system to the point. On the one hand, there was a vibrant rivalry among the individual aristocrats, as reflected by who had the largest and most important retinue. On the other hand, all those throngs marked a system of pares who were escorted by all groups of people – that is, by Rome herself – from their houses to do service to the state.

Escorts and order(s) My final point concerns order and orders. Republican Rome was a truly hierarchic society that divided her citizens into groups based on wealth, status, age and gender. These orders were on display at all times: in the army, at the census, in the voting assemblies, at the theatre and so forth.64 Few spectacles or public performances, however, gave better form to order than the procession or escorted walking, where hierarchy could be displayed not only by dresses and insignia but also by sequence.



Power Walks: Aristocratic Escorted Movements in Republican Rome

21

Order and sequence are crucial to a procession. Hence, in a triumph, the spoils, captives and representations were displayed in ordine, all before the triumphator, while his army marched behind.65 The importance of sequence is evident from the fact that Octavian had the senators walk behind him in his triumph instead of leading the parade, as had earlier been the case.66 Order is even more evident at a funeral, when the ancestors of the deceased walked in a diachronic sequence in the pompa to give visual form to the family line.67 Having arrived at the rostra, they sat down in order; this order was repeated in the eulogy, which started off with the oldest ancestor. By order, Egon Flaig has argued, Rome handled her loss and gave death meaning.68 Even death could not alter the relative placing of people in the sequence of time. Escorted movements also had order. Lictors kept order and they went in order. Hence, the lictors walked not in pairs but in a single line, the primus lictor possibly first and the proximus lictor just before the magistrate.69 The lictors presented the spectator with a moving line that increased in importance as it passed by and prepared the gaze for the main character, the magistrate.70 The magistrate was always in charge of the movement. In contrast to the deductores, who led the aristocrat down to the Forum, the lictors did not conduct their movement. They are not described as driving the magistrate forward (deducere), but simply as walking ahead (anteire or praeire).71 The term deducere appears only when the lictors take action on others outside the group, as when they arrest a troublemaker and drag him off to prison. On these occasions, the lictors are the active participants who take charge of their movement. The magistrate and his lictors also expressed order in their precedence of movement. As the consul with his lictors passed by, all other movements must come to a halt. Only Vestals and matronae were excepted,72 and even people carried in litters had to stop and get off.73 Junior magistrates stopped too, and had their lictors lower their fasces.74 Hierarchy in Rome was pronouncedly visual. Besides his group of lictors, the consul could lead larger retinues as well. Here, too, order is central: according to Nicolaus of Damascus, when Antony as consul approached Caesar to present him with some new honours voted for him, he was preceded by his lictors and followed by praetors, tribunes, quaestors and other officials. Then, states Nicolaus, ‘came the Senate, in orderly formation, and then a multitude of enormous size – never so large’.75 Salutations were ordered too. Since the time of Gaius Gracchus, the ceremony was organized in three groups: first, intimate friends and powerful citizens, admitted one by one; second, people of middle importance, who entered in smaller groups; and, finally, the common mass, who lined up outside the atrium to be accepted, all in one row.76 The exact order as the cortege proceeded down to the Forum is unknown, but the sequence of the salutation is likely to have been preserved.77 Also, several sources repeatedly point out that the deductio should consist of all sorts of people from all classes, and they were most certainly displayed in order. The final testimony comes from Suetonius and his description of Caesar’s funeral. According to Suetonius, there were so many people present that they were allowed to proceed to the Campus Martius by whichever road they wanted and without any particular sequence of orders (omisso ordine). Suetonius points out that the event was an exception to normal procedure; hence, there would normally have been sequence.78

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A more symbolic point would be that the funeral started off with an omission of orders and ended in total chaos when people rioted and set fire to Rome. One could, if one wants, follow up on that thought and view the fall of the Republic as a disruption of orders, physically expressed by gangs that walked about with their personal leaders. Escorted movements were splendid pictures of visualized hierarchy, but they were also images of inclusion and participation. Hence, processions and grouped walkings perfectly embodied competition and consensus, the two political cornerstones of the res publica. The gangs that went about Rome in the late Republic challenged that order.79 In following a popular leader, they played with the traditional escorted movements and the importance of visual display, the stress on large retinues and an open presence in the cityscape. But they also challenged the form of such traditional movements. The gangs did not walk in ordine, not in agmine, but in threatening, massed groups (caterva, turba). Late Republican gang movements were unpredictable, non-sanctioned, non-sequential and non-ordered, reflecting a disrupted political system. The mob simply did not walk the traditional Republican line.

Acknowledgements This chapter has benefitted from the discussions at the Moving City workshops and at the seminar for classical studies in Gothenburg. In particular, I would like to thank Timothy O’Sullivan, Richard Westall and Carsten Hjort Lange for their helpful comments.

2

‘Moving through Town’: Foreign Dignitaries in Rome in the Middle and Late Republic Richard Westall

Not even Egypt lacked experience of Roman humanity. After having been deprived of his throne by his younger brother, its king Ptolemy had made his way to Rome for the sake of seeking of aid. Accompanied by just a few slaves and shabbily dressed, he had received hospitality from an Alexandrian painter. Upon learning of this, the Senate summoned the young man and studiously apologized as best possible for the fact that they had neither sent a quaestor to greet him as was customary nor provided him with public hospitality. These things had transpired, they declared, not because of an oversight on their part but because he had arrived unexpectedly and in secret. They forthwith led him out of the Senate and into a public residence, and they urged him to seek an audience with them once he had donned appropriate apparel. They even saw to it that gifts were made to him by the quaestor upon a daily basis. By these various attentions, they raised the prostrate man up to the height of royalty and made him repose more hope in the aid of the Roman people than fear in his own fortune. (Val. Max. 5.1.1F) In this dramatic story of the embassy undertaken by the exiled Egyptian monarch Ptolemy VI, there emerge a number of elements characteristic of diplomacy during the Republic: public arrival and reception, magnificent retinue, hospitality, interviews with the Senate and gifts. Underpinning all of these was movement to, through and about the city of Rome. This movement defined the embassy, which was itself a common feature of the urban landscape of Rome in its new-found status as an imperial metropolis.

Statistics Embassies by foreign states to Rome are a regular feature of the middle and late Republic, appearing with noteworthy frequency in the sources. For instance, within the surviving portions of the universal history of Polybius, the words πρέσβεις (163

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times), πρεσβευταί (340 times) and πρεσβεία (over 500 times) appear like a constant refrain.1 Similarly, the words legati (1,234 times) and legationes (185 times) appear repeatedly in connection with the narration of diplomatic ventures within surviving portions of the Roman history of Livy.2 Although diplomacy and embassies were a tool of government both before and subsequent to the Republic, their omnipresence is a characteristic of that particular epoch.3 However, statistics for the middle and late Republic are likely to surprise. For the Republic as a whole, roughly 1,200 embassies to Rome by foreign states are attested. Of these, nearly 800 came from Greek-speaking communities and some 400 from other communities in the western half of the Mediterranean. It should be added that more than 90 per cent of these embassies fall in the period 300–50 bce and that in fact three-fourths fall within the period 200–50 bce.4 Numbers as large as these are reassuring in appearance. Seemingly they constitute a large, representative sample. However, critical doubt is in order. How many embassies were present in the city of Rome upon an annual basis during the period 300–50 bce? The ancient historiographical literature abounds with generic references to ‘many delegations’ present in Rome at watershed moments such as the conclusion of the Third Macedonian War (171–168 bce).5 Since rhetoric is a notoriously poor basis for any pragmatic description of historical reality, recourse must be had to beancounting. There survives a rather full record for the year 59 bce, which seems to have been typical. More than 35 embassies are attested for this year.6 In dealing with this statistic, it is essential to keep in mind the central role played by the city-state within the Graeco-Roman world. Individual communities were no less active in representing their interests to the Romans than monarchs or leagues. Hence, the Spartan embassy present in Rome in 59 bce has its imperial equivalent in the embassy that Byzantium sent to Rome upon an annual basis in order to felicitate Trajan.7 Moreover, such a situation would explain why the whole month of February was eventually dedicated to hearing embassies.8 There were simply too many to be dealt with in a matter of days. Even if one were to take the figure for 59 bce as an upper limit and calculate an annual average of 17 embassies, that would imply a total of roughly 4,250 embassies for the period 300–50 bce. If one were instead to take that year as typical, then the figure jumps to roughly 8,500 embassies for the period in question. The phenomenon was manifestly important, far more so than has usually been suspected, and our evidence is merely the tip of the iceberg. Numbers on this scale are congruent with the political and social organization of the ancient Mediterranean, and the fact that some 1,200 instances were recorded for posterity accords well with a Graeco-Roman historiographical focus on politics and warfare. Contrary to what was to be the situation under the emperors, in the middle and late Republic especial significance was given to public debate and the institutions that directed the destiny of the Roman state. As is stressed by Polybius, embassies were the especial province of the Senate.9 Of necessity all historical accounts gave primary attention to the workings of the Senate, and the result is plentiful evidence for embassies. They were a ubiquitous phenomenon of empire and thus characteristic of the imperial Republic of 300–50 bce.



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Composition Embassies in the Graeco-Roman world were a corporate undertaking, as repeatedly emerges from those descriptions that survive within the literary and epigraphic evidence. Collegiality informed most aspects of public life, and the situation was no different as regards diplomacy. It was necessary to guard against the unknown, such as storms, pirates or ill-health, and an embassy consisting of multiple members was less likely to prove derelict in the execution of its duties.10 Hence, the clear impression that embassies were not one-man affairs. On the other hand, it is to be observed that reports of very large numbers may be instances of misleading information. The Alexandrian delegation that came to Rome in 57 bce to oppose the restoration of Ptolemy XII allegedly numbered 100 members.11 Similarly, the Cretan delegation that came to Rome to seek terms after the victorious campaign of Gaius Antonius is said to have consisted of 30 members.12 Whatever the precise facts, these cases appear to be exceptions rather than the rule. In the final analysis, what matters is the use of the plural to describe the composition of embassies and the implication that they normally consisted of more than one individual. In all likelihood, embassies consisted of three ambassadors accompanied by a retinue of limited dimensions. Seemingly typical is the three-member embassy from Temnos that delivered testimony against Lucius Valerius Flaccus in 59 bce.13 Sometimes there is explicit report of only two ambassadors, for instance Damon and Timotheos who unsuccessfully defended the actions of Ptolemy VI in 169 bce.14 However, there is the suspicion that such instances reflect the incidence of mortality. Be that as it may, very rarely did monarchs travel to Rome to represent themselves, but then with retinues that were anything but discreet. In short, if monarchs, confederations and the occasional Hellenistic cosmopolis be excluded, it would appear that the vast majority of states undertaking diplomatic relations sent to Rome delegations consisting of merely three ambassadors. The ambassadors of a given delegation usually came from the same socioeconomic background even if their designations differed according to the individual or community being represented. Monarchs rarely relied upon immediate members of their own family, and the way in which the Romans played Attalus off against his brother Eumenes II in 167 bce illustrates how such representatives could little be trusted.15 Rather, they relied upon more distant relatives and better yet talented bureaucrats who were given the title of ‘friend’ so as to underline their intimacy with the ruler.16 Cities and confederations likewise relied upon those who were intimately associated with or members of the ruling elite. Skilled public speakers, these men were the foremost exponents of culture and/or government in the communities from which they came. Indeed, ambassadors from the Hellenic communities of the Mediterranean visibly bolstered their diplomatic missions by acting as cultural envoys. For instance, there is the well-known story of the Athenian embassy to Rome in 156–155 bce. This embassy consisted of three philosophers: Carneades the Academic, Diogenes the Stoic and Critolaus the Peripatetic. Its notoriety derives from the tradition that Cato the Elder, alarmed by the success of their public lectures in philosophy, saw

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to the rapid completion of their diplomatic mission so as to liberate the Roman youth from this pernicious influence.17 That this was not an isolated instance is shown by the fact that the prosopographical list of known ambassadors reads as though it were a social register of learning and bureaucratic competence, including luminaries such as Posidonius of Apamea (87–86 bce) and Dioscorides of Alexandria (59  bce). Tradition proved lasting, and cultural icons such as Philo of Alexandria and Plutarch of Chaeroneia are amongst those to have performed the same function during the Principate.18 Invariably, these exponents of learning and government were accompanied by retinues, whence the augmented expense of diplomatic missions.19 The numbers involved in any given diplomatic mission are unlikely to have been immense – witness the nine slaves claimed by the three ambassadors from Temnos in 59 bce20 – but their impact was surely significant. In view of the education and origin of ambassadors from the Hellenic world, a high public profile was assured.

Arrival and reception Embassies within the Graeco-Roman world were subject to a complicated ritual of arrival and reception, as this was the defining moment in the diplomatic mission. Friendly or inimical? Within or without the sacred boundary (pomerium) of the city of Rome? The geography of diplomatic relations conducted at Rome reflected both the current status of juridical relations and Roman intentions.21 Religious considerations as well as those of Realpolitik and a strictly legal nature dictated the response to these two questions, which are essentially one and the same. This response determined the nature of subsequent hospitality and the course of eventual negotiations. The reception accorded at the moment of arrival, or the lack thereof, was constitutive of the identity of the ‘other’ and the respective social roles to be performed. Therefore, as in the case of those Graeco-Roman ceremonies attaching to divine epiphany or imperatorial adventus, the very movement involved in an embassy’s coming to Rome merits attention.22 Analysis commences with the elementary observation that there is evidence for control of the approaches to the city of Rome and indeed as regards entrance to the Italian peninsula. The network of Roman authorities and personnel had been extended with the conquest of central and southern Italy in the fifth through the third centuries bce. But the efficacy of this network ought not to be over-estimated. Indubitably, as is demonstrated by the rocambolesque adventure of Ptolemy VI in 164 bce, the Romans were also dependent upon reciprocal information from the embassy making its way to Rome.23 Despite customs officials and other authorities, it was quite possible to pass unobserved. Various sorts of evidence exist for Roman surveillance of the points of entry to the Italian peninsula and for the approaches to the city of Rome. This can be seen, for example, in the contrasting treatment that the Romans accorded to the brothers Eumenes II and Attalus in their attempts to secure support in their dispute over the Pergamene throne (Polyb. 29.6.3–4):



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The [Romans] gave permission to [Attalus] to come to Rome from Brundisium and to speak about whatever he chose. Then, they sent him on his way after having responded to him in benevolent fashion even though he had not done anything of note to help either previously or during the war against Perseus. Eumenes II, by contrast, had offered them the greatest assistance and had often helped in their wars against Antiochus and Perseus. However, they not only did not allow him to come to Rome, but they also ordered him to depart from Italy by a fixed date even though it was the middle of the winter season.

Brundisium had been established as a Latin colony in 244 bce. While the authorities of both the port and the city itself are likely to have made a report to Rome of the arrival of these distinguished visitors from abroad, it is equally likely that both members of the Pergamene dynasty had themselves sent notice to the Senate and magistrates of their arrival. Neither was it in the interest of Eumenes II or Attalus to arrive without the pomp and fanfare that was an essential element to their public image, nor can the Brundisines have failed in their role as a part of the network of Roman defence and control of the Italian peninsula.24 Once Attalus’ embassy had made landfall in Italy and was allowed to take the successive step of completing the journey to Rome, there was the issue of the point of arrival. Where did ambassadors enter the city of Rome? Passage by means of the Via Appia for those coming through Brundisium from the eastern half of the Mediterranean might seem natural as well as convenient, but is by no means assured in view of the practice of cabotage. It is far too easy to forget that in antiquity Rome was a city that owed her existence first and foremost to the Tiber river.25 Pointing to the significance of the Tiber, indeed, is the fact that no structures for reception are attested anywhere but in the Campus Martius, at the northwestern edge of the city of Rome. It was there that the Temple of Bellona, with an accompanying senaculum, and the Villa Publica were situated.26 Likewise pointing to the importance of the Tiber is the fact that lying along an extended stretch of the river were the navalia, or shipsheds, in which a Roman fleet was kept in readiness for the eventuality of a military conflict.27 In view of this state of affairs as regards the administrative topography of imperial Rome, the ineluctable conclusion would seem that it was through the Porta Carmentalis that embassies entered the city if and when permission was granted to do so.28 Episodes such as Cato the Younger’s triumphal return to Rome from Cyprus via the Tiber are extremely suggestive.29 The left bank of the Tiber was eminently suited to making landfall or embarkation, and the sight of the warships of Rome can only have served to impress those who were travelling to the city in order to discuss war and peace. Those embassies that were granted permission to enter the city then proceeded to fulfil the formal requirement that they declare their presence within the city of Rome. This involved their going to the Temple of Saturn upon the southern slope of the Capitol and meeting with treasury officials, presumably the quaestores aerarii sacri. Having himself served upon embassies to Rome and possessing a long-term vision of the phenomenon, Plutarch writes thus about this process (Plut. Quaest. Rom. 43, 275 B–C): Why do the ambassadors to Rome, from whatever country they come, proceed to the Temple of Saturn and register with the prefects of the treasury? Is it because

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The Moving City Saturn was a foreigner, and consequently takes pleasure in foreigners, or is the solution of this question also to be found in history? For it seems that in early days the treasurers used to send gifts called lautia to the ambassadors, and they cared for the ambassadors when they were sick, and buried them at public expense if they died; but now, owing to the great number of embassies that come, this expensive practice has been discontinued; yet there still remains the preliminary meeting with the quaestors of the treasury in the guise of registration.

Registration did not guarantee an immediate audience with the Senate, but it did establish the credentials of the ambassadors, provide them with due hospitality and thereby enable them to take up residence within the imperial metropolis.30 Plutarch observes that changes in mores were due to socio-economic forces. However, the surveillance and control of foreigners remained a constant. Indeed, as Plutarch’s text shows, the treatment of ambassadors was carefully defined, for there were legal and religious consequences attaching to Roman behaviour.31

Hospitality and time prior to the Senate Once they had officially declared their presence and purpose within the city of Rome, the embassy made its way to the place where it would reside for the foreseeable future. Such, at least, is the sequence implicit in the various accounts of reception. Rarely is it recorded where ambassadors stayed when received on friendly terms and therefore situated within the city proper. However, they most certainly cannot have taken up residence with a painter, unlike the dramatic case of the exiled Egyptian monarch Ptolemy VI.32 That was merely yet another pathetic display of reversal of fortune, as exemplified by Ptolemy’s display of scars within the Curia.33 Members of the governing elite, ambassadors found housing appropriate to their elevated status and enjoyed the hospitality of the powerful of Rome. For instance, there is the reception that Publius Sestius (pr. 63) gave to the Cappadocian prince Ariarathes in 45 bce.34 Better known, however, is the hospitality given by Julius Caesar to Cleopatra VII in 45–44 bce, housing that monarch within his Transtiberine gardens when she came to Rome so as to be recognized as a ‘friend and ally’ of the Roman people.35 This was on a par with the hospitality that Pompey the Great had shown to her father Ptolemy XII during his exile in the early 50s bce, furnishing the monarch with the use of his villa at the Alban Mount.36 Of a somewhat less lofty nature, perhaps, was the hospitality that the Roman equites Titus and Gaius Coponius accorded to the philosopher Dion, who was the leader of an Alexandrian delegation aiming at persuading the Senate not to support the restoration of Ptolemy XII.37 Not without significance in this case is the fact that Dion had initially lodged with Lucius Lucceius, until things apparently became too difficult for that failed consular candidate for 59 bce.38 Housing was of the essence, as it reflected ambassadors’ status and power. More than one ambassador must have been tempted to apply to Rome the Homeric adage that ‘it is a difficult thing to make one’s way to Egypt’.39 Since the ultimate success of the embassy depended upon a vote by the Senate, ambassadors of



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necessity canvassed senators in order to secure a favourable response at some future date. Eloquent testimony to the difficulties involved is provided by an inscription commemorating the travails of the Teian ambassadors during their time in Rome around 166 bce (SIG3 656.19–27):40 Going upon an embassy to Rome on behalf of the people, they endured mental and physical hardship. They met with the leaders of the Romans and were held hostage by their daily exertions. Having persuaded the patrons of their city to defend the interests of our people, they also rendered friendly those who were looking after the interests of our enemy and serving as his patrons. This they did by means of exposition of the facts and daily visits to their atria.

Possibly furnishing the earliest use of ‘patron’ transliterated from the Latin into Greek and concluding the account of the embassy with ambassadors’ frequenting the houses of the mighty in Rome, this inscription offers no compelling reason to believe that the embassy proved successful.41 But what is of interest to the historian is the emphasis on the need to engage senators on a daily basis so as to instil and maintain Roman goodwill. Indeed, when the Rhodians sought to counter possible negative action on the part of Eumenes II in 172 bce, they ‘sought the chance, by every means possible through patrons and hosts, to debate with the king in the Senate’.42 Moreover, as another text remarks, especial attention must have been given both to the consuls and to the tribunes of the plebs.43 Together these magistrates and representatives of the Roman people played a decisive role in securing the senatorial decree and law required to make a ruler or community an official ally.44 It is a natural law of human behaviour that power respects power and, lacking that, wealth. Hence, it should occasion no surprise that both magnificent retinues for monarchs and the practice of bribery by all characterized the prosecution of diplomacy at Rome in the middle to late Republic. Disposing of the vast military and economic resources of Empire and hardly to be seen as altruistic, senators required encouragement to take a positive view of an embassy’s mission. Explicit proof was required in advance that it would be to their own benefit to accede to the embassy’s request. To this end did the Numidian monarch Jugurtha order ambassadors to use money in their dealings with all and sundry at Rome.45 For the same reason, despite Cicero’s fine words about ‘uphold[ing] the pomp and regal status of his retinue’, did Ptolemy XII have urgent need of the financial resources of the eques Gaius Rabirius Postumus.46 Despite the contracts involved in the assumption of loans, the fact of bribery must have involved the passage of money in physical format between embassies and the Roman elite, and that in turn meant that vast sums of money were being hauled about the city of Rome or, conceivably, in the suburbs.47 In view of this situation, it is more than comprehensible that embassies should have moved about the city of Rome armed, carrying weapons for self-defence. This, at least, is the situation that the evidence seems to suggest. Although the person of an ambassador was in theory inviolable,48 physical assault and murder are attested. From the charges laid against Marcus Caelius Rufus in 56 bce, for instance, it emerges that the Alexandrian embassy seeking to prevent the restoration of Ptolemy XII had been waylaid repeatedly from the very moment they made landfall in Italy. Indeed,

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poison was finally employed to eliminate Dion when ‘the disturbances that took place at Naples’ and ‘the attack upon the Alexandrian [envoys] at Puteoli’ proved incapable of hindering the embassy’s arrival in Rome.49 Had the members of the Alexandrian embassy gone like sheep meekly to the slaughter, then Dion would never have been able to reach Rome, much less to spend enough time there to entertain the prospect of addressing the Senate. Moreover, aside from the Roman attitude towards self-help that justified much private violence,50 there is the documented fact that embassies did on occasion transport weapons in large numbers within the city. In 172 bce, for instance, although it is unlikely that the ambassadors brought the gifts with them when they made their appearance before the Senate in order to discuss matters, the visual effect of the ambassadors moving through the city with 300 cavalry shields as well as a weighty crown for Jupiter Optimus Maximus must have been striking.51 In concluding, it may be remarked that ambassadors’ travelling armed would also help to explain the caution involved in keeping the representatives of enemy forces outside the city limit of the pomerium.52 There was simply too much likelihood that violence would erupt, and a lynch mob would have been counter-productive to the ends of Roman diplomacy. On the other hand, the arts of peace – specifically displays of rhetorical virtuosity or paideia and theatrical productions, gladiator fights and races – were occasions in which ambassadors stood at the centre of leisured movement within the city of Rome. Many an ambassador from the Hellenic world was an exponent of learning, as we have had occasion to note. Here suffice it to observe that Cato the Elder’s alleged fear regarding Carneades, Diogenes and Critolaus was due to the fact that large crowds assembled to hear these philosophers speak.53 This episode was not unique, as far as lectures to a large public were concerned, but rather a constant within the intellectual landscape of imperial Rome.54 Yet, ambassadors were visible not only as the principal actors but also as exotic spectators themselves watching others at various forms of entertainment. For their role as long-standing allies, for example, the Massiliots enjoyed the right of proedria and therefore sat in the front rows of the theatre.55 In like fashion, in 48 bce, Hyrcanus, his descendants and their ambassadors were accorded the right of proedria at gladiatorial fights and chariot races held in Rome.56 As emerges from an anecdote told about German chiefs present at Rome in 58 ce, ambassadors were visually prominent amidst the senators on these occasions.57 The diplomatic sojourn might prove inordinately lengthy and even, as apparently in the above-cited case of the Teians, bootless. Evidence is abundant upon this fundamental point. For one thing, it is clear that many embassies were present well in advance of the date of February when discussion might be expected to take place. For example, the Milesians are known to have been present in Rome as of mid-June 71 bce, even though they did not expect to have an audience within the Senate until February.58 More remarkably, the envoys of Ptolemy XII seem to have been kept waiting for some two decades, before Caesar finally took the fatal step in 59 bce.59 If a bon mot of Quintus Granius be accepted as accurate, bribery was involved in establishing the calendar of audiences.60 It was in order to combat this abuse of the system that the above-mentioned senatorial decree was passed in 48 bce that explicitly promised Hyrcanus, his descendants and their representatives a response from the



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Senate within ten days of recognition having been taken of their arrival in the city.61 The evidence for inordinate delays in receiving embassies bears a resemblance to the delays that might occur in the decreeing of triumphs.62 The social construction of time was aristocratic, and the assertion of control required that one keep one’s socioeconomic inferiors and possible competitors waiting for a response. This helps to explain, at least in part, the phenomenon of the Graecostasis and its situation vis-à-vis the Senaculum. Situated to the west–northwest of the Comitium and Curia, the Graecostasis was a terraced space upon the slope of the Capitoline and just below where the Senaculum stood. Ambassadors would assemble at the Graecostasis and then wait their turn to be summoned to address the Senate. Senators would assemble at the Senaculum and were in a position to view the ambassadors from above, until such moment as they decided to move to the Curia and commence the day’s proceedings.63 Neither the shape of the ground plan nor the dimensions of the Graecostasis are explicitly mentioned by any of the ancient sources that refer to this structure where ambassadors awaited their turn to address the assembled Senate within the Curia Hostilia. Moreover, there is debate as to the precise location of this structure, even if Varro indicates clearly that it was situated lower than the Senaculum and in proximity to the Comitium.64 Yet, the space within which it could have lain is relatively limited, and, for the sake of argument and clarification of our models, calculations may be attempted on the basis of the maps furnished by Kathryn E. Welch in her discussion of the Atrium Regium.65 The Graecostasis is there represented as having been approximately 17 m × 5 m, whereas the Curia Hostilia is represented as having been roughly 17 m × 20 m. Since the Curia Hostilia is generally believed to have been able to accommodate at least 300 senators,66 the Graecostasis should have been able to accommodate at least 75 ambassadors.67 On the basis of a simple comparison of estimated surface areas, and therefore a fortiori since a relatively large amount of space within the Curia Hostilia is known to have been left vacant, this estimate as to the number of people that could have been accommodated by the Graecostasis again makes clear the importance of embassies and their centrality to the proper functioning of political life in the middle and late Republic. The landscape must be re-populated with visiting foreign dignitaries as well as with the ruling elite and their entourages in circulation. That more than one embassy would be waiting to address the Senate is made clear by an intriguing episode in 190 bce. Subsequent to having heard the Pergamene king Eumenes II speak, the Senate wished to hear the ambassadors from Rhodes, but decided to summon those of Smyrna first instead when it emerged that one of the Rhodians was absent at that particular moment.68 What could he have been doing? Since structures in the zone ranged from taverns to public toilets, there is considerable scope for fantasy. But two important points are established. The ambassador was not present when the summons to speak arrived, and the Senate arranged things in order to hear more than one embassy in the course of a sitting. Timing is of the essence, but was not well defined. Just as Roman patrons dealt with their clients, so did the senators deal with ambassadors. Movement was at the discretion of those exercising power.

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Arriving before the Senate Melodrama captures the audience’s attention. Hence, once the critical moment had arrived and ambassadors were summoned to address the senators in official session, accounts characteristically focus upon expressions of ‘otherness’ as a source of pathos and a means to carrying the day. Vague generalities obtain regarding routine business, whereas specific details abound in connection with ambassadors who drew attention to the wretched plight of those whom they were representing. Powerfully effective as a means of persuasion, a theatrical display of grief and mourning might be expected to accompany those addresses made by diplomats seeking Roman intervention or assistance. So, for instance, in describing the embassy of 168 bce that led to the decision to dispatch Gaius Popillius Laenas and his colleagues forthwith to Egypt to put an end to the Sixth Syrian War, Livy focuses upon the unusual, mournful appearance of the Ptolemaic ambassadors (Livy 44.19.7): ‘Filthy, with unkempt hair and beard, and holding olive-branches, they entered the Senate, and their speech was even more piteous than their appearance.’ Appropriate to those who presented themselves in the guise of suppliants, this behaviour underscored the precarious situation of Ptolemy VI and Cleopatra II. Naturally, their clothing was dark, as is nicely corroborated by the faux pas of the Rhodian ambassadors a year later, in the wake of the Roman victory at Pydna. On that occasion the Rhodians wore white clothing, ‘which is appropriate for those are celebrating’, for they wished to avoid ‘the appearance of mourning for the fate of Perseus’ that they would have given ‘if they had been dressed shabbily’.69 Since they were seeking clemency for their past actions, they would have done better to embrace ambiguity. The mistake proved disastrous, earning the ire of the senators, or such at least is the story told by Livy.70 Mourning instilled pity, and thus set the stage for capturing the audience’s goodwill. Not only clothing, but one’s very body might serve as a means to convincing the Senate of the urgency of the matter at hand and the truth of what was being asserted. In 154 bce, for example, the troublesome Egypt monarch Ptolemy VII Euergetes II – decades later to be less nobly known by the Alexandrians as Physcon, or ‘Pot-belly’ – roused senators’ pity by displaying the scars upon his royal body and describing how and why they had come to be; the Senate forthwith ordered the ambassadors representing his brother Ptolemy VI to be gone without having a chance to present their case.71 Perhaps most dramatic of all, however, was the use that the Chalcidian envoy Micythio made of his body in 170 bce. Allegedly suffering from a paralysis of the legs, Micythio was carried into the Curia upon a litter so that he might nonetheless address that venerable body. Observing that ‘he had nothing left to him in this life other than his tongue for lamenting the disasters of his native land’ (Livy 43.7.7), he went on to enumerate the services that Chalcis had rendered to Rome over the years and then to describe at length the outrages which Roman commanders had of late inflicted upon the Chalcidians. Not only did the oration prove a success as far as Chalcidian complaints were concerned, but a carriage was hired at public expense to escort Micythio back to Brundisium.72 The theatrical display of wounds or physical infirmity might exercise a decisive effect upon senatorial debate and the formulation of Roman foreign policy.



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More commonly embassies were merely perceived as a temporary, curious manifestation of the ‘other’ at Rome, and their presence was not in and of itself deemed worthy of comment. Only insofar as the circumstances were unusual or consequential would they enter the historical record. Otherwise, notwithstanding their vast numbers, they are virtually invisible, despite the inevitable, occasional jibe.73 The Senate dealt with embassies as a matter of course, and the quotidian is never of great appeal to historical narrators.

Aftermath in Rome In the event of alliance, a visit to the Capitoline hill was de rigueur. It was before the Temple of Jupiter Feretrius that a treaty would be formally struck with a sacrifice and vow taken by Roman magistrates and ambassadors.74 For instance, once the Senate had confirmed the dispositions made by Scipio Asiaticus in 190 bce, ‘a few days later the Roman people confirmed the treaty and oaths were exchanged with Antipater and his colleague Zeuxis’.75 A bronze copy of the treaty would be deposited there as well, ageless testimony to the agreement reached by the Romans and their ally. This was a constitutive moment for the community. Men and gods were united in witness and validation of what had been accomplished now and for the future.76 In addition, and far more frequently, there were honours for Jupiter Optimus Maximus, whose temple dominated the summit of the Capitoline hill. Consisting of crowns made of gold and accompanied by inscriptions and sacrifices as a matter of course, these honours are ubiquitous in the literary record as well as in the chance survival of inscriptions. For example, in closing his account of the year 198 bce, Livy reports that an embassy from the king of Pergamum made a dedication upon the Capitoline hill (Livy 32.27.1): In that same year, ambassadors from king Attalus placed upon the Capitoline a crown of gold that weighed 246 pounds, and they gave thanks to the Senate because Antiochus had been compelled by the authority of the Roman legates to lead his army out of the boundaries of Attalus’ kingdom.

From other, relatively plentiful evidence, it emerges that these crowns of gold were produced abroad and transported to Rome. In the late 70s bce, for instance, Gaius Verres when governor of Sicily relieved putative heirs to the Seleucid throne of the gift that they were transporting from Syria to Rome for dedication to Capitoline Jove.77 A crown weighing 246 pounds (around 110 kg) is a somewhat complicated affair that would have required either a number of men to carry a bier (ferculum) or else wheeled transportation drawn by animals.78 Immense in size, crowns of these dimensions constituted a form of collective representation, involving as they did large numbers of people for the spectacular act of deposition. Inscriptions, sometimes bilingual, attested to this occasion, as happened when the Lycians wished to make a public act of thanksgiving to the Romans.79 Again, for this constitutive moment in the life of Roman foreign policy, considerable movement is implied by the associated monument. The

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inscriptions may well have been cut on site, but the stone employed was costly and may have been transported to the Capitoline hill from a workshop even when coming from elsewhere within the Mediterranean. In short, we must imagine large retinues moving in stately fashion with a view to the performance of a public act. Traffic will have come to a stand-still as the cortège of magistrates and diplomats made their way through the city centre to ascend the Capitoline in time-honoured fashion. In closing, it should be added, ascent upon the Capitoline or immediate, humiliating withdrawal from Rome were not the only possible sequels to a meeting with the Senate. The end might be inconclusive, with the Senate choosing to adjourn upon another date in order to resume discussion of the question at hand. This is a situation that is documented because it was in the midst of waiting for another hearing that the octogenarian Rhodian ambassador Theaedetus died a natural death.80 Presumably, although this is an inference from what is reported by Plutarch about practice prior to the time of the Principate, Theaedetus was given the honour of a public funeral.81 In theory that would have meant the procession of the funeral cortège through the very heart of Rome, from the Forum Romanum on out of the city, and concluding with a burial just possibly within the public lands of the Campus Martius.82 With its expense as well as by its pomp and circumstance, this form of public movement would have been on par with placing ambassadors in elite seating at spectacles, assimilating them to their peers within the city of Rome.

Departure Embassies left the imperial metropolis to return home once the premisses upon which they had undertaken a diplomatic mission were fulfilled or no longer valid. Various outcomes were possible, as has been seen, but it is worth observing that the ease and honour of departure were intimately linked to the success of the embassy. These aspects of movement homewards were emblematic of an embassy’s achievement and status. Successful embassies were showered with gifts and honours. Indeed, in departing these ambassadors might enjoy especial transportation as well as protection and accompaniment by a magistrate as far as the limits of the Italian peninsula. For instance, in the above-mentioned case of the Rhodian embassy of 170 bce, public transportation was provided in order to escort Micythio to Brundisium.83 Travel by carriage was a great luxury and a high mark of honour. As an example of official protection, on the other hand, it is worth citing the letters of safe-conduct that the Romans are more than documented as having given to ambassadors of the Hasmoneans.84 Beyond safety and ease of travel, there was the elementary consideration of the visual impression that the homeward bound embassy might make. In 172 bce, for instance, Eumenes II received not only gifts of great worth but also a curule chair and an ivory sceptre.85 The transportation of items such as these will have made for a striking, theatrical display of diplomatic achievement. Unsuccessful embassies, by contrast, were marked intentionally by imposed haste of departure and the intervention of Roman authorities in order to verify their



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departure, or at least this was what happened when things went dreadfully wrong. Offended by the language of the Aetolian ambassadors in 189 bce, the Senate ordered them to be gone forthwith (Livy 37.49.7–8): A decree of the Senate was passed on a motion by Manlius Acilius, who had conquered Antiochus and the Aetolians, to the effect that the Aetolians were ordered to set forth from the city on that very day and to be gone from Italy within fifteen days’ time. Aulus Terentius Varro was entrusted with keeping their journey under surveillance, and it was declared that all the members of a future embassy from the Aetolians were be viewed as enemies if they came without the permission of the general who commanded that province and without being accompanied by a Roman legate. Thus the Aetolians were dismissed.

The haste of enforced departure was a clear sign of senatorial displeasure and meant to serve as chastisement, whereas accompaniment by Varro86 – presumably employing lictors with fasces – safeguarded the Aetolians and prevented any attempt on their part to circumvent the senatorial decree. Something similar can be seen in the abovementioned case of the ambassadors of Ptolemy VI in 154 bce, when Neolaidas and Andromachus were ordered to leave Rome that very same day.87 More often, however, as in the case of the embassy seeking to procure recognition of Ptolemy XII as a ‘friend and ally’ of the Roman people, the lack of success was linked to unending delay rather than a majestic order to abandon the city.88 Departure will have come when the ambassadors finally despaired of the good faith or serious engagement of their interlocutors. The evidence in the literary sources and epigraphic record is decidedly weighted towards the success stories rather than the failures, except for those rare exceptions when the latter were dramatic in form or a source of further trouble. Diplomatic successes by ambassadors visiting Rome were flattering both to the Romans and for the powers that those ambassadors themselves represented. Hence, the epigraphic record and the historical accounts, which are complementary rather than overlaying one another.89 Diplomatic successes were hard won and vital to the life of the community, whence the fact that their authors might even receive worship from their fellow citizens.90 Moreover, successes represented the growing imperial power of Rome and were therefore congenial and likely to engage readers’ attention. Underlying all of these, however, was the constant and pervasive movement of embassies from provincial periphery to imperial centre.

Conclusion Embassies were by no means a new phenomenon of the middle and late Republic, but the entrance of Rome into the Hellenistic world proper meant an exponential increase in the number of embassies that now came to the imperial capital of the Mediterranean. Through the rituals of accommodation, consideration and alliance, the Senate determined the movement of embassies within and about the city of Rome and thereby laid the basis for the eventual redefinition of the city as an imperial metropolis.

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Foreign powers were informed of their subordinate status vis-à-vis the Roman state, whereas the parade of foreigners manifest in all of their ‘otherness’ – even when it was a matter of Prusias of Bithynia aping Roman customs – served to reinforce the Roman people’s sense that they were especially favoured by divine providence with an Empire that was meant to rule over the whole of the inhabited world. Last, but hardly least, it was quite likely the presence of embassies in significant numbers in the city of Rome and the need to finance their activities of representation that led to Rome’s supplanting the eastern metropoleis of Alexandria, Antioch and Ephesus as the financial capital of the Mediterranean. Movement redefined not only the social but also the economic landscape of the ancient world.

3

Livia on the Move Lovisa Brännstedt

This chapter explores the public movement of Livia Drusilla, wife of Augustus. I will argue that her increasing political position was reflected in her actual movement within the cityscape of Rome. When guardianship of the res publica was assumed by not only Augustus but also his immediate family, they as a group began to carve out public roles for themselves. However, this development had one great obstacle to overcome in order to succeed: within the structures of the old res publica that Augustus wanted to re-create, there was no place for a dynastic dominance by one family. To a large extent, a Roman Republican aristocrat carried out his political duties while walking around in the cityscape, escorted by lictors or followed by clients.1 Besides his daily public moves, he participated in civic rituals such as triumphs, funerals and religious festivals. When the late Republic crumbled, the streets were filled with gangs moving around in Rome; they did so rapidly and violently, challenging the previously codified elite movements.2 As the restorer of the Republic, Augustus sought to bring back civic rituals and disciplined movement to Rome. During the first decades of his reign, Livia’s position was hence defined along gender-specific lines, and the preserved sources do not record any public movement of hers.3 This study aims to answer why, during the last decade bce, the nascent Principate saw how Livia walked onto the political stage both literally and figuratively. The arguments will be that the two main factors authorizing Livia’s movement were the evolving sense of dynasty that underpinned the reign of the Julio-Claudian family, and the already established public position of the Vestal Virgins.4 Augustus, followed by Tiberius, expressed his authority through a narrative of power rooted in traditional Roman concepts such as the importance of family and kinship. It is my belief that this combination of familial tradition and political power helped Livia to gain a footing in the political arena. The extant source material is enough to broadly reconstruct Livia’s life and career, but it tends to come in spurts, and certain aspects of Livia’s movement are recorded in depth, while others are not commemorated or commented upon by ancient authors. Hence, I have chosen to group the material in three parts and discuss Livia’s participation in major pompae, her participation in religious processions and her daily movements in the city of Rome. I will conclude by exploring the pompae surrounding her apotheosis in 42 ce.

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Major pompae The funeral train of Drusus Livia’s youngest son Nero Claudius Drusus died in an equestrian accident in 9 bce while on campaign in present-day Germany.5 His funeral was a great event and possibly one of Livia’s first public performances.6 Tiberius had been in the Balkans at the time but had returned to the Italic mainland when he heard that his younger brother Drusus had fallen gravely ill. After Drusus passed away, Tiberius set out with the body for Rome, going before it on foot all the way, and Augustus went to Ticinium to meet the funeral train.7 Although it is difficult to prove, I would like to suggest that Livia went with Augustus to northern Italy and accompanied the cortege back to Rome. Although her presence is not commented upon in the accounts of Drusus’ death in Tacitus or Suetonius, she does figure in two consolationes: the anonymous poem Consolatio ad Liviam8 and Seneca’s epistle Consolatio ad Marciam. Augustus and Tiberius are scarcely to be found in these latter texts, something that could be due to genre. A consolatio was used rhetorically to comfort mourners, and Livia is in both texts an exemplum for other grieving women. The Consolatio ad Marciam addresses Marcia, the daughter of Cremutius Cordus, to console her over the death of her son. Marcia is presented with two opposite models for how to deal with her sorrow: Octavia, who never overcame her grief at her son Marcellus’ death, and Livia, who after the death of Drusus found comfort in the advice of the philosopher Areus and overcame her distress. Using the example of Livia as the grieving mother allows Seneca to approach Marcia’s grief indirectly by shifting the situation away from her to Livia.9 Although such consolationes are composed with artistic licence, it is reasonable to assume that Livia actually did follow the bier back to Rome given the great emphasis on her participation in Drusus’ funeral train in both accounts. Lines 167–220 in the Consolatio ad Liviam describe two parades, one imaginary and one real. The poet lends his voice to Livia and has her dream of a triumph of Drusus. She herself moves across the Italian peninsula to escort him back to Rome.10 But the awakening is rough: Drusus never held the triumph and, instead of a victory procession, Livia was forced to lead the funeral train of her son (funera pro sacris tibi sunt ducenda triumphis).11 In either case, she is the leader (ducenda) of both the imaginary and the real parade. Seneca, for his part, describes how Livia moves on a long journey through the Italic cities alongside Drusus’ bier. She stops and weeps by all the countless pyres that flamed throughout the land, for on each she seemed to be losing her son afresh. But this public act of sorrow changed character when Livia reached Rome and Drusus had been laid to rest. Then she laid away her sorrow and did not, according to Seneca, grieve any more than was respectful to Augustus, nor fair to Tiberius, seeing that they were still alive.12 While Octavia reacts by withdrawing from public life, Livia does not fear the public display. Her grief becomes a shared experience as she is exposed to the population when she accompanies the bier, yet she manages to show self-control on the political stage in Rome.13 There are several verbal similarities between the Consolatio ad Liviam and the Consolatio ad Marciam, and Irene Peirano suggests that they may point to the use of



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a common source, above all Livy, whose description of Drusus’ death in book 142 of Ab urbe condita is now lost, as well as Augustus’ own (and also lost) account of the life of Drusus.14 The author of the Consolatio ad Liviam may well have been inspired by Seneca’s consolatory works to set his historical fiction in the rhetorical form of a consolatio. The Consolatio ad Liviam is what Peirano calls ‘chronological fiction’.15 It purports to be written on a specific historical occasion – the funeral of Drusus – which is in fact significantly earlier than the actual date of composition. The text can nevertheless be used as a source of the way audiences understood their recent past during the Roman Empire. I would argue that both consolationes pictured the death of Drusus as a watershed for Livia’s public role as mater. The funeral train – a political event – had put her essentially apolitical virtues on display. As a result, Livia is addressed both as grieving mother, and as the princeps romana, a public and powerful member of the imperial family.16 Her increasing political status is reflected in the words used to characterize her way of walking, and is closer to the male political world rather than the female. The author of the Consolatio ad Liviam uses duco to describe how Livia leads the funeral train, while Seneca prefers prosequor.17 Livia’s dignified movement is in sharp contrast to the way the people move when they rush forward to express their grief (turba ruit).18 She is not solely the grieving mother; she is also a member of the ruling family. As such, she leads the processions and does not rush or grieve in an uncontrolled manner. This is a consequence of the way the death of Drusus was treated: as a tragedy not of the family, but of the state. However, it was the context of family that legitimized what was unusual public movement for a woman. It is a fundamentally paradoxical situation, and the author of the Consolatio ad Liviam concludes the description of Livia’s elevated position by noting that her power never reaches the Campus or the Forum, the proper places of the male political power.19

The triumph of Tiberius From the last decade bce there is also evidence of a participatory role for Livia in the triumph. It began with the banquets that Livia and Tiberius’ wife Julia gave for the women of Rome on the occasion of Tiberius’ military victory in 9 bce, and the banquet planned by Livia and Antonia, the wife of Drusus, for Drusus’ intended triumph.20 This is the first evidence of female sponsorship of a victory celebration. Literary accounts of Roman triumphs in the Republican period show that sons rode with their fathers during the pompae triumphales.21 In Augustus’ triple triumph of 29 bce, Tiberius and Marcellus rode the trace horses, and the practice continued into the imperial period.22 None of the literary accounts from the Republican period suggest that Roman women had any role in a triumph, except as participants in the general thanksgiving to the gods or as spectators on the parade route.23 However, in the Epistulae ex Ponto, Ovid presents a bold prophecy of a future triumph and describes how Livia should prepare a chariot and a procession for the triumph (currum pompamque).24 In the Consolatio ad Liviam, the poet stresses that the preparation of the chariot was Livia’s special responsibility, if Drusus had returned to Rome as a victor, and not as a dead body on a bier.25 The chariot might have been decorated with gold, ivory or other precious materials,

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but Suetonius describes how Augustus’ father had a dream in which he saw his yet unborn son standing in a currum laureatum, a chariot adorned with laurel.26 Marleen Flory has suggested that there is a possible parallel to the legend of Livia and the hen that dropped a laurel branch into her lap.27 According to the legend, Livia planted the branch, and as it grew into a grove, it provided the laurel needed for the triumphal crowns of the Julio-Claudian family.28 If Flory’s hypothesis is true, the decoration of the chariot might have been a part of a public event, the preliminary to the start of the parade. When Ovid in Tristia envisions Tiberius’ future triumph over Pannonia, he places Livia in the midst of the ceremony: cumque bonis nuribus pro sospite Livia nato munera det meritis, saepe datura, deis, et pariter matres et quae sine crimine castos perpetua servant virginitate focos.29 And Livia, with her good daughters-in-law, on behalf of her fortunate son, may be giving rewards to the worthy gods, gifts she will often make, and likewise mothers and those who, chaste and without reproach, keep the hearths with perpetual virginity.

Ovid and the author of the Consolatio ad Liviam use the same formula to warrant Livia’s participation in major pompae: by approaching it as a family business. The passages quoted above are certainly composed with poetic license, but Ovid’s vision still provides important keys to Livia’s central position in this stately, male, military celebration. I believe it reflects the development within the army that started in the 10s bce, when the major military commands were given only to men of Augustus’ family.30 The young men of the family had all been trained in the military from an early age, and both the generation including Tiberius and Drusus as well as the next generation, with Drusus the Younger, Agrippa Postumus, Gaius, Lucius and Germanicus, had a monopoly on the leadership of the Roman army – and its victories.31 The evidence for Livia’s participation is tentative, but more certain evidence speaks of female participation in the triumphs of Germanicus and Claudius. Tacitus reports that Germanicus’ children, including Agrippina Minor and Drusilla, rode with him in the chariot, as an advertisement of dynastic continuity, while Messalina rode the carpentum directly behind Claudius’ chariot.32

Religious processions The main part of Livia’s performative movement seems to have taken place within the religious sphere, a traditionally accepted area of activity for women.33 Perhaps the most important piece of evidence for Livia’s participation in religious processions is the Ara Pacis Augustae. The altar was commissioned on 4 July 13 bce to celebrate Augustus’ felicitous return from the provinces of Hispania and Gaul, and it was consecrated on 30 January 9 bce to honour the established peace.34 The altar and its precinct



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walls were decorated on the north and south sides with friezes depicting a procession, made up by priests, senators and members of the imperial family, and on the west and east sides with reliefs showing mythological motives. Livia is commonly identified as the prominent female figure in the procession scene on the south frieze, although some controversy still surrounds the identification.35 The appearance of women on publicly commissioned commemorative art had hitherto been extremely rare, and Ara Pacis is the first state relief in Rome depicting identifiable mortal women and children. It is also one of the first instances when Augustus’ female relatives are brought into the public light since the Civil War. The perpetual movement on the friezes, and on the altar itself, gives an impression of peace and stability. The leading Roman family is always engaged in carrying out sacrifices to the gods, something that promises divine blessing, peace and prosperity. The Ara Pacis not only bears a relief depicting movement, but its very function as an altar evokes ritual processions. The consecration day of the altar on 30 January coincided with Livia’s fiftieth birthday.36 The Res Gestae Divi Augusti records that the Senate ordered the magistrates, priests and Vestal Virgins to perform an annual sacrifice at the altar.37 As a consequence of this, Livia’s birthday was celebrated, out of public funding, by the major priesthoods and the Vestal Virgins. It is noteworthy that Ara Pacis was consecrated in 9 bce, the same year as Drusus’ death and funeral, when the centrality of the imperial family became publicly manifest on a large scale. Augustus’ appointment to pontifex maximus on 6 March 12 bce was an essential part in that development.38 He was now Rome’s highest-ranking representative in communicating with the gods, as was the religious role of the paterfamilias within the family. The duties of the pontifex maximus included overseeing the Vestal Virgins and the state cult of Vesta. The connection between the cult of Vesta and Augustus was further emphasized by the princeps’ decision not to move into the domus publica near the Temple of Vesta on the Forum where the pontifex normally lived. Instead, a shrine to Vesta was created within the walls of Augustus’ house on the Palatine hill. 39 The merging of the state hearth with Augustus’ home was completed with the housing of statuettes of his own family gods in the shrine of Vesta.40 The Vestal Virgins were among the few Roman women with clearly defined public roles, and became predecessors for the public role of Livia as she established herself as their fertile counterpart, the mater of the Roman state. The friezes of the Ara Pacis point towards Livia’s participation in processions. Her presence at such occasions is further supported by a line from one of Horace’s carmina, where she forms a part of the religious procession that greeted Augustus’ welcome when he returned to Rome in 24 bce (unico gaudens mulier marito / prodeat iustis operata divis, ‘let the wife who rejoices in her incomparable husband come forth, performing due ritual to the righteous gods’).41 During the last decade bce, Livia was involved in religious building activities. She restored the Temples of Fortuna Muliebris and Bona Dea and built a brand new shrine to Concordia within the Porticus Liviae.42 Livia did what Carsten Hjort Lange in this volume argues that Augustus did: she located ideological markers in monumental form within the city.43 Livia’s monuments were dedicated to traditional female cults, embedding her non-traditional building activity with references to proper virtue. The question arises

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whether Livia as benefactor, indeed at times as priestess, was expected to participate in religious processions as part of these cults.44 The literary accounts do not comment upon such movement. However, epigraphic evidence from the Columbarium Liviae indicates her presence by giving examples of slaves and freedmen who were occupied by taking care of her dresses, hairdos and makeup. In addition to those who were in charge of the upkeep and storage of her clothes (a veste or ad vestem), Livia had four or five ornatrices, who, together with her freedman Cnidus with the title ab ornamentis sacerdotalibus, took care of her ceremonial dresses and outfits at religious occasions.45

Livia’s daily movement If the death of Drusus had put Livia in the limelight, the death of Augustus in 14 ce institutionalized her position in what was a hitherto unseen way for a Roman women.46 She became the high priestess of the deified Augustus and could now, at the age of 72, take her very first real ‘power walk’,47 as Dio writes that Livia was granted a lictor in the exercise of her sacred office.48 Livia no longer moved through the city as a private matron, she moved like a Vestal, on her way to carry out deeds for the benefit of the state. In 42 bce, the Senate voted to allow the Vestal Virgins one lictor each, and it seems safe to assume that this already established practice helped legitimize Livia’s escorted movement.49 It was the lictor curiatus, a special kind of lictor whose main task was religious rather than to carry rods decorated with fasces, who walked alongside a Vestal Virgin. The pontifex maximus was in charge of the lictores curiati, who furthermore escorted flamines and were present at various sacrifices. I would like to suggest that Livia employed a lictor curiatus rather than an ordinary lictor, but it remains uncertain whether he escorted her only whenever she performed her religious duties or whenever she participated in public ceremonies. As a curiosity it can be mentioned that when a lictor walked ahead of a magistrate, everyone except the Vestal Virgins and matronae had to stop and make way. But when Livia, who was said to be the Vesta of chaste matrons, passed their way, we might assume that everyone stepped aside.50 Livia did not normally walk on foot in the city of Rome. Wives of senators were typically carried in litters, as a mark of their rank and status. Livia presumably used such transportation, until 22 ce when she was given the privilege of travelling in a two-wheeled carpentum.51 The Senate granted her the right to use it after she had fallen seriously ill.52 Livia also received the privilege, whenever she entered the theatre, of taking her place with the Vestals, quite the contrary to the restriction of Augustus that dictated women to take a place on the very highest seats.53 Carpenta were up to that date used exclusively by the Vestal Virgins, and were thus closely associated with the priestesses. It is my belief that Livia’s newly gained right to travel in such a carriage emphasized her connection to the cult in a very visible way when she was drawn around the city, or was seated together with them at the theatre. As she travelled in the carpentum, escorted by a lictor, Livia’s movement marked her superiority to all other Roman women (the Vestals excluded), as they were not allowed to move in the same way as she did.



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The importance of the honour is underscored by coins minted in connection to it (see Fig. 3.1). These were the first coins minted in Rome that refer to Livia by name.54 One might therefore expect that such coins would bear her portrait, but she is actually not to be seen on the coins, as they rather depict the covered carpentum. The vehicle, decorated by Victories and other figures, is drawn by two mules with the legend SPQR Julia Augusta, and features a portrait of Tiberius on the reverse. The same series also includes coins depicting a female bust and the legend Salus Augusta.55 Augusta is used as an adjective to salus (‘health’), and it is a play on words, as it at the same time defines not only the noun but identifies Livia’s portrait, communicating the message that she was the protector of the well-being of the Roman state.56 And even if Salus Augusta refers to a general concept, it does allude to the current situation in 22 ce when Livia was recently recovered from illness. It is reasonable to assume that at least a part of the Roman populace had seen Livia travelling in her carpentum, as the coin would otherwise not carry any meaning for its viewers. Two examples from the Roman literature can be used to further illustrate how a woman’s right to travel in certain carriages was a political topic. The eighth book of the Aeneid includes a description of a parade of matrons in carriages depicted on the shield of Aeneas (castae ducebant sacra per urbem / pilentis matres in mollibus, ‘in cushioned carriages chaste matrons moved through the city in solemn procession’).57 Livy provides the context for this event of 395 bce, following the fall of Veii. The matronae agreed to give their jewellery to the state to aid a vowed offering to Apollo, and were awarded the right to ride in pilenta at sacred processions by the Senate, because of their self-sacrifices.58 It can be noted that the Consolatio ad Liviam and Virgil use the same verb, duco, to describe the movement of Livia and the matrons. Furthermore, Livy let Cato use the right to ride the carpentum as an argument in

Fig. 3.1  Sestertius minted in 22/23 ce, depicting a carpentum drawn by two mules and marked with the legend SPQR Julia Augusta. The front and side panels of the carpentum are decorated with Victories and other figures. British Museum, Reg. No. 6358 © The Trustees of the British Museum.

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the debate on the repeal of the Lex Oppia. The women of Rome tried to have the law abolished, but Cato alleges that the point of their agitation is ‘that we may glitter with gold and purple; that we may ride in carriages (carpenta) on holidays and ordinary days, that we may be borne through the city as if in triumph over the conquered and vanquished law and over the votes which we have captured and wrested from you’.59 Cato was defeated after a counter-attack of L. Valerius, but the account indicates the tension that surrounded the privilege to ride this kind of vehicle.60 To sum up the discussion so far, it has been shown that imperial dynastic policy gradually granted Livia access to the major pompae, and that she was eventually given the right to ride the carpentum and be accompanied by a lictor even when she did not participate in major events. In the previously discussed passage of the Consolatio ad Liviam, however, the anonymous author emphasizes that Livia’s power never reached the Campus or the Forum (nec vires errasse tuas campove forove).61 The question arises of whether Livia ever went to the Forum, the political heart of Rome and a highly gendered space.62 The evidence for her presence at the Forum is scant. The occasional literary accounts of women in the late Republican and early imperial Forum are tendentious, and regard the presence of women as a disruption of the normal order.63 Women were not physically blocked from the Forum, but they were barred from the area by ideological boundaries. Religious activities, however, involved both men and women: for example, the shrine of Vesta was located in the Forum, together with shrines to female abstractions and deities such as Concordia and Venus Cloacina. Livia must have visited at least the sanctuaries of Vesta and Concordia, together with priestesses, matronae and female religious personnel and attendants, and perhaps participated in religious processions, even though the Temple of Divus Augustus, of whose cult Livia was elected priestess, was not dedicated until 37 ce.64 No visual representations of Livia, or any inscription documenting such an image, are known from the Forum. About 110 portraits of Livia have survived, together with epigraphic testimony for about 80 images now lost, but the Forum was not the chosen site for her to be on display. Neither Livia’s position as the female head of the imperial family, nor her close bond to the Vestal Virgins, seems to have authorized her visual presence on the site, and throughout Livia’s lifetime the traditional Forum kept on being a male civic space where men carried out their rights and duties as Roman citizens. Rather, the buildings Livia was the patron of, and where she was involved in ceremonies and processions, were all located in the Campus Martius and on the Esquiline, areas refashioned during the reign of Augustus.65

Death, apotheosis and the importance of pompae The first known representation of Livia located close to the Forum is a cult statue placed by the side of Augustus in his temple, as depicted on coins minted under Antoninus Pius.66 When the Senate gave Livia divine honours, she came to share the temple with her already divine husband. It was the temple on the Palatine that Livia herself had been involved in erecting, and the Temple of Divus Augustus was



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rededicated to house also diva Augusta.67 Livia died in 29 ce, but even though the Senate voted her several honours, Tiberius declared that Livia would not have wanted to be given state worship as diva.68 It was first 13 years after her death that she was decreed divine honour after a proposal of Claudius in 42 ce on 17 January, her wedding anniversary and close to her hundredth birthday.69 For the first time Livia was the centre of attention in a major pompa. Her image was carried around the circus in a chariot drawn by elephants on the day of her deification, and great games were arranged in the city.70 The last movement of Livia, when her image was carried around the circus, can be seen as a symbol of her moving across the borders between male and female, politics and privacy, and human and divine. Livia’s case is unique; no other emperor or empress had that span of time between death and deification. An official act, the decree of the Senate, was essential before Livia turned into a diva.71 As was the case with emperors, her demise per se did not make her a goddess. Livia’s dead body, buried in the mausoleum of Augustus, seems not to have caused any trouble, and a ‘second funeral’ appears not to have been held.72 However, even if Livia did not have a public apotheosis, nor needed one from a theological point of view, Claudius did in any case understand the importance of pompae and public ceremonies. As argued by Ittai Gradel, the consecration of Livia is likely depicted on a relief from Rome, the so-called Frieze of the Vicomagistri, a rare and hence precious description of how the worship was carried out.73 Although the partially preserved relief resists a definite interpretation, it does underscore the scope of early imperial ceremonies.74 The relief shows a religious procession with attendants carrying statues of lares and the emperor’s genius. This in particular suggests a connection to Livia’s consecrations: Claudius had received the title pater patriae just five days before the deification, and the genius of the pater was presumably introduced into the state cult.75 Magistrates and lictors are seen participating in the procession together with three bovine victims – a bull, a steer and a heifer – followed by attendants, victimarii, musicians, camilli and priests. The relief further depicts the flamines augusti together with four assistants who carry images of the lares augusti, and the genius augusti attending them. The three animal victims, according to their sex and order of appearance, are pre-determined for the genius augusti (the bull), divus Augustus (the steer) and diva Augusta (the heifer). Livia had been given divine worship already during her lifetime. Her new appointment as diva formalized what had been her de facto divine status, created by her clients as the result of their worship. There is no evidence suggesting that the apotheosis was celebrated outside Rome, and I would like to argue that the act and the related pompae were primarily important in the city. Rome was the scene where the state cult to Livia was performed and where the temple to her and Augustus was a permanent reminder. The Vestal Virgins were charged with the task of making the appropriate sacrifices to the new goddess in the temple on the Palatine, and they thus kept on renewing their connection to Livia by their annual movement.

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Conclusions The new imperial system had brought about a shift in the movement of the women of Augustus’ family. Now when Rome was ruled by one family, its leading lady was escorted by a lictor and rode a carpentum. Commemorated by state altars, coins and Julio-Claudian literature, Livia’s performative movement through the cityscape of Rome was in most cases given to her as a political privilege and marked her political position. It distinguished her from the other inhabitants in Rome, both women and men. But this hitherto unseen public movement of a non-sacred woman could not have been accepted without tension. The first (poetic) evidence of Livia leading a public procession refers to an event as late as 9 bce, namely the funeral train of her son Drusus. During the last years of Augustus’ reign, Ovid allows himself to have visions of Livia preparing a triumphal procession, and not until after the death of her husband in 14 ce was she given the more remarkable rights to have a lictor walking ahead of her and to ride the carpentum. I have suggested here that the two main factors authorizing Livia’s movement were the family and the Vestal Virgins. When the imperial family became a public institution, family affairs such as funerals became public events, and conversely, public events such as triumphs became a family affair. The references to the Vestal Virgins are equally present in the sources. Livia’s relationship to the priestesses was emphasized by the fact that, with Augustus as pontifex maximus, the sacred hearth of Roman society was now in the home of Livia and Augustus. Moreover, her association with the cult of Vesta was shown even in her very movement. A lictor had escorted the Vestal Virgins since 42 bce, when they were granted that privilege by the Second Triumvirate, and they had ridden in carpenta even longer. Ovid legitimizes Livia’s participation in a triumph by comparing her duties with those carried out by the Vestal Virgins. In return, the movement of the Vestal Virgins emphasized their connection to Livia when they together performed the rites to Bona Dea that took place in the home of the pontifex maximus, or when the Vestal Virgins carried out rites at the Ara Pacis on Livia’s birthday or at the temple on the Palatine when she had become a state goddess.

Acknowledgements I would like to express my gratitude to the Moving City scholars, the seminar for classical studies at Lund University and in particular Ida Östenberg, who all have been most generous in giving me the benefit of their comments and constructive criticism.

4

Fast Movement through the City: Ideals, Stereotypes and City Planning Monica Hellström

This chapter aims to explore meanings associated with moving fast within the city of Rome, as described in imperial historiography and oratory. In Republican times, a Roman senator performed and confirmed his status through his movements, especially the daily stroll to the Forum.1 Close attention was paid to the splendour and size of his retinue, and also to his gait, which should display proper training for his role as a male of a certain class. Self-control was key: his mien ought to be expressionless, his walk dignified. Not only the unwieldy toga but the very streets, narrow and winding, kept the pace moderate. Swiftness, by contrast, was proper only for servants.2 An aristocrat did not rush about, but walked, preferably engaged in philosophical discussion. I would argue, however, that there was also a political aspect to this ideal, tied to the guarded balance on which the Republican oligarchy relied. There is a delicate tension between the slowness with which the Forum and Curia were approached, and the importance of the tasks to be performed there, reflecting a voluntary containment of the very real power vested in the senatorial train with their hoards of clients.3 The controlled movement of the senators can be viewed as a daily re-enactment and reinforcement of a political system. What happened to this performance when the Republic was gone? To trace the movement of the few and important through the imperial period, I have searched the accounts of Dio Cassius (henceforth Dio) and Herodian for events in Rome during their lifetimes, that is, from the reign of Commodus through the Severans.4 I found that both authors use movement to frame character in ways that appear related to the Republican ideals. I will proceed to trace the theme in the fourth-century histories by Aurelius Victor, Eutropius, Ammianus Marcellinus and the author(s) of the Historia Augusta, as well as in the Panegyrici Latini dating to the same era, at which point the roles ascribed to movement had plainly altered. I will conclude by attempting to explain these alterations in light of changes to the political role of the topography of Rome, shifting boundaries between the genres of history and oratory, and changing imperial ideals. Dio and Herodian provide the longest continuous narratives of contemporary events at Rome that exist for any period of the Empire, at a point in time when enough time had elapsed for romantic notions of the Republic to have fizzled out: at the turn

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of the third century, monarchy was an undisputed fact. Both historians spent long periods in the city of Rome. That said, it should be admitted at once that they offer no such intimate information as Cicero does for the Late Republic. What is more, neither account is all that reliable, and especially Herodian’s work has been dismissed as a source to history and has been compared to a novel.5 Dio’s history is generally considered more accurate, but he was not above manipulating events to suit his ideals and loyalties, and the account of his own time is gossipy and selective, marked by a strong senatorial bias.6 Concerning movement, the best one may hope to find in these two rather derivative works are clichés. For the present purposes, however, these distortions are actually helpful as they highlight conventional attitudes toward, and expectations of, elite behaviour in public. I have chosen to focus on velocity, which plays a central part in how movement is narrated, but attention will also be paid to features such as location, company and time of day. As far as I am aware, the theme has not been dealt with in scholarship. Scholarship on Dio and Herodian that concerns ‘Rome’ usually treats it as a cultural and political concept, not as a place. To be sure, the city and its topography is not a frequent protagonist in either history, and movement in it is rarer still. Most such passages are concerned with mass movement, either structured, such as processions, or spontaneous, as in the vagaries of the crowd, whose natural state to both authors appears to have been mobility.7 The movement of the dead is another prevalent theme, not only funerary pompae but also the smuggling of corpses in or out of the city, their dragging through streets and even their exhumation and reburial, as reported under Pertinax.8 These topics deserve their own studies, but fall outside the scope of the present chapter, which will focus on the movements of (live) individuals. How crowds move in relation to said individuals – for the most part emperors or would-be emperors – will be noted, however, as it provides cues to their character. Herodian uses the δῆμος (‘the people’) in a symbolic, almost oracular way: it flocks with enthusiasm around noble men, but draws away in horror from the wicked.9 Structured mass movement legitimizes political authority, while unstructured is a sign of its dysfunction. The procession Elagabalus arranged to his new suburban temple is a case in point. It is bad enough that Herodian describes the emperor as running – backwards! – but the most telling sign of his perversion is that his procession collapses into chaos, in which scores of Romans are killed. Dio uses a warped procession to illustrate the vile character of Commodus, who intended to issue from the gladiatorial barracks for the New Year ceremonies. The plan was deemed so outrageous that it convinced everyone that the man had to be done away with.10 I have identified four at times overlapping themes concerning the movements of individuals through Rome in the Severan histories, all of which owe much to Republican ideals: ‘the unbridled reprobate’ is bad – and mobile – by nature; ‘the pretenders’ and ‘the passionately guilty’ employ motion to characterize events rather than individuals; lastly, ‘the formidable’ represents the inborn quality of a protagonist who is in perfect control of himself, in contrast to the reprobates. Speed, or indeed moving much at all, is without exception bad: if an elite individual is moving fast through the city of Rome, he (always a male) is up to no good.



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Reprobates, pretenders and murderers – flawed characters and evil deeds The theme of the restless reprobate is pervasive in both Dio and Herodian and often appears in connection with other themes. In short, it represents lack of self-control, which condemns the protagonist to constant mobility. Pertinent examples are the emperors Elagabalus and Commodus, who revel in vice and expend much energy on crimes such as dancing and fighting in arenas.11 What is more, they engage in them with great speed. Dio tells us that Commodus suddenly appeared at midday driving a chariot into town from his suburban villa and completed thirty horse races within two hours.12 Elagabalus, when intent on a lover, could not tolerate delay but had him whisked to the palace immediately, across provinces if needed.13 The swiftness with which they give in to their urges is meant to illustrate their immoderate natures. The key concept is ‘sudden’ (usually ἐξαίφνης in Dio and αἰφνιδίως in Herodian) – vice cannot wait. It is remarkable that the ‘easy life’, to which Commodus longed with such fervent ardour that he suddenly (αἰφνιδίως) abandoned an ongoing war for Rome, is described as such a strenuous affair.14 Debauchery is not for the lazy. In like manner, both historians condemn the profligate lifestyle of the short-lived emperor Didius Julianus. The words used by Herodian, μὴ σώφρων, are usually translated with ‘idleness’. However, ‘unrestrained’ is closer to their sense, and it should be noted that he is a highly mobile figure in both works.15 In Didius’ case, the authors have likely modified his character to fit the evil of his deeds, that is, his seizure of the throne in 193. This event represents the second theme of movement, ‘the pretenders’. In episodes that narrate transfers of power, certain locations become active, and how the would-be emperor moves between them illustrates whether he is a good or a bad ruler. In Dio’s account, Didius goes all over the place – he betook himself to the castra, to the Forum, the Senate and the palace, all in a haste (σπουδῇ). He moves at night, which is emphasized by the information that the senators had already dined and bathed. To top it all, as he ‘drove onto’ (ἠπείχθη) the Senate he brought soldiers, through whom the senators had to push in order to enter. His antics are very far from those of a Republican senator, and the description of his train illustrates this further: he is not escorted but ‘thronged’ (παμπληθεῖς).16 His arrival at the Forum thus represents a spontaneous, unstructured mass movement, a threat to the established order. Herodian adds an element of comedy by having Didius jump straight from his dinner table and rush to the camps, egged on by women and a πλῆθος (‘throng’) of parasites. These escort him as he runs, discussing how to seize power in a mockery of the philosophical stroll.17 A revealing contrast is provided by the descriptions of the accession of Didius’ predecessor Pertinax, who came to power in much the same way but ranked as a ‘good’ emperor. Herodian in particular tries to absolve him, which requires a considerable manipulation of the events. That the coup was planned at his house is glossed over by having Commodus’ murderers arrive there at their own behest, while Pertinax believes they have come to kill him, too. Significantly, he does not display eagerness or haste when they reveal their plan, but with perfect ψυχῆς ἀταραξίᾳ (‘calm of mind’) stays

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on his couch.18 The historian tries his best to transfer the nightly events to respectable daytime – ‘the day had arrived’, ‘post dawn’, ἡμέρας καταλαβοῦσης (‘when the day had come’).19 The most elaborate modifications involve his journey to the camps and the Senate: Pertinax moves at a normal pace, accompanied by the δῆμος, whose enthusiasm drives them to rush to the camps (ἠπείγοντο, δρὀμῳ) where they, not the soldiers, receive him. Pertinax does not enter the camps of his own volition but is conveyed inside, and it is the people, not the soldiers, who acclaim him. The people then accompany the new emperor, who is brought to the Senate and sent forth to the temples (προπεμφθείς). The whole event was attended with rejoicing and sacrificing, with all layers of society walking together as a collective (πανδημεὶ συνῆλθον). A nightly coup was thus transformed into a legitimizing procession.20 Dio, who in spite of his Severan bias is on the fence about the rather low-born Pertinax, applies less cosmetics. Pertinax was glad to receive the murderers, involved himself in the plot and also betook himself to all destinations – at night, and in secret (κρύφα). Pertinax was hailed as emperor by the soldiers; in fact, he paid them to do so.21 The contrasts drawn upon – between eager anticipation and dignified repose, movement and stillness, night and day, soldiers and masses – were well established in historic writing, as shown by the description of the fall of Galba and rise of Otho in 69 ce by Tacitus (whom Dio admired).22 Tacitus narrates the period before these events without spatiality – Rome was seething with plots, people were moved to fear, to despair, to boldness – but not themselves moving. Suddenly Otho falls to the impulse, and when he does the urban topography is made sharply visible. The pretender rushes from the Temple of Apollo, through the Domus Tiberiana, to the Velabrum, to the golden milestone – all within a narrow radius – where he is acclaimed by a few soldiers and hurried to the camps. As they career through the city, some join in through sheer surprise at their momentum.23 The vocabulary is similar to that of the Severan writers, with pergit and festinanter denoting haste. Spectators are struck by the miraculum of the rush, while the commander at the camps was shocked by the suddenness of the crime. In a key scene in Tacitus’ narrative, Galba is presented with a choice: to remain fast in the palace and wait for emotions to run dry – scelera impetu, bona consilia mora valescere – or to take swift action, festinandum, which is the seemingly opportune course.24 It is however obvious that a passive stance would have been the correct one, if chosen. The accounts by Dio and Herodian of the fall of Pertinax owe much to this episode. Like Galba, he is given the choice to stay in the palace or take action; unlike Galba, he chose inaction, which to Herodian is a sign of great nobility, while the less enchanted Dio thought it a bit daft (ἀνόητον).25 Pertinax’s murderers, by contrast, represent the third theme, the ‘passionately guilty’. Unlike the pretenders, their movements have no object or reason: they are struck by the madness of their deeds and driven by raging emotions rather than personal ambition. Herodian uses his whole arsenal to describe their motion: their approach is a mad race (θυμῷ καὶ ἀλόγῳ ὁρμῇ), in contrast to the calm of the city (πάντων ἐν ἡσυχίᾳ διατριβόντων). The murder is sudden and unplanned, and takes place at the height of the day, an outrageous reversal of the nightly norm. Those present in the palace are struck with disbelief at their sudden appearance, while the people are seized by irrational



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movement (κίνησις ἄλογος). The passionately guilty race to their crimes but also away from them: Pertinax’s killers bolt from the scene at high speed, pursued by the maddened δῆμος.26 The behaviour of the soldiers is similar to Caracalla’s after the murder of his brother and co-emperor Geta in 211. This episode does not in itself necessitate movement; it was a planned affair carried out within the palace, and Caracalla was already present. Dio resolves this by having the appointed killers burst in suddenly, while Herodian elaborates Caracalla’s actions after the deed: barging from the room, he dashed through the palace, the unwitting soldiers following him out of sheer surprise. The people were in shock and disorder as he raced through the streets, as were the soldiers at the camps who had already gone to sleep. Caracalla drove on to the Senate, escorted by a full army (μετὰ παντὸς τοῦ στρατοῦ).27 The murder scene thus incorporates elements from the theme of the pretenders and becomes described as the act of a usurper, not of a sitting emperor. It should be noted that high velocity is not a stereotypical characteristic of soldiers, but tied to the nature of events: when doing the right thing, soldiers move orderly or not at all. ‘Bad’ people are killed without dramatic action: the Senate simply dispatches a tribune to do away with Didius, and no details are given of what was actually the murder of a reigning emperor. The soldiers who killed Elagabalus in 222 were calm, acting for a noble cause.28

Speed as weakness and strength: The pitiful and the superhuman When the praetorians turned against Elagabalus, they refused to leave the camps and demanded that the emperor come to them.29 The humiliation of having to resort to movement illustrates the weak authority of Elagabalus, making him an object of ridicule. In the examples above, to apply speed is a symptom of weakness: in the case of the reprobates and the guilty, it illustrates their inability (innate or temporary) for calculated action; in that of the pretenders, that they do not possess the auctoritas required to rule.30 Otho’s darting about the Forum with his small band of supporters is pathetic, and Didius clearly did not scurry to the camps in the appropriate manner for elite individuals. This suggests that the Republican ideals were still understood, at least as a literary device. However, the historians’ scorn glosses over the uncomfortable fact that these fast movers, described as hapless hurriers without direction, were, in fact, successful, at least in regard to their immediate actions. They had set goals, and they attained them: speed was effective, if despicable. Fast movement represented something more sinister than lack of control, a fact which the historians are at pains to conceal. What, then, was this sinister something? A hint can be found in Pliny’s famous panegyric to Trajan, in which movement inside and outside of Rome is sharply divided. Some affected passages describe the emperor as a model of civility within the city. A senator himself but a moment ago, Trajan showed that he respected their equilibrium by moving slowly, on foot.31 By contrast, in scenes set outside the city, Pliny describes his hero as full of explosive energy: on the frontier, Trajan rushes

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at astonishing speed, so worked up that he has to blow off steam, and his exploits at the hunt are described with the same exalted praise of his speed and physique.32 This contrast reflects a division of genre as much as topography: although proper in panegyric, this manner of praise had no place in historic writing. At the same time it highlights the importance of the pomerium, beyond which anything was, essentially, the battlefield. The norm prescribed that martial ways were laid aside at the gates: to move fast within them was a form of violence. Yet, Dio and Herodian do not present the speed of their villains as a means to their desired ends, but as its opposite, as lack of control or as plain foolishness. A case in point is the plotting Plautianus, who drove to the palace at such speed that the mules dropped him.33 This transmutation of the sinister into the pitiful should be seen against the backdrop of the slow approach to the Senate: one must not be too eager. Haste is not merely undignified but a breach of protocol, and to these two elite observers, emperors and would-be emperors were expected to adhere to the same behavioural code. The need to heap scorn on those that ignore this code stems from the painful way in which their actions expose the fragility of the senatorial ideal: all it took was someone willing to cut the Gordian knot. Someone to do just that was Septimius Severus, who represents the fourth and last theme, ‘the formidable’. That the two historians have different attitudes toward him – the dependent Dio had to step lightly, while Herodian was free to revile him – is clear from how his movements are described. Dio paints his entry into Rome in 193 together with his Illyrian army in rosy colours, while Herodian does not hide that he saw it as a march on, not to, Rome. In Dio’s account, Severus did make haste to reach the city, but disarmed at the gate and entered on foot, amid joyful crowds that strove to come near him.34 Herodian, by contrast, underlines the tremendous speed of the emperor as he raced to Rome as if an enemy. The shock and bewilderment of the Italians at his passing army (which he calls a ‘throng’, a πλῆθος) is described with the same vocabulary as the murder of Pertinax. Severus did not change gear on reaching Rome but entered in arms with all his troops, amidst panic and confusion.35 Herodian depicts Severus as capable beyond the human, with an inborn spirit that makes him unstoppable.36 This characterization is not positive, but rather frames him as dangerous: he is goal-oriented and quick of mind, temperament and foot; he is also full of guile and utterly ruthless. Even Dio calls him δεινότατος, a term not easily translated since it can mean both devious and skilful.37 Energy and talent were deeply troubling concepts to historians of the Roman era, and Herodian’s Severus is only one in a long line of wicked yet extraordinary men in Roman historiography and literature, including Catiline, Caesar and Sejanus (as portrayed by Sallust, Lucan and Tacitus, respectively). The theme has Greek precursors, as in the portrayal of the evil Agathocles by Diodorus Siculus. The historian describes him as superhumanly strong, reckless, inventive, eager and handsome, traits that he associates with tyranthood.38 As Pliny’s panegyric to Trajan shows, this dynamic ideal had a place in oratory, but to Tacitus, Dio and Herodian, beauty, strength and natural talent were deeply questionable. Dio’s descriptions of Marcus Aurelius and Commodus illustrate the point: the former is portrayed as a man weak of body and not inherently able to perform astounding feats, but who with great toil brought himself to endurance.39 By



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contrast, Dio portrays Commodus as the most physically gifted man imaginable, the marvel of the world, and Herodian dwells on his stunning beauty, with eyes flashing (ὀφθαλμῶν τε γὰρ θερμαὶ καὶ πυρώδεις βολαί) and hair like a halo (αἴγλην τινὰ οὐράνιον).40 The dynamic portrayals of Septimius Severus and Caracalla by both historians are thus ambiguous, though more clearly negative in that of Herodian, who draws on long-established associations of these qualities with despotism.

Survival of the themes – movement (and lack thereof) in fourth-century histories Turning to fourth-century narratives of events in Rome, I was surprised to find that the use of movement so vivid in the Severan histories was almost entirely absent, even from the Historia Augusta, with its excessive attention to comportment. The latter work does not lack for reprobates, and animation still signifies flawed character, but descriptions of movement no longer involve the city’s actual topography, and speed is never mentioned. Elagabalus’ antics are as wild as in the Severan histories, but remain within the palace; his few appearances outside are in non-specific locations, and his movements are not described.41 The same is the case for the other themes: Didius appears at the camps and the Senate, but no information is offered on how, nor is he described as rash but rather as overly punctilious. The murder of Pertinax comes across as an orderly affair: the soldiers arrive without speed or passion, and the emperor does not confront them with any noble stance. Severus’ velocity in coming to Rome is within the realm of human possibility, and Caracalla simply gives the order to kill Geta.42 The one episode that includes narration of movement is the rise of the Gordians in the late 230s, but it is lifted almost lock-stock from Herodian, and is also set outside of Rome.43 A brief look at other fourth-century histories gives the same impression: neither Aurelius Victor nor Eutropius give any place to movement in their treatment of episodes set in Rome.44 While these works were composed far from the city, the Historia Augusta is usually seen as compiled in Roman aristocratic circles – just the social set whose sentiments Dio and Herodian employed movement to express. Ammianus Marcellinus, a ‘Greek Roman’ historian who wrote about his own lifetime, has much in common with the Severan authors. His high expectations on the Roman nobility were generally unmet, making for long passages listing their flawed mores; yet movement is rarely, and inconsistently, employed to describe them. Velocity is referred to sparingly, to conflicting effect. Of the fast reprobates, a lifestyle which continues to require stamina, two traces remain: one scene in which the spectators of chariot races compete with the athletes in their haste to get to the games; another in which we are told that matrons rush about in litters imitating men who race down wide avenues as if they were the post, without fear of the upturned stones. The ironic reference to martial valour is brought out further by the decrepit ‘army’ of slaves and cripples that follow them.45 Though reminiscent of the earlier authors’ censure of fast movement, the critique is not aimed at speed per se but at directing it toward unworthy

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goals. Racing through the city was acceptable and even laudable when for the right reasons, as shown by a scene in which the heroic Leontius dares to rush into a rioting crowd, moving with such speed that his followers are unable to keep up.46 The crowd is agitated but stationary: Ammianus does not use mass movement to frame character. Even in scenes of frenzied violence, as when a crowd burns down Symmachus’ house, the drama is not heightened by ferocious speed. He includes no description of how the followers of Damasus arrived to slaughter Ursinus’ supporters, nor does any passionately guilty perpetrator leave the scene in a mad rush in his work.47 As for the evil schemers, only scraps are to be found: Doryphorianus arrives in Rome in a haste, eager to commit crimes, while his superior Maximinus dances from happiness at the arrival of Leo, a colleague as cruel as himself.48 These passing remarks do not involve the urban topography, nor do they depict movement itself as bad but, again, the emotions that cause it. The scenes can be compared to the panegyric to Julian by Mamertinus, in which he describes – approvingly – the togati hop and dance unwittingly from joy when the emperor greeted the new consuls in a humble manner, a scene that would have given Dio an apoplexy.49 An episode in which one might expect to find narration of movement is the adventus of Constantius II in Rome in 357.50 The Severan historians used such scenes to depict character through the movements of trains and spectators. By contrast, Constantius’ entry is surprisingly static: Ammianus describes the emperor’s presence at a string of locations, but not his progression between them, either within the city or journeying toward it. The crowd neither draws near nor stays apart. Instead of movement, Ammianus uses the demeanour of the emperor and the splendour of the train to characterize the event, directing critique at how untimely, unwelcome and overly lavish a spectacle it was. He describes with wry satisfaction how Constantius’ plan to dazzle Rome resulted in the reverse, with the emperor in complete awe of the city. There may be a subtle echo of the technique of expressing hierarchy through stillness contra movement, in that the monumental landscape of the city – timelessly immobile – has more authority than the emperor, forcing him to bow as he enters. Taken together, these scenes reflect but scattered traces of the earlier meanings attached to movement in Rome. The adventus episode highlights that display mattered more than vehicle to fourth-century historians: the stiff mien of Constantius II is exaggerated, and attention is paid to details such as dress, but how one moved seems no longer of great interest. The one theme to survive, if transformed, is ‘the formidable’, to which I shall return.

Explanations: Locations and ideals of power I will suggest three explanations to why movement in Rome lost its force as a literary device, two that concern the meanings attached to the spaces moved to and through and one that involves changes to imperial ideals as presented in literature. The first explanation is Rome’s loss of political centrality: dislodging power from the city defused the potential threat vested in moving across it. Rather than slackened norms



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for elite movement, the theme was of less interest to historians when the destinations became less charged. It is likely no coincidence that the one scene in Ammianus that employs movement in the manner of the Severan histories is set in Constantinople, not Rome: the usurpation of Procopius in 365. It contains all the elements of a Severan coup, including ridicule at the pretender’s speedy scampering about; even the locations are the same, transposed to Constantinople. That Ammianus drew on Herodian’s account of Didius is obvious, and he also compares the two events, adding further examples of hasty pretenders copped from the earlier historian: Elagabalus burst forth from Emesa, Maximinus Thrax rose unexpectedly, Gordian I rushed to power.51 The terms were thus at least understood, if no longer seen as relevant for Rome. At the time of Dio and Herodian, power was negotiated through the physical spaces of Rome – whoever placed himself in the palace was effectively emperor, and if going through the correct motions, a legitimate one. Ammianus, by contrast, could find fault with Constantius II for even coming, wasting time better spent at war on a pointless ceremony. This sentiment would have been unthinkable to the Severan historians; both Niger and Macrinus were blamed for failing to go to Rome, and attempts at establishing imperial ceremonials elsewhere were ridiculed, such as decking out Niger’s house in Antioch as a palace, or Gordian I’s hasty procession to Carthage, sacred fire and all.52 The second development has to do with changes to the fabric of the city itself, brought about by imperial rule and notable long before the court left Rome. While the locations described in the Severan histories remain the same as the destinations of the senatorial trains – domus, city limits and a cluster around the Forum – this nexus was gradually untied through a centrifugal process, concentrating imperial construction to the borders of the city. The Sessorian complex is the most obvious example, but already Commodus resided in the suburbium, and Tivoli and Capri are forerunners. Imperial construction on the fringes was favoured by all third-century emperors, and created new focal points that directed movement away from the old senatorial routes.53 With the loss of this spatial bond went much of the tension vested in moving across the city – and perhaps also the expectation that an emperor should move like a senator. The effect of imperial rule on Rome has been theorized by Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, who argues that oligarchies generate agglomerative streetscapes with winding alleys while monarchies impose clear, rational grids, as seen for instance in the creation of the regiones by Augustus.54 An example of a very non-senatorial building project is the baths of Caracalla, together with a broad esplanade which elongates the spoke of the Circus Maximus and issues into the Via Appia, creating a rare vanishing-point perspective and tying together some highly populist structures in the process (as well as the Alban camps). The dichotomy can also be termed ‘slow’ and ‘fast’, and we should likely invert our modern notion of esplanades as ‘noble’ and alleys as ‘low’ spaces in the ancient city. Ammianus’ observation that some hasten along broad streets would then not only be a comment on an unseemly expense of energy, but also on being in the wrong place entirely for elite individuals.55 If so, it helps to make sense of the passages in the Historia Augusta that tell us that Gordian III and Gallienus, two of this text’s least popular emperors, projected grand building projects, an activity usually

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associated with ‘good’ emperors. The works in question were enormous porticoes cutting through existing construction on the one hand (in the Campus Martius), and monumentalizing the Via Flaminia spoke all the way to the Milvian bridge on the other.56 These comments should perhaps be understood as slurs, not praise. A third factor is the emergence of an imperial ideal that was less based on senatorial values. The later historians show little of the reservation against talent and energy seen in the earlier works – in short, the supervillain is gone. Eutropius calls all princes he admires energetic and spirited, while Aurelius Victor claims Nerva abdicated in favour of ‘those mentally and physically stronger’.57 Ammianus describes with approval the outstanding beauty and flashing eyes of Gratian, while the Historia Augusta portrays its darling Severus Alexander as physically perfect, with mind-reading capabilities. Commodus, by contrast, is described as deformed and dull-faced.58 Ammianus’ narration of his hero Julian’s race to power shows a complete reversal of values: he moves with epic speed, arrives at a camp unexpectedly at night, the commander already asleep.59 The account is not dissimilar to the panegyric by Mamertinus, in which Julian’s speed is palpable, sweat running down his neck, while people flock along his route.60 One may suspect that Ammianus used this text, suggested also by similarities in the accounts of Julian’s inauguration ceremonies at Constantinople. Historic writing and oratory had evidently become closer – Lucian’s call for the two genres to be strictly separated was no longer heeded.61 Pliny’s emphasis on Trajan’s ‘senatorial’ civility is far less felt in later panegyrics, which focus more on the virtues of the battlefield. Notably, late emperors are fast: Maximian and Constantine are compared to swollen rivers, too swift for even their troops to follow.62 Importantly, speed was praised even within city boundaries. At Diocletian and Maximian’s entry into Milan, the spectators exclaimed with admiration, ‘How close they sit! How amicably they converse! How fast they are!’ That this was passable also in Rome is shown by the crowds who hail Constantine, amazed at his swiftness within the city.63 In another panegyric to Constantine, the old ideals are even the object of ridicule: Maxentius’ strolling in Rome is described as weakness.64 Emperors no longer moved like senators: a surprised Mamertinus praised Julian for walking on foot beside the consuls (which was apparently not customary), while Ammianus deemed it an affectation.65 Pacatus preserves an echo of the older values in his panegyric to Theodosius from 389, which contains a scene that describes the emperor as a civilis princeps walking on foot, without guard.66 Pacatus, likely the editor of the collection, placed his own oration after that of Pliny, the model from which the theme was borrowed. However, the scene comprises but one sentence, while the rest of the text subscribes entirely to the superhuman ideal. One may suspect that the scene, which was later imitated by Claudian, represents nostalgia for an older Rome cherished by two outsiders rather than the survival of ideals for movement within the city itself.67 It is no doubt relevant that the oration was delivered at Rome, but this should not be overstated – as was the fourth panegyric in honour of Constantine, which contains no such passages.68 To conclude, movement in Rome remained worthy of notice to writers of the early to mid Empire, whose texts reveal a tension between two imperial ideals. On the one hand, one can sense the outline of a dynamic/monarchic ideal which had its home in



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panegyric, although little of this genre survives. Pliny’s ‘civil emperor’ may well be an anomaly, modified for publication. His text is followed by two centuries of silence – we can only imagine a eulogy to Elagabalus or to Caracalla, the would-be Alexander whose official imagery was markedly dynamic and whose imperial titles reached absurd lengths. By contrast, a passive/aristocratic ideal was cherished by historians, to whom the energy of the autocrats represented a threat. The borders between the two are far less distinct in fourth-century accounts, an effect of a fusion of genres and ideals as well as developments within the city itself. The few lingering traces of the aristocratic ideal betray that the dichotomy was no longer relevant, or entirely understood. When do these changes occur? To my mind, the early third century comes across as pivotal. Dio and Herodian both subscribe to the passive ideal, but seem aware that it was anachronistic – as alarming as the notion of the dynamic ruler was, the immobile ‘senatorial’ emperor was a hopeless concept.69 Herodian, for one, pokes fun at Macrinus for imitating Marcus Aurelius, walking slowly and speaking with such a low voice that his companions could not hear him.70 Dio’s dry comment on Pertinax’s refusal to move against his attackers betrays, much as the historian hated to admit it, that such noble gestures were pathetic in an age of rust and iron.71

5

Veiled Visibility: Morality, Movement and Sacred Virginity in Late Antiquity Sissel Undheim

Let foolish virgins stray abroad, but for your part stay at home with the Bridegroom; for if you shut your door, and, according to the precept of the Gospel, pray to your Father in secret, He will come and knock.1 Judging by the textual remains, the movements of the Christian consecrated virgins of late antique Rome were highly restricted, to say the least. The Church Fathers and their peers praised holy women who shut themselves up in their bedroom chambers, where they emulated the radical solitude that the Desert Fathers had become so famous for. In the transferral of the ascetic ideals as practised by men in the desert to the lifestyle of pious women in the city, immobility appears in the rhetoric as one of the certain signs of sanctity. The virgin should stay in her ‘bridal chamber’ and wait for the coming of Christ, her bridegroom. But just as the tension between private and public space became an important ground for the gradual corroboration of orthodoxy vis-à-vis heresy,2 the discourses that contrasted ideal tranquillity, seclusion and immobility with the corrupting dangers of the bustling city must equally be seen in relation to this process, where Roman aristocracy came to define a new social hierarchy by their claims to asceticism.3 This new aristocracy, with so many of its virtues still grounded in the legacy of Roman mos maiorum, had to manoeuvre in a changing moral landscape, where the means of communication and social interactions also depended on the changing religious topography of Rome.4 In many of these clusters of aristocratic Christians, celibacy of some kind was a requisite, yet the degrees of renunciation among pious Christians varied. When renunciations were being ranked, however, a vow of lifelong virginity soon became the ultimate expression of piety and sanctity.5 In this chapter, I will discuss the mobility and range of the aristocratic, Christian virgins, both as part of a contemporary ideological discourse, but also, to the extent the sources will yield such information, as actual movements in a wider social context. The aim is to map the Christian virgins’ postulated immobility and potential movements on to the changing moral landscape and its codes of social display in fourth-century Rome. By filtering the information through the layers of rhetoric and ideology in texts from this period, I intend to demonstrate how the Church Fathers’

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praise of the virgins’ seclusion and their stolen appearances in public space may reveal more complex struggles over the sometimes subtle line between what the Fathers defined as ‘true’ and ‘false virginity’, which in turn mirrored the line(s) of separating true from false religion.

Chastity and the city In her study of Roman pudicitia, a term that is often translated as ‘chastity’, Rebecca Langlands argues that such pudicitia depended on some kind of display in order to be valued and recognized by the community. At the same time, public exposure could imperil that very same chastity.6 This paradox reveals that there was a tension between seclusion and visibility in the norms for how a woman’s chastity was socially construed and conveyed. When virginity became a marker of Christian female sanctity in late antiquity, this tension between exposure and seclusion, of public performance and humble withdrawal, appears to have been taken to a whole new level, at least if we judge by the era’s normative texts to and about virgins. Theresa M. Shaw has studied the social logic of the almost self-contradictory performance of asceticism, as it is presented in the late antique texts. She refers to the observation by Jean-Paul Sartre on how conformity is necessary in order to make social roles or trades recognizable in a society. This conformity is rehearsed by repeated public performances. Shaw points at the tension between the need for such external and socially conveyed markers and its conflict with ascetic ideals: [T]he writers on virginity consistently deny that bodily externals are of primary importance, even as they lay out directives and regulations for askesis. This is a key element for understanding the relation of the ideology of virginity to the social control of virginity.7

Virginity was a quality of the mind as well as the body. This meant, for instance, that a girl’s virginal purity could be imperilled simply by what she might see or hear. An impure thought could be presented as just as damaging to her virginity as a physical encounter with a man.8 The guarding of female chastity thus called for various kinds of protective measures, in order to shield virgins from persons and situations that could compromise their virginity. At the same time, Christians appear to have regarded the sacred virgins as near intermediate beings, working their sanctity on behalf of the community. In the keeping of their virginity, they protected their community from misfortunes, and they would have appeasing effects on divine (and diabolical) forces.9 Their presence and visibility in the cityscape would thus have significant religious and social functions as affirmations of divine benevolence. But how was this conveyed in the social and physical landscape of late antique Rome? The virgins’ presence had to be communicated to the rest of the community, if their status and sanctity was to be upheld. How could this be done if even the community itself, and the movement entailed by social interactions, constituted a threat to the virgins’ virginity?



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City without rest Jerome provides perhaps the most vivid depictions of Christian virgins in Rome. Highly normative, occasionally self-contradictory and with the satirist’s disposition for hyperboles, his texts are probably not the most reliable as sources for social history.10 Still, his prolific pen has provided some of the most lively depictions of the upper class Christian women in Roman society, and renders not only his own ideals for the virginal life, but also, in highly polemical terms, descriptions of how this life was practised by those he disapproved of. A careful reading of his letters might therefore tease out some of the complexities in the ideological debates in the late fourth century over Christian (female) morality and movement in public and private space. The hustle and bustle of Rome is vividly described in a letter where Jerome tries to convince the holy Marcella to leave the ‘fallen Babylon’ and join him and his female companions, Paula and Eustochium, in the Holy Land: It is true that Rome has a holy church, trophies of apostles and martyrs, a true confession of Christ. The faith has been preached there by an apostle, heathenism has been trodden down, the name of Christian is daily exalted higher and higher. But the display, power, and size of the city, the seeing and the being seen, the paying and the receiving of visits, the alternate flattery and detraction, talking and listening, as well as the necessity of facing so great a throng even when one is least in the mood to do so—all these things are alike foreign to the principles and fatal to the repose of the monastic life.11

The ‘paying and receiving of visits’ formed an important part of the daily duties of the Roman nobility, as well as the ‘seeing and being seen’, activities that demanded moving from one house to the other, and being at the right place at the right time, in order to be seen by the right people.12 The hectic schedule of noble Romans obliged to follow these social conventions is contrasted with the quietness and repose of the monastic life that Jerome and his female companions at this point of their life led in Bethlehem. In the spiritual quest of Jerome and his ascetic friends, the tranquillity that was necessary for a life dedicated to Christ proved difficult to find in Rome. Some years earlier, while still in Rome, Jerome had written to Eustochium and shared his opinion on the virgins who spent their time visiting others: Idle persons and busybodies, whether virgins or widows; such as go from house to house calling on married women and displaying an unblushing effrontery greater than that of a stage parasite, cast from you as you would the plague. For ‘evil communications corrupt good manners’.13

Jerome’s reasons for leaving the city in 385 were more complex than he might reveal in his own letters,14 yet his representations of the city as a busy place clearly stated that the city was an impediment to those who wished to live as true Christians, particularly to those women who had consecrated their virginity to God. In a letter written in 403 to Paula’s daughter-in-law, Laeta, Jerome encourages her to send her infant daughter (named Paula after her grandmother) to Paula’s monastery in Bethlehem, to be reared

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there by her grandmother and her aunt Eustochium. According to Jerome, bringing up a virgin dedicated to Christ after his instructions would be too difficult a task in Rome, surrounded as she would be there by secular women and the multitude of people. 15

Christian virgins in private and public Jerome’s most famous text on sacred virginity is the letter written in 384 to the virgin Eustochium, the daughter of Jerome’s close companion Paula. In 414, he wrote to another consecrated virgin of noble Roman ancestry, Demetrias of the Probii, advising her on how she ought to live in order to preserve her consecrated virginity. In the letter he actually refers to his liber (book) on virginity written 30 years earlier,16 hinting that this text had been distributed far beyond Eustochium’s household. In addition to the abovementioned letter to Laeta in 403, Jerome also wrote to Gaudentius in 413 on the proper upbringing of infant girls vowed to becoming consecrated virgins. All told, these four letters from 384 to 414 illuminate Jerome’s teaching on how to live the virginal ideal. The letter to Eustochium is the most detailed one, and also the one where Jerome is at his most uncompromising in his endorsement and description of what constitutes true, Christian virgin behaviour. Here, Jerome explicitly tells Eustochium ‘not to seek the company of married ladies, or visit the houses of the nobility’.17 Jerome warns Eustochium against the corrupting company of senators’ wives, ‘puffed up by their husbands’ honours, who are hedged in with troops of eunuchs, and who wear robes inwrought with threads of gold’. Eustochium is also told to shun widows who are so, ‘not out of choice, but from necessity’. These widows have, Jerome writes, not welcomed their husband’s death as an opportunity to take up the life of chastity, but merely changed their garb and continued to live as before.18 Elsewhere, Jerome had praised the noble widow Marcella for expressing the same cautions as those he expected from pious virgins. He writes that she had avoided the homes of noble matrons, so that, according to Jerome, ‘she might not be forced to look upon what she had once for all renounced’.19 A virtuous Christian woman ought to avoid the company of not only men but also of other women, if their lifestyle might tempt her away from asceticism. According to Jerome, another of Marcella’s praiseworthy traits was that she only rarely appeared in public. The same opinion on appearing in public is expressed in his advice to Eustochium: ‘You should rarely go out in public. If you wish to implore the martyrs, seek them in your own chamber. For you will never lack a reason to go out if you always go out when it is necessary.’20 Retreat, tranquillity, privacy and seclusion were the marks of truly pious women. But as indicated in Jerome’s own letters to and about his favourite virgins, the clausura could be breached even by someone as virtuous as Eustochium, as we will see in the following.



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Leaving home In 386 Jerome wrote a letter from the Holy Land in the name of Eustochium and her mother, who in Jerome’s words claim that ‘everywhere we venerate the tombs of the martyrs; we apply their holy ashes to our eyes; we even touch them, if we may, with our lips’.21 Some relics might of course have been translocated to the monastery, but the reference to physical contact with the tombs also indicates that the virgin and her mother actually had to move, even quite some distance, in order to kiss the holy ashes of the martyrs. It may very well be that the sanctity and calm of the Holy Land made it easier for Eustochium to leave her monastic chambers and visit the shrines of the martyrs there, in Rome. Nevertheless, the veneration of martyrs seems to have been an acceptable reason for a virgin to step out into the streets of Rome as well. A brief letter, written to Marcella while Jerome was still in Rome, praises the virgin Asella. First, he writes that ‘her ways were always moderate and she guarded the secrecy of her chamber, so that she hardly ever went out in public or conversed with a man’.22 However, she ‘hurried almost unseen to the shrines of the martyrs. And when she found joy in these visits, she rejoiced even more because no one had recognized her.’23 What is praiseworthy for Jerome is Asella’s effort to become almost invisible in order to avoid attention when she leaves the house. Marcella herself was equally praised in a letter Jerome wrote in 412, after her death. According to Jerome, Marcella ‘frequented the basilicas of apostles and martyrs that she might escape from the throng and give herself to private prayer’.24 Here, the shrine of the martyrs seems to represent a refuge from all social demands more than a threat to Marcella’s chastity. There appears to be a shift here from the tone in the letter to Eustochium and the one regarding Asella, for whom even the shrines of the martyrs are represented as dangerous places to be. Marcella was a widow with plenty of life experience that could protect her from potential dangers an innocent virgin might be unable to see. To Marcella, the basilicas represented solitude and private prayer, and an escape from the masses. In contrast, Jerome saw the crowded gatherings at the tombs of the martyrs as a serious threat to a virgin’s mental as well as physical virginity. This is also stressed in the letter he wrote to Eustochium’s sister-in-law, Laeta. Laeta was not told to keep her daughter Paula away from the Christian places of worship; rather, the young virgin may well visit the churches or the shrines of the martyrs, if only the proper precautions are made. According to Jerome’s instructions, a young virgin is never to appear in public, even in churches or in the basilicas of the martyrs, unless she is accompanied by her mother.25 For a sacred virgin, danger could lurk everywhere. Jerome therefore claims that for girls who are not careful, it is almost more dangerous to be at the sites of religious worship than to walk in public (ut prope periculosius sit lascivis puellis ad loca religionis, quam ad publicum procedere), as many seemingly pious Christian men could have the worst of intentions and infect the virgin’s mind as well as her body. Virgins should therefore never go out by themselves, and those that lived in ascetic communities should always be accompanied by other sacred virgins and by the mother superior:

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Also Gaudentius, who like Laeta had asked Jerome for advice on how to raise his infant daughter so that she would become a consecrated virgin according to her parents’ vow, is told to avoid public exposure and not to attend the crowded churches too frequently. According to Jerome, ‘she should have all her pleasures in her chamber’,27 just like Eustochium had been told more than two decades earlier. The proper place for the virgin was thus her own chamber, her cubiculum.28 This retreat to or rather enclosure in the virgin’s private chamber was further explored when Jerome later in the letter to Eustochium, armed with biblical citations and allusions, wrote that Eustochium should take care not to go out of the house or visit the daughters of foreign regions, because Dinah, Jacob’s daughter, had gone out and been raped.29 With reference to the Song of Songs, Jerome tells the virgin not to seek the Bridegroom (Christ) in the streets and not to go around the city’s corners, exposing herself to the sight of others. As Jerome exclaims, ‘Jesus is jealous. He does not choose that your face should be seen of others’.30 The veil drawn tight is not enough, then, according to Jerome, as long as the virgin still allows herself to be seen by others.

True and false virgins Although the ideal virgin, according to Jerome and many of his contemporaries, was the one who made herself invisible to the public eye, our late antique and mainly Christian informants appear to struggle with the regulations of range and visibility. Extreme seclusion could also obstruct social control, creating a ground for all sorts of rumours of what went on behind the closed doors. A concern closely related to these issues is therefore the anxiety caused by sacred virgins of pagans and heretics. In the demarcation of orthodox virgin ideals, pagan and heretical virgins were often referred to as diametrically different, as the contrast against which the true virgins stood out.31 The ‘false virgins’ that Jerome held up as the contrast to Eustochium’s chaste seclusion are described at various occasions in the letters. In Jerome’s eyes, they engaged in all kinds of unvirginal behaviour, and unless they were betrayed by the physical marks of pregnancy, they were likely to succeed in concealing their fall. According to Jerome, When they go out they do their best to attract notice, and with nods and winks encourage troops of young fellows to follow them. […] Their robes have but a narrow purple stripe, it is true; and their head-dress is somewhat loose, so as to leave the hair free. From their shoulders flutters the lilac mantle which they call ‘ma-forte’;32 they have their feet in cheap slippers and their arms tucked up tightfitting sleeves. Add to these marks of their profession an easy gait, and you have all the virginity that they possess. Such may have eulogizers of their own, and may fetch a higher price in the market of perdition, merely because they are called virgins.33



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Ostentatious behaviour, eye-catching clothes and an ‘easy gait’ are the characteristics that according to Jerome reveal the false virginity and true nature of these women. In Jerome’s eyes, merely the impression that these virgins want to be seen undermines their claim to virginal rank. ‘False virgins’ of a somewhat different kind were the Roman Vestal Virgins, who were likewise criticized by orthodox writers in the late fourth century for the amount of attention they would attract when they appeared in public.34 The Vestals’ presence at the gladiatorial games at the Circus concludes the argument in Prudentius’ long-winded answer to Symmachus’ third Relatio. For Prudentius, the virgin priestesses came to serve as an example of pagan cruelty – such cold-hearted violence was something in which even the pagans’ sacred virgins found joy, and was so very distant from the compassionate and untainted Christian virgins’ choice of activities. In these sections, Prudentius describes the transport of a Vestal Virgin to the amphitheatre as a public event: She is carried along in the streets in a sort of public procession, sitting in a cushioned car, and with face uncovered obliges an awe-struck city with a sight of the admired Virgin. Then on to the gathering at the amphitheatre passes this figure of life-giving purity and bloodless piety, to see the bloody battles and deaths of human beings and look on with holy eyes at wounds men suffer for the price of their keep.35

The public display of the uncovered faces of these virgins on show is clearly a contrast to the true virgins of Prudentius and the orthodox Fathers. ‘Our virgins’, Prudentius writes, stood out by their modesty, expressed by their ‘face covered with the holy veil, honour in private while their figure is unknown to the public’.36 Prudentius thus underlines Jerome’s words to Eustochium, stressing the virgins’ expected efforts to remain as invisible as possible behind their veil. Although the cubiculum, the private chamber, was the proper place for a virgin to wait for her celestial Bridegroom and prepare for his coming, Jerome still shows us that even the most pious of these virgins left their houses from time to time. It is thus clear that the seclusion endorsed by Jerome and others was practised with various degrees of isolation and restrictions of public exposure. But as none of Jerome’s recipes for perfect virginal life is without a dark, unvirginal twin, even seclusion and privacy might trigger the evil impostors. In a text from 430, he describes the isolation of ascetic women as seen from a more suspicious angle: Again not a few virgins choose sequestered dwellings where they will not be under the eyes of others, in order that they may live more freely than they otherwise could do. They take baths, do what they please, and try as much as they can to escape notice. We see these things and yet we put up with them; in fact, if we catch sight of the glitter of gold, we are ready to account of them as good works.37

This account highlights the very paradox of the ideal seclusion, as the recommended withdrawal also entailed withdrawal from social control.38 In one of Ambrose’s letters, he defended the consecrated virgin Indicia, who had been accused of having given birth to a child which she had then killed and disposed to hide her crime. Ambrose praises Indicia’s withdrawal from the world, yet states that she was frequently visited by women, virgins and priests. By stressing how Indicia had been part of the social

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world she apparently had withdrawn from, Ambrose gets to argue that her alleged fall (i.e. a pregnancy) would have been impossible to hide.39 It thus appears that despite the prescribed isolation and seclusion, Christian virgins did in fact cultivate social and family relations. Their social lives would however have been much more limited than that of other aristocratic women, if we are to believe the male writers. The virgins and ascetic women obviously also appeared in public, and when they did, the amount of attention they attracted would indeed vary. The prohibition against leaving the house was thus not absolute. Both Asella and Laeta’s daughter Paula get Jerome’s approval to attend the cult of the martyrs and to visit the basilicas, although clear restrictions on such ‘public appearances’ are made. In Asella’s case, her movements outside her home were made possible by her concealment, and in the cases of Paula and of Gaudentius’ daughter, by the safety provided by a chaperone and retinue. It is the way these girls and women behave and look in public and at religious ceremonies that distinguishes them from the ‘false’ virgins, even though Jerome concedes the difficulty of separating the true ones from the cunning false ones. Clothing was therefore an important marker of a virgin’s piety and determination.

Clothing The fitting companion for the noble virgin Demetrias is described by Jerome as follows: Regard as fair and lovable and a fitting companion one who is unconscious of her good looks and careless of her appearance; who does not expose her breast out of doors or throw back her cloak to reveal her neck; who veils all of her face except her eyes, and only uses these to find her way.40

The outfit and particularly the veiling of virgins had been important issues since the time of Tertullian and Cyprian, who had written extensively about how women, and particularly virgins, ought to express modesty and chastity by their apparel. The issue had been whether virgins should wear the veil, like married women did, or whether their status should be marked by the absence of such a veil. Tertullian insisted that their vow to virginity in fact constituted a marriage, a marriage to Christ, and that they therefore ought to cover their hair in accordance with Paul and wear the veil like their married sisters.41 By the fourth century, the veil had become a marker of the virgins’ sacred status, to the extent that the ‘taking of the veil’ had become synonymous with the official vow of virginity.42 However, both matrons and widows wore veils too, and even the veil could be worn with various degrees of modesty.43 The true virgin should thus not only cover her head, but also her face, so as to shield off any lustful, corrupting gaze. The virgins’ clothes had to fit her sacred, yet modest state. Eustochium was told by Jerome to ‘let your dress be neither too neat nor too filthy; neither let it be so exposed that it makes the crowd passing by stop and point fingers at you’.44 Jerome had also described Eustochium’s sister, the widowed Blaesilla, as so humble in appearance



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and dress that she was only to be distinguished from her virgin slaves by her vacillating way of walking.45 It was thus not her clothes but the way she moved, with her almost angelic walk, that distinguished the noble Blaesilla from the entourage of servant virgins.46 But despite Jerome’s feeble attempts to include her in the virginal choir, Blaesilla was no virgin, but a widow, and thus only second to the virgins in the hierarchy of sanctity.47 In the obituary, Jerome therefore needed to focus on other traits that would make her stand out in her train of virgin ancillae, and the way to reclaim her status in terms of the gendered values of this new, ascetic nobility is to highlight the sanctity expressed in the way that she moves.

Retinue and chaperones As mentioned above, Eustochium was told to shun the aristocratic matrons, ‘puffed up by their husbands’ honours, who are hedged in with troops of eunuchs’.48 Jerome similarly describes the widows who he labelled as so ‘not out of choice, but from necessity’, as they are transported through the streets in ‘capacious litters, with red cloaks and plump bodies, and a row of eunuchs walking in front of them’.49 The entourage of eunuchs is also present in Jerome’s description of ‘the noblest lady in Rome’, who was observed with her band of eunuchs before her, as she gave out her alms in St Peter’s.50 According to Jerome, eunuchs were no fitting company for virgins.51 In contrast to the noble women’s troops of eunuchs are the bands of virgins escorting Jerome’s aristocratic virgins and widows. Jerome frequently advised widows and virgins to keep with them bands of virgins, and not eunuchs, like ‘sham Christians’ do.52 The delicate balance between suitably humble ‘invisibility’ and the attraction of public attention is probably best demonstrated by Jerome in his letter to Demetrias: It is also a matter for laughter or rather for tears, that when mistresses walk abroad they are preceded by virgin maids better dressed than themselves; indeed so usual has this become that, if of two women you see one less neat than the other, you take her for the mistress as a matter of course. 53

More than two centuries earlier, Cyprian had written that ‘no one, when they see a virgin, should doubt whether she is one or not’.54 We may assume that the visual markers by which the sacred virgins made their status known had changed by the time of Demetrias and Jerome, yet the message was still the same. If a virgin moved outside her private sphere, it was important that her status was communicated clearly. As a highly visual manifestation of religious ideology, the thoroughly veiled and thoroughly guarded virgin would, with her rare, yet by no means unnoticeable appearances in the martyria and basilicas, be important symbols, marking the moral standards and religious identity of a new social and religious elite. The more anonymous she looked and the more she managed to veil her personality, while still letting her nobility and humility be known, the more she would be able to communicate this ideology without compromising her own virginity when she moved outside her own house. The message

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was tuned in towards a variety of recipients: heretics and pagans should see how the Christian virgins were superior in every aspect, potential corruptors should be warned off and every orthodox Christian should be reminded of the sanctity in their very midst and get a glimpse of the untouchable and ethereal that these virgins represented. Second best to seclusion and immobility was therefore not necessarily invisibility, but the very attention these staged attempts to become invisible should attract.

Virginal topography and range Having established that Christian virgins did leave their houses, although probably not nearly as frequently as other noble women in late antiquity, the next question is where they went. Jerome does not mention any specific sites, but we may assume that the basilicas and shrines of the martyrs were places even the most secluded virgin could appear. The most spectacular public event was the consecration ceremony, the so-called velatio, where the virgin took the veil that marked her new status. Peter Brown vividly reconstructs how this might have taken place: [The virgins’] presence defined the Catholic basilica as a privileged, sacred space. The ceremony of the velatio, of the solemn veiling of consecrated virgins, was a fully public affair, celebrated at a few high festivals of the year. Though it was modeled on the veiling associated with a Roman marriage ceremony, echoes of the irrevocable and victorious transformation associated with baptism clustered around the woman’s high moment of resolve. In a crowded church, blazing with light and with the shimmer of white, triumphal robes, a burst of rhythmic shouting marked the moment when the consecrated woman took up her position behind a special pure white marble railing that marked her off from the rest of the basilica as clearly as did the chancel rail around the sanctuary. Noble men and women would push through the crowds to exchange with her the kiss of peace.55

Ambrose’s sister Marcellina had received the veil by the hands of Pope Liberius in the Basilica of St Peter at Easter or Christmas in 354. Ambrose’s own treatise on instructing virgins, De institutione virginis from 392, was composed in connection with the consecration of the virgin Ambrosia, which is the central theme of the sermon. We are not told anything about the veiling ceremonies that Jerome’s virgin friends also must have been part of, but they were likely to have attracted quite some crowd if they had taken place in any of the larger basilicas.56 When Jerome mentions veneration at the tombs and basilicas of the martyrs, a large number of these shrines had been raised by the last half of the fourth century. The shrines of Peter and Paul were probably among those that were frequently visited, along with the Basilica of St Lawrence. Some sites might have been particularly dear to the consecrated virgins, namely the shrines of the virgin martyrs. Both Ambrose and Jerome refer to the virgin martyr Agnes as a model for the Christian virgins. In fact, Ambrose’s treatise De virginibus, the first treaty he wrote as bishop, originated as a sermon first performed on the dies natalis of St Agnes.57 She was a popular saint in



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Rome and eulogized by both Bishop Damasus and Prudentius. 58 It is highly possible that her cult was particularly favoured by consecrated virgins, as they were told to emulate her example.59 According to the list of martyrs, the Depositio Martyrum from 354, Agnes was by then annually commemorated on 21 February at the cemetery on Via Nomentana, where a large basilica had been constructed in the time of Constantine. The Depositio Martyrum only mentions one other virgin martyr, Basilla, whose anniversary was commemorated on 22 September at her tomb by Via Salaria. Her popularity is not nearly as attested as that of St Agnes, yet her grave is also a likely site of cult for the Roman virgins of Jerome. During the fifth and sixth centuries, a number of churches in Rome came to be identified with virgin martyrs, attesting to the popularity of these saints which, at least in some cases, might date as far back as to the time of Jerome’s virgins.60 Given that so many of the noble women who surrounded Jerome lived on the Aventine, we may also assume that they on regular days would attend the sacred rites at the neighbouring churches.61 On the Aventine, we find the churches of Santa Prisca and Santa Sabina, which supposedly (at least according to tradition, although less firmly attested by historical data) were built on earlier house-churches. On the lesser Aventine, towards the Terme di Caracalla and close to the Porta Capena, we find the church of Santa Balbina,62 another virgin martyr, and 420 metres away from Santa Balbina were the Tituli Fasciolae and Crescentianae on each side of the Via Appia.63 The church of Santa Balbina probably dates back to the fourth century, and its vicinity to the Aventine, in addition to its dedication to a virgin martyr, makes it a possible site of worship for the Aventine virgins. We may thus imagine that Christian virgins like Asella, Eustochium, Paula, Marcellina and Gaudentia at times did step out of their domestic dwellings, fittingly veiled and accompanied by their chaste, female chaperones.

Moving out of the city The Christian virgins appear to have been more mobile than suggested by the constant emphasis on their fixed presence in their cubiculum. This also applies when it comes to long-distance travels. For example, Eustochium travelled with Jerome and her mother Paula to Palestine, where they established a monastery in Bethlehem, and there are indications that her young niece Paula was sent to Bethlehem to be raised there by her aunt and grandmother, just as Jerome had encouraged Laeta (Paula’s mother) to do.64 The consecrated virgin Indicia from Verona had stayed with Ambrose’s sister Marcellina in Rome, and the virgin Ambrosia had travelled from Bologna to Milan to be consecrated by Ambrose.65 Ambrose even claimed that virgins came all the way from Mauretania to be consecrated by him in Milan.66 We have few descriptions of how these travels were actually arranged, but we may assume that the virgins were expected to appear just as virginal and veiled at these occasions as when they moved about in the city.

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Conclusions – immobile virgins and moving words Even a critical reading that takes the texts’ rhetoric and ideology into account reveals that the sacred virgins must have moved, both outside the domestic sphere and out of the city. However, their movements were highly regulated by the norms that developed for this particular group, and they were obviously subject to social control from theological authorities and, consequently, from the community at large. Place, time and the people that might be encountered, both during the journey and at the specific destination, were factors that had to be weighed when the sacred virgins thought of leaving their homes and engaging with the city. The less one saw of a virgin, the more chaste she would appear, as long as her community was reminded of her status and function by suitably ‘invisible’ appearances at proper scenes, such as the basilicas and martyr shrines. The virgins’ movements and how they appeared in public would communicate religious conviction and ideology, and while the ‘proper’ attire, movement and entourage helped to place the virgin within the somewhat limited range of Ambrose’s and Jerome’s ‘orthodoxy’, the same elements would, if deemed ‘improper’, signal deviation from the same orthodoxy and represent the teaching of false prophets and false religion. The dubious and even ‘false’ virgins represented the false teaching of heretics and pagans, while the true virgins, proven so by their appearance and movements, symbolized the integrity and purity of the true Church. These virgins were therefore not only the carriers of their own morals and future salvation, they also embodied these values and conceptions on behalf of their community. As potent visualizations of theological and moral issues – as walking dogmatic statements – the virgins had to be both visible and invisible at the same time, in order to maintain their status in the community. The distribution and range of Ambrose’s sermons and particularly of Jerome’s letters did possibly replace some of the need for social display: as the religious ideals could be conveyed in texts, they could travel to a much wider ‘audience’ than the actual virgins would reach by attending a ceremony in St Peter’s. Through the literal descriptions of these sacred women’s isolation and repose in contrast to busy interactions of non-ascetic Christians’ everyday lives, the virgins’ dedication to their husband Christ and their undisturbed company with him could be communicated to the outside world without any longer challenging the virgins’ chastity and privacy. The texts of Jerome, Ambrose, Prudentius and their Eastern peers thus seemingly create a room where the virgins’ chastity could be displayed without the dangerous exposure they might meet in the crowds of the streets of Rome and the sacred places of worship.67 However, the ascetic isolation may not have been as complete at the Church Fathers might want their readers to think. Jerome, Ambrose and other contemporary writers testify that such women – even those who were deemed most sacred – had a social arena that entailed movement and a certain interaction with other Christians deemed worthy of such elevated company, and with Christian sites deemed worthy of their presence. The dissemination of texts and the virgins’ own movements, both within the city of Rome as well as to distant parts of the Roman Empire, were essential contributions to consolidating and institutionalizing this ascetic, religious ideal towards the end of the fourth century.



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Fig. 5.1  Virginal topography and range. Some sites mentioned in the article are marked on the map. Map drawn by Margaret M. Andrews.

Part Two

Literary Movement

6

Rolling Thunder: Movement, Violence and Narrative in the History of the Late Roman Republic Isak Hammar Violence and movement seem intimately fused in Roman history.1 Ancient and modern historians agree that the introduction of violence into the political culture defined the last era of the Roman Republic, and the historical tradition dictates that once this process had begun, the violence spread and intensified before leading to the Republic’s fall. Thus, violence started, moved and stopped, and the late Republic is hereby seen as a period distinguished from both preceding and succeeding centuries by the outbreak, escalation and finally end of political violence. In the general narrative of Roman history, when violence started to move, it did not stop until the Republic had collapsed.2 The history of the fall of the Republic seems to suggest that the movement of violence can be offered as an explanation as to what caused this historical change. Such movement can also provide a historical lesson: if violence is allowed into politics, it will spread and lead to destruction. The narrative of the late Republic presented in this manner is the historian’s account, dissecting cause and effect, good and bad. In history, then, the movement of violence is not neutral but meaningful. The same is true of the accounts of the separate incidents of the late Republic that together paint this teleological chain. In the present chapter, I will argue that in Greek and Roman historical writing, the movement of violence constituted a vital aspect in making sense of the last century of the Roman Republic. In portraying how violence began, moved and ended at key events during this era, the ancient historians conveyed what they saw as important explanations and lessons in the dramatic unfolding of Roman history.

Moving violence as narrative In the historical accounts written in hindsight and with the instructive purpose of the historian, violence moves. It starts, it moves and then it stops. This basic idea is the object of our study: how different historians portray the start, motion and stop of violence in the violent episodes that define the era. The historian’s depiction of these three aspects of moving violence and its stated consequences can reveal historical

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emphasis or disregard as well as anxieties and fears. We can in this manner attempt to uncover historians’ biases and attitudes towards not only violence but also the society in which such violence could be found. The approach in turn begs the question of historical agency: Who or what triggers the violence? And who or what is responsible for stopping it? The traditional, violent narrative of the late Republic is well known. The breach of tradition by Tiberius Gracchus in 133 bce, whether seen as symptomatic of spiralling elite ambitions and moral decline, or thought to have been brought about by the seemingly insoluble question of agrarian reform, was met by violent opposition and thus opened the flood gates and ushered in the era of civil conflict. Marius and Sulla were followed by the conspiracy of Catiline, Sertorius’ uprising and the street feuds between Clodius and Milo. Finally, the violence culminated in the civil war between Pompey and Caesar. New precedents were continuously set in a political culture now defined by violence. Irreconcilable differences resulted in bloodshed, each time more readily and less hesitantly. The violence portrayed in our sources moved almost on its own – escalating and mutating in its movement with dire consequences until, in the story of the waning years of the Roman Republic, it was a force of its own, springing up everywhere and ending the era of senatorial power.3 Caesar’s murder was in this story only the logical conclusion to this chain of events, that is, the logical conclusion to the movement of violence.4 This history of the late Republic, with its teleological quality, can rightly be read as a narrative, told from hindsight by our sources and by us. Seen this way, once set in motion, the logic of the narrative demands the end we know will come. Although narrative theory is a thriving perspective in history today, for the purposes of this chapter it will suffice to emphasize two key aspects. First, narrative is that which makes sense of the human experience – history is not just a series of events, but also the understanding and interpretation of these events.5 Second, it is the historian who controls this narrative.6 He or she does not passively reiterate what happened, but actively chooses what to present to an audience and in the process bestows praise and shows disapproval. Therefore, with the concept of narrative we can emphasize how history is told and how it becomes meaningful. The representations of violence in motion found in Roman history give us a variety of elite views, separated by time, tendency and origin. But the well-known selectivity and bias of the sources can, I hope, serve a purpose when looking at the portrayal of events. Examples of moving violence abound in our ancient sources, so the following are inevitably but a selection, chosen mainly for their prominence in traditional Roman history.7 By looking at the depictions of the death of the Gracchi, Saturninus and Clodius, my hope is to illustrate a few main tendencies rather than to be exhaustive.

Republican violence Violence played a major part in the narrative of the collapse of the res publica, and several scholars, including Brunt, Lintott, Riggsby, Vanderbroeck and Nippel, have



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examined different aspects of Roman violence including mob activities, street gangs and popular justice.8 Their studies have shown that violence and political change often go hand in hand. It is also clear that violence is not just one activity among others: the portrayal of violence in history carries meaning. In a similar vein, the movement of violence can arguably be seen to have implications for how the violence is used and understood in a narrative. To be sure, political violence did not just appear out of nowhere in 133 bce.9 Violence was a part of Roman history going back to the most shrouded past, and the two seemed to be linked in the Roman mind from the earliest times.10 Wilfried Nippel argues that although breaches of public order were always exceptional, they nevertheless over time became a more significant feature of Roman politics.11 There is thus reason for talking about the violence of the late Republic as a defining trait. The ancient commentators believed this to be true as well. Furthermore, the violence also took on new characteristics, and during the late Republic it ‘reached an acme of deliberation, determination, and organization’.12 By the time of the late Republic, one precedent after another of violence had ensured that the men of state no longer hesitated to rally supporters for a violent cause or call in the troops and fiercely quench any insurrection. But in 133 bce, this was still considered an infringement of the political game. In the historical narratives, this was a beginning.

First blood: The killing of Tiberius Gracchus Hoc initium in urbe Romana civilis sanguinis gladiorumque impunitatis fuit.13 So was introduced in the city of Rome civil bloodshed and the license of the sword.

The thunder started in 133 bce when the nobility themselves set the ball rolling with the ‘first open illegal act of violence’.14 The beginning of the late Republic – the epithet signalling the modern bird’s-eye view of the epoch – traditionally coincides with the killing of Tiberius Gracchus, a disruption that, it was soon believed, set a dangerous precedent.15 Hence, the general narrative of the collapse of the Republic, as noted above by first-century historian Velleius Paterculus, can be said to start with his death. The background to this key event in Roman history was that Gracchus with his attempts to bypass senatorial authority had frustrated the governing class at Rome.16 The episode of Gracchus’ death, however, has its own narrative of moving violence to which we will now turn. Violence in motion played a crucial part in his death. The first question then is what caused the movement of violence in the historical narrative – or, rather, who caused it? If we turn to Velleius, the specific instigation for violence in his account came from a person, namely Publius Scipio Nasica. The initiator of moving violence is always of particular interest, as, without explicitly stating blame, it can still give us an idea of whom the author considered the agent of violence. Nasica is described as a toga-clad privatus. That is to say, a member of the elite, but not of the state itself, initiated violence as a private but respected citizen.17 The Senate, for instance, is free from direct

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blame, as is the consul. Furthermore, had the instigator been Tiberius Gracchus, the narrative would have played itself out differently.18 The movement of violence that killed Gracchus was started as Nasica positioned himself on the steps of the Capitol and called for everyone who wanted to save the res publica to follow him: Tum optimates, senatus atque equestris ordinis pars melior et maior, et intacta perniciosis consiliis plebs inruere in Gracchum stantem in area cum catervis suis et concientem paene totius Italiae frequentiam.19 Then the optimates, the Senate, the better and larger part of the equestrian order, and the plebs yet untouched by destructive designs or plans rushed upon Gracchus as he stood in the area with his own troops haranguing a crowd from almost all of Italy.

Tiberius Gracchus fled, running down the steps of the Capitol, but he was struck by a piece of a bench, itself a conspicuous symbol of immobility. He died fleeing, as a result of the movement of violence. According to Velleius, not only did it end a life that might have been glorious, but it was also the beginning of Roman civil bloodshed. But this should not surprise us, he adds, because once the right path is abandoned, the wrong is pursued headfirst.20 The movement of violence is therefore of explicit concern to the lesson Velleius conveys. Once violence is introduced, its momentum can quickly carry men in the wrong direction. Let us remain with the start of the movement. The motive was allegedly that the state was in peril, something which, it could be argued, was a Roman ‘tradition’.21 The tool for initiating violent movement was oratory, with which Scipio rallied supporters and set them in motion. The group then moved to attack Gracchus. In the commotion they turned the stationary senatorial benches into moving weapons. The movement encompassed members from several segments of society that had joined forces. The act itself is the rushing (inruere) of the motionless Gracchus (Gracchum stantem), suddenly and instantly, causing him to flee and subsequently lose his life. Turning to the description of this episode in Appian, we find a slightly different narrative. In fact, interestingly enough, the violent motion is not initiated by Nasica, but earlier by Tiberius upon the people’s encouragement.22 Nasica therefore merely reacts to the violent movements already initiated. Accordingly, the fault of Gracchus and the acts of the people are emphasized. Gracchus, Appian writes, lost his life because he pursed a good thing by violent means.23 The difference between the authors is noteworthy. Unlike Appian, Velleius does not offer a simple explanation of cause and effect. Rather than just blaming Gracchus or Nasica, he appears to regret the introduction of violence as a whole. Nor is judgement passed on the killing itself. The fatal violence is anonymous, as no particular member of the mob is hurling the bench that killed Tiberius Gracchus. Plutarch by comparison attributes the fatal blow to a specific individual, Publius Satureius, thus placing the blame on him. 24 Velleius, however, chooses to convey a narrative of moving violence with which he depicts a disordered situation with no distinct acts. In his account, Gracchus is thereby in effect killed by the chaos of violent motion itself.



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Repeat offence: The demise of Gaius Gracchus Ten years later things stirred again, this time with Tiberius’ brother Gaius.25 Appian provides a vivid image of the turmoil of the day and the most detailed narrative. In Appian’s account the tribune Gracchus seeks popular support by several means. After his endeavours were broken up by the Senate a final time, he and his fellow tribune Fulvius Flaccus, accompanied by armed supporters, marched up the Capitoline to hold an assembly. The stage is set, but explicit violent movement is yet to start; in Appian’s account, Gracchus hesitates, haunted by his conscience. Instead, violence is set in motion in an unlikely manner. A man by the name of Antyllus, praying nearby, approaches Gracchus, seemingly innocently, whereby Gracchus is startled and gives him a sharp look. One of his supporters, interpreting this as a signal to action, kills Antyllus.26 Violence ensues, and the movement begins. Plutarch paints a different picture as to what caused the violent movement. The blame instead falls on Opimius the consul, who, the author states, desired the violence: the breaking up of the assembly and the flight that followed only came after his attack. Gaius Gracchus is cleared, with Plutarch claiming that no one saw him partaking in violent action. Conversely, Livy blames Gracchus and his colleague for starting the violence, while Velleius merely states that Opimius hunted down and killed Gracchus because of the latter’s ambitions.27 Compared to other versions of this episode, Appian’s narrative of moving violence blurs the historical account. Gracchus is freed of the fatal decision to initiate violence. A nameless sympathizer is the instigator. It is not a speech or a member of the elite that causes the spark, but a misunderstanding and a chance encounter.28 Major movement is caused by a minor movement, as a single look from Gracchus sets a chaotic conflict in motion. Let us continue tracing the movements in Appian. Fearing for their lives, the crowd flees, pouring down the Capitoline hill. Gracchus proceeds to the Forum and tries to clear himself, but he is treated as though polluted. Not knowing what to do, he and Flaccus instead return to their houses. People now fill the Forum. The consul Opimius calls in armed forces while the Senate tries to summon Gracchus, but reacting to the consul’s act, Gracchus and his supporters in turn arm themselves and hasten up the Aventine, ready for combat. Negotiations fail, and Opimius sends in his armed men; Gracchus flees, ultimately ordering his slave to kill him. Flaccus tries to hide but is captured when his pursuers threaten to burn down the whole street of the house in which he was hiding. In Appian’s narrative, control is lost once the violence is set in motion. Gracchus can no longer manoeuvre politically. The activities of the Forum are suspended. Escalation leads to outright conflict. An interesting aspect of the movement portrayed is that as Gracchus and his supporters run through the city, they try to solicit the support of slaves (though without success).29 Just like Velleius, Appian seems to equate haste with irresponsibility.30 Nor are Gracchus and his supporters able to stop the momentum of the movement or wait it out. The consequences are fatal:31 Flaccus is

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put to death, and the houses of the two tribunes are looted by the mob. Appian tells us how the heads of Gracchus and Flaccus were brought before Opimius, who paid their weight in gold.32 In his account, Appian also depicts a conspicuous stop to the violence, with the dramatic narrative of violent movement ending when the consul purified the city from the bloodshed and erected a Temple of Concordia on the Senate’s orders.33 Purification and violence thus become linked; violent motion did not stop by itself but only through the aid of a ritual. Cleansing becomes the answer to return to a state of normality, a state of non-violence. To stress the importance of this aspect in Appian’s account, we can compare his narrative with those of other authors portraying the event. Of these, only Plutarch comments upon the Temple of Concordia, merely stating its construction angered the people. 34 In the other narratives, religion had no palpable significance for terminating the violence. But for Appian, the end of the violent commotion needed a clean break.

Torn apart: The downfall of Saturninus The next example of narratives of violent movement is the seditio of Apuleius Saturninus in 100 bce. The most intriguing aspect of this narrative is not how the violence started but how it stopped. While the later authors agree that Saturninus was to blame for the violence, they present different versions of its cessation. One narrative of moving violence comes from Florus.35 The background story was that Saturninus had used violence and the backing of Marius to coerce the Senate and openly murder his opponents. One murder, however, led to his own demise. Spurred on by his vesania, he ordered his opponent in a consular election, Gaius Memmius, to be murdered and was, in the confusion that followed, hailed as king by his supporters. According to Florus, tum vero iam conspiratione senatus, ipso quoque iam Mario consule, quia tueri non poterat, adverso, directae in foro acies; pulsus inde Capitolium invasit (then at last the senators united, and even Marius, now consul, could not support him, turned against him, and battle lines were drawn in the Forum; he was driven from there and seized the Capitol).36 The Forum thus becomes the battleground, and Saturninus is pushed back (pulsus) by the violence to invade the Capitol. In keeping with the nature of his work, Florus treats the episode as a military conflict, with sieges, water supplies and military dispatches.37 Saturninus was besieged and his water cut off, whereupon he sent envoys to the senators to claim he repented his actions. Though he was thus allowed to come down and enter the Curia, this did not stop the movement of violence. The Senate had lost control of the situation, and instead the people ‘burst forth into the chamber, attacking him with clubs and stones and tearing him to pieces at the moment of his death’.38 This abrupt and brutal end to violence is vital in Florus’ narrative, but here the ancient authors differ. In Appian’s account the outcome is similar: fearing that Saturninus and his followers would be treated leniently, a crowd tears off the tiles of the roof and proceeds to stone them to death in the Senate. In Livy, however,



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Saturninus and his followers were instead killed in a ‘kind of war’ (bello quodam) with Marius.39 Velleius, who briefly touches upon the incident, holds that Marius should be thanked for putting down the sedition.40 Hence, in these two accounts Marius is the one who stops the violence. An interesting point of comparison is the account by Orosius, writing with Christian bias in the fourth or fifth century. In Orosius, it is again Saturninus who initiated the violence. After forming a conspiracy, he and his supporters tried to exile one of his enemies, whereupon a riot suddenly broke out.41 The Senate and the Roman people started to complain loudly about the evils of the state, when Marius calmed the aroused plebeians with soothing words. Marius then attacked Saturninus in the Forum, using the plebeians as soldiers and cutting off the water supply to the Capitol. After Marius forced Saturninus and his allies into the Curia, a group of equites broke down the doors and killed them. The end to the violence is simple: itaque auctoribus tantae seditionis occisis quies populo fuit – as soon as the instigators of the sedition were dead, the people calmed down.42 Orosius’ narrative is noteworthy because Marius is initially described as in command of the sudden, violent movements: with the right words, an individual can control a potentially dangerous situation initiated by an opponent. Marius also directs the violence of the angry plebs into military action. However, when the battle is over and the violence seems to be terminated, another segment of the ruling elite moves with purpose and kills the cause of the sedition, whereupon status quo is regained. Like earlier historians, Orosius favours a Roman history where violence takes centre stage but ultimately plays itself out as a conflict between individuals. The people, even when moving violently, remain in the background. In the narratives of Saturninus’ uprising, the origin of the violence is clear: no mob or anonymous supporter sets the conflict in motion, nor is any misunderstanding part of the account. The narrative seems instead pretty straightforward, with Saturninus’ aspirations of kingship leading him to commit murder, thus engendering mayhem in the Forum. In contrast, the authors convey different versions of what stopped this violence. In Florus’ account, the senators attempted reconciliation and a return to normalcy, but since the violence had already been set in motion, the people would not stop before Saturninus was killed; the Senate is thereby freed from violent design, and the ripple of Saturninus’ own actions led to his demise. In Orosius, however, it is not the populus but members of the elite, the equites, who kill Saturninus. And in Livy and Velleius, a single individual is responsible for saving the day. This makes the termination of violence in Florus particularly striking: the populus finished what the Senate started by tearing Saturninus to pieces. The violence introduced by the elite in 133 bce had now spread to the people.

The violent people of Rome The examples given heretofore present us with a rough pattern. In the narratives of ancient historians, members of the elite instigate violence, which in turn leads to mass

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movement and culminates and ends with the death of one or more members of the elite. Once the violence has been set in motion, the elite lose control. While the beginning of the late Republic is associated with the elite resorting to violence, the people’s violent movements are arguably more prominent in the history of its last decades. This was, according to our historical accounts, a time of chaos and disorder and one where political violence had become commonplace in Rome:43 organized gangs ruled the streets, elections were disturbed and postponed, voting was prohibited and speakers were threatened amid the deadly clamour.44 After Saturninus there were ostensible shock waves of popular violence.45 For example, in 99 bce Publius Furius was torn apart by the people when refusing the recall of Metellus Numidicus,46 while Livius Drusus was murdered in 91 bce after passing laws per vim.47 As Lintott notes, ‘Violence moved for the first time up the vicious spiral to war.’48 After the Social War the mob seemed only to have gained in importance. It could be a force even when violence wasn’t explicitly used. The Lex Gabinia was passed with the use of public threats of violence, and it seems the Lex Manilia passed simply through the passive threat the people represented.49 Thus, the violence of the late Republic also aided its fall by forcing the legislation that gave Pompey unprecedented powers. In the 50s bce, things continued to escalate.50 The threat of the violent mob, controlled by Clodius and countered by the private armies of Sestius and Milo, was now a constant feature of urban Rome.51 To be sure, ‘the people’, whether denominated populus, vulgus or plebs, is a dubious category that the sources rarely if ever try to define more closely, and we cannot use it to determine who took part in violent movement. What the category can tell us is something of the views of the ancient commentators. More than a group of individuals, the moving masses were a force or even an explicit weapon.52 Although we have several examples in the ancient sources of hunger riots, political outrage and other forms of violent popular movement when the mob becomes a weapon directed upwards against those who govern, it has been argued that even grain riots were often connected to disputes among the elite and did not necessarily stem from hunger or political discontent.53 The problem of distinction reaches a zenith in the arguably most frenzied episode of the era: the chaos that followed upon the death of Publius Clodius Pulcher, the man who perhaps most clearly sharpened the ‘people’ into a political weapon.

The ghost of Clodius In the general narrative of violent movement, the last decade of the late Republic witnessed the climax in the death of Clodius. Ironically, the man blamed for instigating so much violence during his lifetime caused the greatest stir once he was dead. The situation in Rome in 53 and 52 bce has been described as a time of anarchy.54 Clodius’ rivalry with Titus Annius Milo ended in what may or may not have been a chance encounter on the Via Appia. In January 52 bce, the two heads of Rome’s feuding street gangs clashed with their retinues outside of Bovillae, and Clodius was



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killed in the skirmish. Although Appian and Dio Cassius provide extended narratives of the event, our most detailed source of this episode is Asconius, from whom we will extract the main narrative under scrutiny.55 The account itself is dramatic. Clodius was returning to Rome from Aricia, while Milo was travelling in the opposite direction to Lanuvium. The spot where they met is approximately 18 km south of Rome. Milo apparently had some famous gladiators in his retinue who started taunting some slaves of Clodius, and a brawl ensued. One of the gladiators threw a spear that wounded Clodius in the shoulder; Clodius was carried into a nearby tavern, before being dragged out and killed on Milo’s orders. His corpse was left on the road until a senator named Sextus Teidius happened to find it and had it brought back to Rome. This ‘prelude’, which is closely matched in Appian, reminds us of the earlier episodes of violence, with members of the elite facing each other down.56 The main ‘characters’ are not directly at fault for the outbreak of violence. Just like in Appian’s narrative of Gaius Gracchus’ death, followers provide the spark, with dire consequences. But in the historical narratives, another violent movement has yet to begin – the violent movement of the people. Asconius recounts how Clodius’ corpse arrived in Rome soon after nightfall and was laid out in his house on the Palatine before a large crowd of slaves and the lowest plebs. Clodius’ wife Fulvia was bent on inciting invidia and displayed the wounds with great lamentation. The next day an even bigger crowd turned up, including some men of renown (noti homines). At the urging of the tribunes of the plebs Quintus Pompeius Rufus and Titus Munatius Plancus, the ignorant mob (vulgus imperitum) carried the corpse down to the Forum and placed it nude on the Rostra. There, at a contio, hatred was roused against Milo by his political opponents. One of Clodius’ men, Sextus Cloelius (known as the scriba), led (duco) the populus to carry the body into the Curia, where they made an impromptu funeral pyre of benches and books and set it on fire.57 The Curia itself burned down along with the Basilica Porcia. This Clodiana multitudo then attacked the houses of both Milo and the appointed interrex but was driven off by arrows. Instead, the mob seized fasces from the grove of Libitina and went to the estate of Pompey, yelling that he should become either consul or dictator. Asconius’ narrative both resembles and differs from Appian and Dio Cassius, whose versions mention neither Fulvia nor Sextus Cloelius. Cassius, however, explicitly recounts that the tribunes Rufus and Plancus urged the already incensed people into action.58 Their responsibility for violent movement is thereby emphasized: they placed the body on the Rostra, and as a result the people almost burned down the whole city. Appian once again is less clear and spreads the blame between the crowd, unnamed tribunes and associates of Clodius.59 It should be stressed that in the narratives discussed above, Clodius’ death did not spark off any movement in itself. The riot was not an act of spontaneous outrage – as in previous examples, it is elite manipulation that triggers violent motion. The violent movement of the anonymous populus is thus not an independent force in Roman history. In Asconius’ account, this process of manipulation is drawn out. Clodius’ wife Fulvia incites civil unrest with lamentation and a public display, before the tribune of the plebs urges (hortor) the ‘ignorant mob’ to action, after which they carry the corpse

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to the Forum.60 Oratory continues to act as the ‘prime mover’ as another set of speeches at a contio inflames hatred against Milo. Yet, in Asconius’ narrative, mere words are not enough: instead, the mob is finally taken in hand by one of Clodius’ henchmen and led to burn his corpse. The outbreak of violence is thus prolonged, gradually becoming ever more fervent. Asconius portrays the mob as hesitant at first and then, when finally set in motion, as a force moving on its own. In Appian and Dio Cassius, although the people are quicker to raze the Curia, the result is the same.61 Similar to the effect of the ‘blur of motion’ we saw in some narratives regarding the death of the Gracchi, such a protracted start to mass movements confuses their causality. Was it the gladiator or Milo who started the violence? Should the funeral riots be blamed on Fulvia, the tribunes or Sextus Cloelius? Of course, the protracted start also tells us that the mob, in the view of the ancient historians, is mindless and in need of guidance. And, while it is impossible to determine what segments of Roman society comprise this mob, that is not the point of the narrative. The mob’s namelessness is part of its nature. In a sense it is violence itself, an army that can be manipulated and unleashed. But the momentum of this violent mob can be neither controlled nor anticipated. The fires spread, and, similar to Appian’s account of the death of Gaius Gracchus, houses are attacked. And in Asconius, the mob finally has a political resolve of its own, trying to override the procedure of the political culture and by direct appointment enforce ‘the people’s will’. It takes extraordinary political measures to halt the violent motion in all three extended narratives of moving violence. Together with the interrex and tribunes of the plebs, Pompey was given command to restore the state from emergency. Since Rome had no ‘extinguisher in the form of regular enforcement of law and order’, the fire had to be put out by the governing elite themselves.62 This also signals the danger of moving masses and that they in fact stand in direct opposition to the elite. Appian and Dio Cassius are more explicit about the effects of violence. Appian tells us that all who met the violent mob were killed, especially those wearing fine clothes and gold rings. He also speaks of the tumult as an excuse for pillaging, stoning and outrageous behaviour.63 For Dio Cassius, an explicit consequence of the movement is a disregard for the sacred as well as the profane. He states that the crowd did not act on impulse as usual, but with deliberate purpose.64 In the end, the violent commotion that followed Clodius’ death becomes a reflection of his life. Violence begets violence, even after death. Studying narrative entails the analysis of how historians make sense of history by controlling how it is presented. In certain narratives concerning Clodius’ death, the movement of violence played a distinct role. Other authors, such as Velleius and Plutarch, chose not to stress the movement of the people, thereby illustrating that the historian was free to use movement when retelling history. What happened, what movement really took place – insofar as the imperial historians had knowledge of the details of late Republican history – was secondary for the portrayal of movement and violence in motion. With a narrative of moving violence, the authors could illustrate and emphasize the magnitude of the affair. And when they did, they revealed their view of the hierarchies and perceived vulnerabilities of society, which they understood to be part of the historical explanation and part of the historical lesson.



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Cicero on violence Historians are not the only writers who attest to the violence of the final era of the Republic. While walking down the Via Sacra in 57 bce, in the midst of this turmoil, Cicero experienced a brush with violence when his retinue was suddenly attacked by his arch nemesis Clodius and his followers. The encounter is an example of the violence that in the eyes of history characterizes the late Republic. But unlike the grand narratives of history, the movement of violence does not provide causation. The specific incident was described by Cicero in a letter as clamor, lapides, fustes, gladii, et haec improvisa omnia (Ad Att. 4.3.3, ‘shouting, rock-throwing, clubs and swords, and all quite unexpected’). The laconic statement is intriguing, yet the violence disappears from Cicero’s letter as swiftly as it was introduced. There is no obvious start to the violence, and there is no real end to it. There is no movement, no explanation and no lesson to be learned for posterity. The example might serve to illustrate that historians find explanations where none was immediately visible to or needed by contemporaries. But just like the later imperial historians, Cicero also sought to instruct his peers on the dangers of moving violence. In the defence speech Pro Sestio, he offers his own perspective on the process of violent disturbance in front of fellow members of the elite (Sest. 77): nam ex pertinacia aut constantia intercessoris oritur saepe seditio, culpa atque improbitate latoris commodo aliquo oblato imperitis aut largitione, oritur ex concertatione magistratuum, oritur sensim ex clamore primum, deinde aliqua discessione contionis, vix sero et raro ad manus pervenitur: nullo vero verbo facto, nulla contione advocata, nulla lege concitatam nocturnam seditionem quis audivit? For, indeed, seditious disturbances often arise from the pertinacity or firmness with which some magistrate has exercised his veto or from the fault and wickedness of some proposer of a law having held out hopes of great advantage or great bribes to the ignorant; they arise from the rivalry of the magistrates; they arise gradually from clamour at first, and afterwards from some division of the assembly it is unwillingly, and slowly, and seldom that acts of violence are resorted to. But who ever heard before of a sedition in the night, when not a word had been spoken, when no assembly had been summoned and when no law had been read?

Cicero’s standpoint appears to have much in common with the views of later historians: the elite themselves are at fault for the instigation of violent movement. The way they conduct their business of state is what causes popular sedition. Their rivalry and ambition are dangerous: What violence arises on its own, without elite interference? What violence arises at night, when no political action is taken, no oratory heard? Violence escalates from recklessness into clamor, and it moves slowly and hesitantly, just like the prolonged start of Clodius’ multitude. Mob violence is not a force on its own but a consequence of individual men and sometimes women whom we know by name. Cicero has obvious reason for upholding this view, but his bias was likely shared by his audience. In his mind, everything starts and stops with the elite, with oratory being

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a case in point. The orator has enormous sway over violent movement, as when Nasica initiates it in Velleius or when Marius attempts to control it in Orosius. In Cicero’s De oratore, his opinion echoes in the interlocutor: who better to incite hatred, who better to soothe the incited?65 Cicero is not alone in this view: it was shared by the imperial historians and a part of Roman culture. In the Aeneid, Virgil writes: Ac veluti magno in populo cum saepe coorta est seditio saevitque animis ignobile vulgus iamque faces et saxa volant, furor arma ministrat; tum, pietate gravem ac meritis si forte virum quem conspexere, silent arrectisque auribus astant; ille regit dictis animos et pectora mulcet…66 And as, when ofttimes in a great nation tumult has risen, the base rabble rage angrily, and now brands and stones fly, madness lending arms; then, if perchance they set eyes on a man honoured for noble character and service, they are silent and stand by with attentive ears; with speech he sways their passion and soothes their breasts …

In this view, the elite hold power over the vulgus by merit of their authority, but also lead by their example. This directs in turn our attention to the idea of the responsibilities of the elite. They control the violent movements, not only their own, but also that of the populace – it starts and stops with them.67 This, after all, is what makes the populares politicians so dangerous. The elite control the start and often stop of the movement of violence, although they do not control the movement itself, its momentum and consequences. Here endeth the lesson. By portraying the movement of violence, the commentators on Roman history betray their anxieties concerning not only violence but society as a whole. The roles of different groups in the hierarchal structure become visible. Moreover, elite fears become visible with the consequences of moving violence, whether it is political disruption, sacrilegious behaviour or the destruction of property or life. The good politician therefore thinks twice about ‘moving’ the masses: the people are a weapon, a force to be unleashed, but when violence does start to move, the end might be near. Just like Cicero’s perspective in Pro Sestio, the tale is cautionary and conservative: do not stir up violence or the thunder will roll.

Conclusions Movement and violence are linked in the narratives of the late Republic. The historian provides narratives in history as a means to assert a meaningful context in which to place historical events: there is a beginning, a middle and an end. The Romans of course knew how to tell a story. In the rhetorical treatise Ad Herennium, the anonymous author’s last advice concerns how to make something appear vividly in front of the eyes of the audience by using precisely this technique – a beginning, a middle and an end – but also by emphasizing the consequences of an action or an



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event. 68 It is only suitable that he uses the example of the death of Tiberius Gracchus to illustrate his point. The same is true of movement in narratives: it starts, moves and stops. Movement adds drama to Roman history, but it also in certain critical instances provides historical causation. Sources explain the commencement, momentum and discontinuance of violence in different ways. Variances in the way historical episodes are chronicled not only underline their narrative quality, but also emphasize the importance of certain aspects of the episodes for the overall meaning the specific historian wants to convey. It shows who or what is at fault, what the movement itself can cause and who saves the day. To be sure, it reveals moral behaviour among the elite and the proper conduct of both the governing and the governed of Rome. The narrative of moving violence can be a powerful verdict. Saturninus’ deeds resulted in a movement of violence that did not stop until he himself was torn to pieces – punishment was meted out. Moving violence is a way for the historian to mete out punishment where he sees fit: even if Nasica did not land the killing blow, he can be seen as guilty; even if Clodius was dead, he is responsible for the riots that followed. But the narrative of moving violence can also be understood as a historian’s device, a method of recounting a moment in history where definite responsibility or blame can be avoided and obscured. Movement can blur causation as well as provide it. It can not only assert meaning but diffuse it. Who flung the res publica over the abyss in 133 bce? Was it Tiberius Gracchus, Scipio Nasica or simply the commotion of the day? Was it the political manoeuvrings of Gaius Gracchus or a mere mishap that led to his death? Who, when the smoke clears, is responsible for burning down the Curia after Clodius’ death? Moving violence creates a method to avoid the question of what really happened or who really did what, of whose singular action it was that led to an unstoppable chain of events known to the historian. It is not only in Roman history that violence and movement seem fused. The notion of violence suggests motion. It is neither immobile nor does it have any perpetual quality. Rather, by its very nature it is an exception to the state of things: it starts and it stops, whether on a general or a specific level. It is for that reason only natural that violence and movement co-exist in Roman history. But the paths and consequences of this movement are dictated not only by historical events but by the historian. This is true of ancient and modern historians alike. Movement of violence characterizes our Roman history too. The cessation of violence reveals another understanding of its nature. When Cicero was attacked by Clodius and his followers in 57 bce, the violent movement of his own experience abruptly stopped in his letter. The next day Clodius simply attacked someone else. This is often the way violence stops in real life, but it is not the way it stops in a historical narrative. Once set in motion, violence does not just simply vanish, with everything returning to normal. The violence that started in 133 bce, with its momentum that changed society over roughly a hundred years, did not stop until something new was put in its place. Our narrative provides that the Republic must self-destruct once violence is introduced, ever rising, never completely ceasing, until the story of the age of Augustus fittingly becomes the Pax Romana.

7

‘A Shouting and Bustling on All Sides’ (Hor. Sat. 1.9.77–8): Everyday Justice in the Streets of Republican Rome Anthony Corbeill In what is perhaps Horace’s most familiar and beloved satire, Satirae 1.9, the poet describes his desperate attempts to shake an unwanted and anonymous companion during what had begun as a pleasant stroll through the Roman Forum. All attempts fail until, abruptly, the man – who is traditionally referred to as ‘the pest’ – is dragged off to court in a bustle of activity. Horace represents the event as welcome divine intervention – sic me servavit Apollo (1.9.78, ‘That’s how I was saved by Apollo’). And yet, despite this emphatic assertion, what in fact most directly aided Horace during this episode was not the divine Apollo but a distinctly human act of legal self-help, that is, the application of state-sanctioned physical intervention by an individual citizen in the pursuit of personal justice. In this scenario, the gods play no role. It has become a truism of modern scholarship that Republican Rome abhors a bureaucracy. The private sector during this period provided a diverse array of services that most modern societies deem essential to the functioning of an efficient state and that they hence tend to manage through civic offices and public funds. This abhorrence at Rome ranges from services such as postal delivery to the collection of taxes to, most ominously, the provision of discharge payments for members of the military. Another especially notable manifestation of this lack lies in the absence during this period of the modern notion of a police force, by which I mean a legitimate and state-supported group charged with maintaining order and preserving a rule of law. Many scholars have demonstrated various ways in which the Roman system compensated for this particular deficiency.1 I wish to explore here one specific compensatory mechanism that visibly manifested itself in the movement of its players in the streets of Rome. I will begin by arguing that legally sanctioned self-help would have been a frequent and well-known occurrence, using our admittedly scarce evidence to reconstruct some of the typical steps involved in apprehending and controlling an opponent in situations not overseen by the state apparatus. In the conclusion, this reconstruction will be used in order to offer a new perspective on Horace’s encounter on the Via Sacra and, more generally, on the social and economic factors affecting legal movement in the Roman Forum.

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Self-help and citizen’s arrest References to the public exercise of justice during the Republic normally occur when the sources are talking about something else. Cicero’s De oratore provides a particularly vivid instance. Cicero’s interlocutor, Julius Caesar Strabo, has just turned in his discussion of the role of humour in oratory to the common category of wit in which ‘we expect one thing and another is said’ (2.255, cum aliud exspectamus, aliud dicitur). Strabo includes as a particularly successful example of this category of humour ‘contrary to expectation’ an encounter in the Roman streets from the early first century bce that led to the following exchange: Seeing a condemned debtor being led down the street, a bystander seems to show pity when he asks how much the debt is for. ‘A thousand sesterces’ is the reply. [At this the man remarks], ‘I can’t top that; go ahead and take him away’.2 videtur esse misericors ille, qui iudicatum duci videt; percontatur ita: ‘quanti addictus?’ ‘mille nummum.’ … ‘nihil addo, ducas licet’. (Cic. De orat. 2.255)

What is significant about this exchange for our purposes is that Cicero attributes the wit of this reply in part to the fact that it comes unexpectedly. A person hearing the anecdote assumes that the bystander has asked his question as a prelude to purchasing the debtor’s freedom. Instead, the bystander pretends that he is at an auction: he refuses to raise his bid and so lets the prisoner pass. Our own concern here is not with the cruel humour of the situation but with the predicament of the debtor. For the joke to succeed, this man’s legal situation must have been common, as confirmed by the fact that Cicero – or Strabo – saw no need to explain the background. His audience recognizes the scene as one of self-help: a man is led through the streets as a judgement debtor in full view of the Roman populace. Conspicuously unexpressed is the other aspect of the situation that the joke’s original audience would have taken for granted: the man who moves through the streets with the debtor is not a representative of the state but the creditor himself (or perhaps an agent acting on his behalf). In other words, the force employed derives from a citizen who is independently exercising his legal rights. Presumably these rights are further enforced by might, and parallels would indicate that the person performing the arrest is accompanied by a group of friends, freedmen or slaves who have assembled to ensure that the debtor does not escape. My second example presents a different outcome for the person under custody. Bystanders once again intervene upon encountering a man placed under arrest, but on this occasion they succeed in procuring the apprehended man’s release. The person making the arrest in this instance is also specified as an elected representative of the Roman people. In 59 bce, the tribune Publius Vatinius led one of the year’s consuls, Marcus Calpurnius Bibulus, away in chains from the senate house in the direction of Rome’s public prison, the carcer. Cicero’s speech Against Vatinius provides sufficient detail of the incident to allow us to reconstruct with a fair degree of certainty the path that Vatinius would have followed toward the prison. This path is reproduced with a curving single arrow in the upper left-hand corner of the Forum plan (Fig. 7.1).3



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Cicero and an accompanying scholiast offer a number of intriguing details concerning the response to Vatinius’ actions. Since Bibulus’ friends had been prevented from offering help to the consul (Vat. 21, exclusis amicis), Vatinius’ tribunician colleagues decide to intercede on Bibulus’ behalf. In order to do so, they are required by law to make direct physical contact with the consul, a recourse that Vatinius took extraordinary pains to prevent.4 A great deal of energy must have accompanied the eventual salvation of Bibulus here. Not only was Vatinius accompanied by a gang of men gathered to prevent any assistance from being offered to the consul, but he had also constructed a wooden barrier to hinder the movement of the tribunes and thereby prevent them from making direct contact with Bibulus. Despite Vatinius’ impressive preparations, the intercession of the other tribunes ultimately did succeed, and the captive consul was rescued from confinement in the prison-house.5 It is important to note that the liberation of Bibulus does not occur as a result of any judicial proceeding, but simply as a result of the greater amount of force employed by those tribunes who took action against Vatinius.

Fig. 7.1  Roman Forum during the late Republic. Sources used in constructing pathways on the plan of the Roman Forum. Curving single arrow: path of arrest of M. Calpurnius Bibulus (Cic. Vat. 21, Schol. Cic. Bob. p. 147, 21–6; Coarelli 1983–5, pp. 2.55–6). Double arrow: statue of Vertumnus with passer-by (Prop. 4.2.57–8). Bold X in circle: bail meeting of Naevius and Quinctius (Cic. Quinct. 25; Kinsey 1970, pp. 83–6). Dashed arrows: path of Horace and ‘the pest’ (Hor. Sat. 1.9 passim). Map by Philip Stinson.

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And yet it was not necessary to hold the office of tribune to possess the legal privilege either to arrest or to liberate. Several examples survive of common citizens availing themselves of public self-help in ways analogous to Vatinius’ opponents in 59. One particularly conspicuous component of self-help included the capacity to call aloud on neighbours and friends in a bid for receiving justice. The Twelve Tables of the fifth century bce, for example, permit a citizen to kill a thief, provided that the confrontation occurs at night or that the victim has acted in self-defence; in broad daylight, by contrast, such violence can be sanctioned only if the victim succeeds in summoning a crowd to witness the act.6 Cicero applies this law in his defence of Tullius in 71 bce, and the law remains recorded in the Digesta 600 years later.7 The importance attached to securing an audience of witnesses before wielding self-help persists throughout Rome’s history, even when the alleged crime occurs within the walls of one’s own home. The forty-second poem of Catullus provides an energetic and, to scholars of Latin literature at least, a more familiar instance of a victim summoning a crowd in order to ensure the successful prosecution of popular justice. This poem vividly re-enacts in a humorous, non-legal context the steps in the Roman process called flagitatio. I cite the opening of the poem in full (42.1–12), with the portions most applicable to my argument highlighted in italics: Adeste, hendecasyllabi, quot estis omnes undique, quotquot estis omnes. iocum me putat esse moecha turpis, et negat mihi nostra reddituram pugillaria, si pati potestis. 5 persequamur eam et reflagitemus. quae sit, quaeritis? illa, quam uidetis turpe incedere, mimice ac moleste ridentem catuli ore Gallicani. circumsistite eam et reflagitate, 10 ‘moecha putida, redde codicillos, redde, putida moecha, codicillos!

Gather round from all sides, verses, as many of you as exist. A stinking whore thinks I’m a joke and says she won’t return my notebooks. (Can you stand it?). Let’s pursue her and demand them back. Who is she, you ask? That girl you see with the slutty walk, laughing in her nasty way like a Gallic dog. Surround her and demand them back: ‘You rotten whore, return my notebooks, return, rotten whore, my notebooks!’

Here the poet gathers together a crowd, in this case consisting of all his hendecasyllabic verses, to surround an unnamed woman who had allegedly stolen his missing notebooks. The imagined scene must have been a familiar one in daily life, with verses replaced by human beings of course. The injured party, along with a gathering of friends and allies, surrounds a perpetrator on the public streets and loudly demands the redress of a particular grievance. In Catullus’ poem, the encounter takes a typical form. First, the poet-plaintiff cries aloud in order to gather a supportive group of allies (1–2); the assembled group then shouts while pursuing the alleged criminal (6); after the perpetrator is positively identified (7–9), the crowd surrounds her and reiterates clearly and repeatedly the demands of Catullus (10–12). Usener has uncovered several allusions to this procedure in Plautus, where confrontations can occur before the door of the alleged offender as well as in the open streets.8 Once again the individual pursuit of justice requires public action, a gathered crowd, and – a point to which I



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shall return again – a lot of shouting. This form of self-help was of necessity a loud and conspicuous activity, characterized by the movement of crowds through the streets. The Romans employed other means of self-help that, while less open and vocal, nevertheless appear to have been no less effective. Thefts at the public baths, undertaken surreptitiously while victims were enjoying the facilities, were so prevalent that they came to constitute a leitmotif in Roman comic and satiric texts. Moreover, a short chapter of the Digesta devoted to bath theft confirms that these crimes prevailed in the real world.9 One of the steps taken to remedy the lack of police protection in this area involved the employment of curse tablets, written by the victims to bring down divine vengeance on the thieves. Perhaps surprisingly, evidence suggests that these tablets could indeed be effective as a form of crime control.10 Self-help, therefore, took forms both conspicuous (flagitatio) and discreet (curse tablets). From a practical standpoint, these forms of violence – whether vocalized and physical or written and hidden – served to fill a gap in the standard form of Roman legal procedure.11 Since the time of the Twelve Tables and continuing on throughout the classical period, Roman law allowed a plaintiff to exert physical force on a defendant at two particular points in the legal procedure called ‘action in the law’ (legis actio).12 First, when the plaintiff initially calls an opponent to judgement, the Tables enjoin that ‘if [the defendant] does not go, let a witness be called; then the plaintiff may seize him’.13 A clear example of this process occurs in Plautus’ Curculio, when the soldier Therapontigonus refuses Phaedromus’ bidding that he go to trial. In response Phaedromus calls upon a bystander to witness the forced removal of the soldier to court.14 The second potential moment of legitimate physical intervention ordained by the Twelve Tables occurs after legal proceedings have taken place before a recognized judge. If the defendant has received an unfavourable judgement from the court, there existed no state-controlled mechanism that would compel him to satisfy the terms of that judgement. In this circumstance the Tables state that the plaintiff may use physical force to implement his claims – ‘if [the defendant] makes delays and drags his feet, let [the plaintiff] lay his hand [on him]’.15 This latter situation is central to the prosecution’s case in Cicero’s Pro Quinctio. According to Cicero’s argument for the defence, when the plaintiff Naevius drove Quinctius off his country estate in Gaul, Naevius alleged that his actions were justified since the praetor had settled the case in his favour and that therefore Quinctius’ expulsion was a result of sanctioned self-help.16 By demonstrating that Naevius misrepresented the chronology of events, Cicero is able to assert that Naevius had in fact used excessive and inappropriate violence against his client. If, in contrast, Naevius’ violence had followed the praetor’s favourable judgement, his use of violence would have been unobjectionable. Self-help would have been the final, and in this case necessary, step in Naevius’ pursuit of justice. Note that in both these passages of the Twelve Tables the use of physical strength, accompanied by the summoning of witnesses as a means of augmenting that strength, corresponds to those two points during which the legal process is most apt to fail on account of Rome’s lack of a police force: first, when a plaintiff initially summons a defendant to court and, second, when the verdict of that court needs to be enforced.

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Self-help in Horace, Satirae 1.9 These two points – that public displays of both formal and informal justice must have been a common sight in Republican Rome, and that both forms of display could entail crowds of vociferous supporters moving through the streets – provide the necessary preliminaries for a reconstruction of the Horatian satire, which is the clearest literary account that survives of this type of popular justice in action. A suitable place to begin is at the end. At lines 77–8 Horace notes emphatically how, after the pest is led off to court, there arises ‘shouting on both sides and a running together from everywhere’ (Sat. 1.9.77–8, clamor utrimque, / undique concursus). This activity creates a suitable bustle in the midst of which Horace effects his own escape, but the language accompanying that escape merits closer attention. Each word used by Horace alerts his reader to the legal context that has been unfolding around him. The specificity of the adverb utrimque (‘on both sides’) has little point unless it refers to the clamour of two opposing opinions, in this case the claims of the adversarius over against those of the pest. The accompanying adverb, undique (‘from everywhere’), is also carefully chosen. In its echoing of Catullus’ summons for help ‘from all sides’ (42.1–2, again, undique) as well as the encirclement of the alleged wrongdoer by his hendecasyllables (42.20), the adverb points even more directly to the procedural steps involved in self-help. Finally, the combination of the words clamor and concursus would also have rung a familiar note to Horace’s readers. Fraenkel claims that the juxtaposition evokes military descriptions, but these same words, along with expressions using synonymous verbal equivalents such as convolo or imploro, occur with similar frequency in contexts describing self-help.17 An intriguing metaphorical parallel, applying the imagery of self-help to philosophical argumentation, occurs in Cicero’s Tusculanae Disputationes. Cicero has been maintaining, in opposition to Epicurean doctrine, that the highest good lies in virtue and not pleasure. At one point, he imagines his Epicurean opponents employing self-help in order to bring him to trial for this claim. In their summons, the vocabulary mimics the procedure of flagitatio and resembles the closing commotion of Satirae 1.9: ‘they fight, even calling upon (implorant) the loyalty of their neighbours – straightaway, many of them flock together (convolent)’.18 The Horatian word concursus, finally, occurs in the Digesta in the context of citizen’s arrests, apparently as a technical term. In discussing the Lex Iulia on the use of private force, Paulus mentions sanctions against any gathering that could result in preventing someone being carried off to court, as the pest is in Horace’s poem. The Latin words to describe this gathering are concursus and coetus.19 These parallels, drawn from a range of literary texts, make clear that the satire’s climax describes Horace successfully escaping not simply from an unwanted companion but from a noisy and potentially violent confrontation arising under the guise of selfadministered justice. Recognizing that the satire’s denouement re-enacts a situation of self-help raises another issue: how often are we to imagine this sort of clamorous bustle occurring in the late Republican Forum? A tentative answer may be found from considering the location and frequency of legal tribunals during the period. Observe those points



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labelled in italics at the centre of the Forum plan (Fig. 7.1). The tribunal of the urban praetor, which was very likely the pest’s ultimate destination, can be placed with a fair degree of certainty in a space bordered by the Temple of Vesta, the Temple of Castor (Aedes Castorum) and the Regia.20 Not far to the west of here, an array of sources attests to the seat of the praetor peregrinus. Furthermore, the several quaestiones perpetuae are described more vaguely as being ‘in the middle of the Forum’.21 Occupying much physical space in a relatively small area, these various courts saw nearly constant activity. Trials for violence (or vis) could occur at any point in the year, while the other courts ceased business only from September to January and for holidays, and perhaps from April to early May.22 Furthermore, a weighing of evidence for the length of hearings and for the number of cases at which a single advocate could speak – that is, as many as two in a single day – makes it clear that a constant to-and-fro movement of defendants, plaintiffs and their entourages would have been a daily sight. Such intense legal and quasi-legal activity would have greatly hindered free circulation throughout and around the Forum.23 To return to Horace, recent analyses of Satirae 1.9 by scholars of Roman law have offered a convincing reconstruction of the pest’s legal predicament.24 As Horace and his companion approach the Temple of Vesta, the pest begs Horace to wait for him while he settles a legal matter. When Horace demurs, the pest pretends, out of obvious flattery to the poet, that he would prefer to lose his case rather than abandon their stroll (Sat. 1.9.40–1). Using documents discovered near Pompeii in 1959, Cloud has convincingly argued that the pest here is not in fact skipping out on the trial itself, as one might assume from a cursory reading of the poem. Rather, he has chosen not to attend the pre-trial bail-meeting that had been arranged to ensure attendance at the actual suit, which would presumably be scheduled for some time later on the same day. The documents in question contain bail contracts with very specific terms such as ‘to meet in the Forum of Augustus in front of Gracchus’ statue’ at a particular time; if this agreement is not met, bail is forfeited by the absent party. If, by contrast, the meeting does take place as promised, the subsequent appointment before the magistrate occurs soon thereafter in a nearby but separate location.25 Evidence outside these documents also supports the frequency and urgency with which such pre-trial arrangements occurred in the Forum proper. In the second poem of Propertius’ fourth book, the speaker of the elegy, a statue of Vertumnus that stands directly south of the Forum, carries a short inscription that addresses the passerby who ‘runs off to meet his bail appointment’.26 Building from scholarly reconstruction of the location of Vertumnus’ lost statue, I chart a likely path for this running passerby with a double arrow in the lower centre of Fig. 7.1. An allusion in Cicero gives an idea of what such an appointment could be like. A passage from his Pro Quinctio indicates that such meetings were well-populated affairs. To prove that Quinctius has missed his own bail appointment, Naevius arranges for a set of acquaintances to gather at a preordained meeting place somewhere in the vicinity of the Basilica Aemilia. The number of men who answer his summons is substantial, according to Cicero’s testimony, and each is a recognized member of the community (Quinct. 25, homines nobiles). The bold, encircled X in Fig. 7.1 gives an approximate sense of the crowd’s gathering place. At this spot, they are present to testify in writing that Naevius had made his appointment

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and that Quinctius has not.27 The procedure that Naevius carries out follows the steps of our prior examples of self-help: an important individual avails himself of a contingent of friends in a matter of law, even one so apparently insignificant as a meeting over a bail bond. In the clear example from Cicero, Quinctius is the structural equivalent of Horace’s pest, while Naevius corresponds to the nameless adversary who drags the pest away at poem’s end. This reconstruction of Naevius’ procedure seems secure, and when applied to Satirae 1.9 it prompts an intriguing question: as the hustle and bustle (clamor … concursus) of his adversary moves through the Forum to meet Horace’s companion, where is the contingent of friends that the pest should have gathered in support of his own claims?28 It is here that consideration of legal movement in the city – both its topography and ubiquity – helps to resurrect an influential context for the Horatian satire. As I have already made clear, the poem’s action involves a two-step legal procedure. First, a meeting would take place in accordance with a previously determined bail agreement, in this instance near the Temple of Vesta. It is in lieu of this meeting that the pest chose to continue his walk with Horace. Next would occur the actual procedure in court. This second, more important engagement is secured by the adversary at the poem’s close, when he forcefully abducts the pest. It is therefore apparent that the adversary’s arrival hardly occurred ‘by chance’ (casu, 1.9.74), as Horace claims; his opponent had clearly been on the lookout for the pest subsequent to his failure to appear on bond. Moreover, as the discussion of Pro Quinctio indicates, the adversary will have already taken steps to ensure that he had with him a group of supporters to enforce his claim – whence the ‘shouting and bustling’. This situation, by which the adversary works to facilitate his own recourse to self-help, invites us to re-assess two additional features of the poem. My first suggestion is highly speculative, but is in keeping with the satire’s generally playful tone. Immediately prior to the arrival of the adversary, Horace and the pest encounter the poet’s friend Aristius Fuscus (1.9.60–74). A memorable exchange follows, in which Horace broadly hints for Fuscus to take him aside and thereby rescue him from his irritating companion. Fuscus offers pretences for refusing to do so, presumably with the intention of playing a practical joke on Horace.29 And yet when one considers the topography of the situation, an additional reason for Fuscus’ departure offers itself (see the dashed arrows on the Forum plan in Fig. 7.1). Fuscus has presumably approached from the opposite direction that the pair is walking, from the west. As a result, he would be able to witness any action unfolding behind the backs of Horace and the pest.30 What he could not avoid seeing, I would maintain, is the adversary and his attendant crowd emerging from near the Temple of Vesta, impatiently seeking out the man who had broken his appointment. Fuscus accordingly realizes that the throng’s imminent presence would render unnecessary any intervention for Horace on his own part. Other circumstances will soon free the poet from the pest. Furthermore, Fuscus’ hasty retreat now receives additional dramatic motivation if understood as arising from his unwillingness to become enmeshed in a judicial proceeding, as Horace subsequently must, by appearing as a witness to the pest’s arrest. My second observation involves probing the intentions of the pest. The principal humour driving the satire derives from his poorly disguised desire to snare Horace as



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a step toward ingratiating himself into the poet’s wider circle of friends and patrons. A writer of verse himself, it is no wonder that he seeks to meet a patron as powerful as Maecenas – can you really blame him? However, this generally acknowledged reconstruction also entails other, more immediate, benefits that could accrue from such an acquaintance. Kelly has garnered evidence that points to the innate inequality of a legal system that utilizes self-help in summoning men to a judicial hearing; as he notes, ‘we may speak theoretically of a wronged individual or group righting or avenging the wrong by physical force, but in practice this possibility depends primarily on the individual or group possessing superior physical strength to that of the wrongdoer’.31 Clearly, the wealthy will have access to more slaves, clients and friends to help them successfully bring about action by force.32 Indeed, as Östenberg demonstrates in this volume, such escorted movements would have been a daily sight, as elite Romans parade through the city thronged by their supporters. In this context, it is worth noting that the pest has no answer to the strong contingent of followers that seem to have escorted his opponent and that served to create the hullabaloo accompanying the adversary’s arrival. Roman material from the earlier Republic supports Kelly’s contention concerning the inherent inequality underlying the Roman system of self-help. In 1915, Betti published an essay in which he discussed at length the ways in which ‘aristocratic conceptions’ during the earliest years of Rome conceived of ‘right as an expression of force’.33 That this conception continued to prevail into the historical period is supported not only by the various historical incidents assembled by Kelly, but by Latin legal terms as well. By the classical period, the noun vindicatio refers to the procedure by which a party asserts claim of ownership over an object. The word’s etymology, however, indicates that the ‘justice’ of each claim depends upon the claimant’s ability to apply the requisite amount of force (vis) needed to implement that claim.34 In such a procedure, might literally makes right. From here, it is not a great leap to Nietzsche’s fanciful but intriguing derivation of one Latin designation for the morally right, that is the adjective bonus, from an archaic word meaning ‘warrior’ (duenos).35 Etymologies, however, even if seemingly corroborated by ancient testimony (Paul. Fest., 67, DVONUM bonum), provide notoriously shaky grounds upon which to base a thesis, and so we are well advised to return to documentable history. The legal scholar John Crook provides additional insight into the distinction during the Republican era between the theoretical basis of a law and its application in practice. After analysing the various ways in which members of the Republican elite went to great lengths to avoid bringing each other to court to prosecute a debt, he hypothesizes that in fact actions against debt were probably rare between members of the elite; by contrast, however, he surmises that the elite ‘may well have wielded [the law] mercilessly against debtors of lower status’ (174). Could this inequitable situation be the one in which the pest finds himself? The pest was undoubtedly well aware of his legal commitments – they were hardly the spontaneous creation of Apollo. Unlike Horace, he knew that his day in the Forum would not be spent meditating upon pleasantries (nescioquid meditans nugarum, 1.9.2). Given this awareness of his situation, his lack of allies in self-help becomes particularly conspicuous. Recall too that early in the poem, as the strollers approach

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the Temple of Vesta, the pest had attempted to commit Horace as a legal ally. His plea failed when the poet objected that his weak constitution would little avail a friend involved in a legal suit (1.9.39–40, ‘inteream, si / aut valeo stare aut novi civilia iura’). This refusal acquires a certain poignancy when one recalls that the pest, perhaps as a prelude to gaining Horace’s sympathy toward his eventual request for help, pointedly remarked that virtually all his close relations had predeceased him.36 Considering the context that I have been trying to sketch for his behaviour, I would claim that the pest was aware of the inevitable inequality of the action that was about to proceed against him on this day, and that he was equally aware of the unlikelihood of his own success.37 Accordingly, he forgoes his legal responsibilities when he sees the potential cultural cachet of an acquaintance with Horace and, with luck, an introduction to the poet’s wider circle of associates. He was, moreover, undoubtedly aware of the legal advantages that would also accrue: ‘Is the poet, unconsciously no doubt, pointing to the power which lay behind the good taste and relaxed civility of the circle?’38 Horace may be unconscious of these associations, but the pest well understood that elite status would enhance legal privilege. Perhaps instead of the derogatory term ‘pest’, scholars should correct centuries of misunderstanding by referring to this man as ‘the downtrodden victim of a pragmatically inequitable legal system’. I doubt, though, that this new epithet will catch on.

Acknowledgements I thank my colleague Philip Stinson for permission to use Fig. 7.1, which he also adapted for this chapter, Ida Östenberg for helpful comments on an earlier version and Kathleen Coleman for correcting an error.

8

Urban Flux: Varro’s Rome-in-progress Diana Spencer

Consuetudo loquendi est in motu (‘the practice of speech is in motion’). Varro, De lingua latina 9.17 What survives of Marcus Terentius Varro’s lengthy study of the Latin language eloquently benchmarks the etymological strata of discourse and their significance in late Republican Rome. This much is clear, but his text, rarely read for pleasure, has more to offer. Varro’s compellingly three-dimensional story of what makes Latin tick (his multi-volume De lingua latina) showcases language as the key tool for understanding the Roman experience of reality. Varro’s book explores a direct linguistic connection between who and how Roman he and his audience are, the physical landscapes of Rome and the way language helps to characterize the processes of inhabiting those spaces, transforming them into ‘ethnoscapes’.1 The Moving City workshops and this subsequent collaborative volume represent a unique opportunity to investigate the idea of fluidity within Rome, a city whose influence on the development of European identities and civic structures continues to resonate. Taking the idea of ‘the moving city’ as a springboard for examining how language patterns movement, embedding it even within ostensibly static entities, has been an especially productive context. The Moving City project made possible an examination and discussion of the performative and display-focused culture of ancient Rome as a city in flux, one that was, in the decades before Varro’s death in 27 bce, moving into a radically different political framework during a period in which violence permeated the streets, courts and political bodies. Varro was, therefore, a thinker, litterateur, politician and antiquarian in an epoch-making phase in Roman history: the years when popular politics and charismatic demagogues were grabbing power and distributing favours on an unprecedented scale, an era we retrospectively know as the collapse of the Roman Republic. Hammar (in this volume) unpacks the implications of this violence on the patterning of urban experience; Varro was in the thick of much of it (a sparring partner of both Cicero and Caesar), and his etymological speculation makes it clear that ‘Roman’ itself is under scrutiny as a culturally fluid concept at a time when just about everything was being contested.

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This chapter homes in on how the instantiation of movement within a linguistic study – one which maps sites as psychic as much as physical entities – might enrich our understanding of a distinctively Roman urban identification.2 Roman citizen movement, a public performance act in the ancient city, spoke to citizens, passers-through and visitors in different and interesting ways.3 Scrutiny of the close relationship between discourse, citizen behaviour and their shifting contextual ‘scenery’ is therefore of enormous importance. And this takes me to Varro. At the heart of this volume is an interest in parsing, one way or another, urban movement; my chapter focuses on this as movement specifically relating to the citizen experience (or to the practice of citizenship) and the tensile fabric of the city. Cities, like citizens, are intrinsically on the move.4 Varro’s etymological topography of Rome is remarkable for its lack of indicators of relativity between sites (few examples specify connectivity, and transitional words such as ‘near’, ‘above’ or ‘to the left’, where present, tend towards the ambiguous because of the soft-focus effect of too many possible points of reference). It is also a city whose sites tend to sit island-like amidst their etymologies, avoiding clear articulation of syntax for a joined-up storyboard, or of an urban armature in the practical sense. In many respects, Varro’s scheme exemplifies the complexly dialogic quality of Rome’s urban organization before Augustus reorganized it from scratch.5 But this is not to say that Varro excludes all practicalities of movement from his dense mapping of festal, quotidian and political routes and nodes within the city; Varro’s Rome, perhaps more than any other, is a city stitched up by language. Book 5, right at the beginning of the study’s second triad, commences a triad dedicated to Cicero and devoted to the origins and development of words.6 For a start, Varro characterizes Latin in itself as a semiotic system driven by movement. Sampling the key passages proposes the following ideas: Each and every word exists as a duality, comprising what it comes from [ablative] and what it is applied to [dative] as a term.7 Time never exists without motion: for a break in motion is time too. Nor does motion exist where there is no place or body, because the latter is what is moved and the former is where to. Nor can there be no action where this movement is. Therefore, the four-horse team of the elements is place and body, time and action.8 But wherever the family of the word we’re interested in should be, even if it has forced its roots out beyond its natural territory, we’ll still follow it. For often the roots of a tree by the property line will have advanced out under a neighbour’s cornfield. For this reason, if, when I speak of places, I move from the field to an agrarian man and arrive at a farmer, I still won’t have gone astray.9

These three excerpts underpin the whole question of what it means to explore the moving city-as-text – the literary turn, as it were.10 By excavating, mapping and claiming the experienced world of signs by means of, and as a function of, discourse, we and Varro’s audience are subscribing on some level to a shared Latinate episteme. As speakers (and readers) negotiate the world through Latin ‘signs’, they also confront a ‘described’ world. Varro’s locational and infrastructural etymologies highlight just



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how ‘in progress’ and contingent each worldview and aspect of urban experience is. And this is embedded here in his study of Latin, semantically as well as semiotically. First, Varro embeds movement in every word by drawing his audience’s attention to how words come into being. Even that phraseology makes plain the dynamic: gaining meaning within the communicative system of language means a word has already moved from a complex of sounds (its source word or linguistic point of origin) to something recognizable as a discrete sign within Varro’s Latin scheme, ready to signal some new entity, action or concept. As Varro goes on to say (Ling. 5.3), the relations are often rather hard to fathom, but as book 5 unspools, we find that the dynamic quality of the hunt for etymologies, and the act of applying words to things, produces new ways of understanding urban experience. As Varro puts it later when introducing book 8,11 language is always semiotically ‘on the move’ because words exist both as derivations of meaning (they therefore can be conceptualized as moving ‘[away] from’ a generating source-entity or idea) and as applications of meaning (once embedded in the language, discourse tags or links them back ‘to’ entities or concepts). This, together with his comment in book 5, is a powerful textual impetus, one which Varro is perhaps formalizing but not inventing, but it is especially significant to the exploration of Rome as a city of text(s) awaiting readers. Instead of representing the city as a text to be read, Varro instead delivers Rome as a living entity, chronologically complex but waiting to wake up and engage in a dialogue, just requiring discourse to power up the experience.12 When we move through a selection of sites in book 5, I propose that we keep in mind this spatio-temporality and its significance for urban storytelling, as it lends itself well to some of the foundational texts of space analysis. From the works of Henri Lefebvre and Michel de Certeau, I draw in particular on Lefebvre’s 1985 coinage ‘rhythmanalysis’13 and the ‘pedestrian speech acts’ and ‘walking rhetorics’ imagined by de Certeau. As frames for Varro’s multilayered conceit, they can enrich the potential for exploring habitus, or ‘the ways of frequenting or dwelling in a place’ – here, Rome – through a series of close readings which form the body of this chapter.14 With each word potentially a space-time journey in miniature, control over words and syntax can empower the equipped speaker to authorize or rescript real-world space to suit new agendas.15 This teleological authority to fashion the environment discursively in ways that shape and respond to human interest is evident in Varro on roads (e.g. Ling. 5.22, 145), rivers (5.28–30) and fields (5.33–40). Any of these could offer a rewarding case study for exploring what it means to move in Latin through Roman space, but the Moving City agenda leads me instead to select from Varro’s (second) whistle-stop tour of Rome itself (Ling. 5.143, 145–68) in order to suggest further directions for exploring the text as a sophisticated and culturally engaged document.

Structuring the experience Varro’s first exploration of Rome serves as a prequel to this chapter’s site-seeing, and sets the scene for what was to become a popular literary-touristic phenomenon in the

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years after Varro’s death, as O’Sullivan discusses in this volume.16 Back at De lingua latina 5.41–56, that first tour glossed the city with the forces of nature and of the cosmos, initially by elaborating the scheme of seven hills to kick-start a visit beginning with the Capitoline, then the Aventine and the Velabrum.17 Then Varro shifted to a framework generated by a different kind of ‘heritagescape’: the localities associated with the 27 so-called Shrines of the Argei.18 This first Roman topography works primarily in terms of sacred associations and mythic history, but the two overlay maps (featuring hills and shrines) that it generates are at least complicated by the fact that Varro has not yet etymologized the vocabulary most closely associated with urban armature, that is, built infrastructural terminology such as ‘street’, ‘building’ and ‘wall’.19 It is with this alternative and more ostentatiously humane and artificial city that I am concerned here, a phase in Varro’s discussion (starting from Ling. 5.141) that eventually returns the reader to Rome. Varro begins this revised urban semiotic archaeology by linking together buildings (aedificia), qualified as places constructed around a hearth and situated within the walls that encircle a town. Walls impose collectivity, characterize community, break and reform patterns of movement and initiate up–down conversations between ground-level experience and political and military oversight. Buildings thus imply a gathering together of individuals. A standard wall (the term murus) is imaginatively personified and given ‘obligations’ (in semantic dialogue with munus) to create the ramparted, fortified wall (moenia) of a town (oppidum). Such iconic battlements might also feature as a visual joke within the complex privacy of a villa atrium. In Varro, this delivers an associative nexus linking people, fortifications, security, home, defence and powerful urbanization; it also suggests that the town, or perhaps city (Varro is still not fixing this in the urbs), is a place where movement is schematized, divided off from the differently regulated movement we might assume to prefigure organized communities. The semi-personified urban space demarcated by moenia is topped by battlements, for which the term is pinnae (literally ‘feathers’). In this way we see a town boundary combining an allusion to mobile flesh-and-blood soldiers’ helmets on duty, melding with the flickering sense of a flight of birds connecting the site to the skies above, and yet monumentalized by the stone defences. A town thus regularizes somewhere that people and structures ‘collect’, and its movement patterns are regulated by urban walls (for which there is a specific term, moenia), distinguished by a ‘flighty’ icon: feathers (pinnae). Literally, the walls seem about to take off, but figuratively we gain the crested helmets of guards on duty, perhaps momentarily meshing on the skyline with winged, uplifting statues atop temples, patrolling the ramparts. Distinctively, what marks an urban community off from the rural, external world is its motile zig-zag pattern of metamorphic battlements (Ling. 5.141–2).20 By personifying the frame of the oppidum using ‘lively’ etymologies and aetiologies, Varro embeds connotations of motion. That this is a movement-rich site, despite the apparently static nature of the ideal defensive structure, is evident when we see the next key feature, namely the intentional breaches in the wall: a ‘way’ (via) is the space facilitating portage in and out of town (portarent).21 The tag for this specific kind of way or route where it intersects with the wall is thus derived from the action it facilitates: it is a porta (‘gate’), from the verb portare (‘to bear’). The complexity of



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what a gate permits and represents is for instance exhibited in Rome’s contemporary Porta S. Paolo or Porta Maggiore, where today what we see are static edifices vividly emblematic of the passage of time and ruin/decay, and which have had their identity as gates subverted so that they now act as a detour/hindrance, or even destination. Nevertheless, as public transport hubs they continue to signal defined entrance and exit, facilitating and connoting but not instantiating movement. The various ‘ways’ are now forced into circumlocutions to achieve what the wall/gate nexus once instantiated. Continuing to follow the narrative, Varro’s next section (Ling. 5.143) makes explicit the connection between town and city by fixing the term urbs into the scheme. The urbs is also etymologically enriched with movement. To inhabit an urbs is to inhabit a ‘circle’ (from orbis) generated by ploughing an enclosing ditch, which itself backed up onto the necessary defining wall: the post murum (explained by slippage in spoken use from moerium). An urbs is perpetually ‘encircling’, circumscribing its identity (orbis) in perpetuity as well as commemorating one foundational act of ploughing the pomerium. The iconic significance of this act and its motility shows up in coin issues such as the illustrated image from the early 20s bce (possibly associated with the foundation of Nikopolis) showing Octavian ploughing a boundary. This visual scheme combines the military dynamism of imperator, with sacral iconography (veiled head), and the urban/rural mash-up (ploughing a city into existence) that generates totalizing urban entities (see Fig. 8.1). A complementary dynamic characterizes Varro’s introduction to urban form. He commences with a kinetic relationship between buildings (aedificia) and ‘blocks’ or neighbourhoods (vici), using via as the connector. In effect, streets are what superchange

Fig. 8.1  This silver denarius minted 29–27 bce juxtaposes Apollo laureate (obverse) with Octavian (titled IMP. CAESAR), veiled, and driving a plough with a pair of oxen. By matching Apollo with an emblem of the city’s foundation, the coin emphasizes the relationship between divine favour and human agency that underpins the nitty-gritty as well as the iconic qualities of urban morphology. © The Trustees of the British Museum.

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buildings, transforming them from isolated entities into elements of a social unit (Ling. 5.145). In fact, Varro has already primed readers to be interested in this terminology by suggesting that oppidum, vicus and via, presented as a triad in that order (Ling. 5.8), repay a high level of philosophical enquiry.22 Continuing to look back to this earlier phase in the text, at section 22 (Ling. 5.22), Varro had proposed that via denotes a specific kind of journey or route facilitator (iter): one which has been worn away (teritur) by wagon traffic (vehendo).23 The context for this sortie into the backstory of via is directly connected by narrative association to territorialism: it follows immediately on from Varro’s comments on what turns space (locus) into territorium – the answer is that territory is well-trodden land, and boundaries (termini) are best trodden of all (one treads the boundaries by means of the paths between fields).24 Viae thus facilitate and are generated by natural routes, repetitively followed and simultaneously created by the wear-patterns of wagon wheels; viae are terminus-markers, where boundaries are conceptualized as sites of most frequentative traffic (Ling. 5.21). Defining territory makes for a kind of rhythmanalysis, where moving repetitively in space articulates geography as ethnoscape, and instantiates the relationship between practice and meaning in rhetoric.

From site to site: The rhythm of the tour Multiple personal and public, civic and communal factors buzz around in this linguistically enriched city. Varro’s etymological intervention adds antiquarian heft and rigour to an urban-stroller’s personalization of the experience, and by virtue of the particular etymologies he pushes, Varro’s audience is primed to respond to the text’s didactic cues by experiencing the city as ‘under construction’. This takes us to the notion of the ‘heritagescape’, for which Mary-Catherine Garden usefully identifies ‘three guiding principles’: boundaries, cohesion and visibility.25 By boundaries, Garden means how things are physically and conceptually marked off as separate, how these markers of distinction develop over time and what they are understood to represent. By cohesion, Garden asks us to think about what makes for a unifying sense of place, and suggests that the heritagescape is typically characterized by dissimilarity between its different elements. Moving from one place, sight or element to another requires a conceptual shift, although we might also think of this as each element being easily distinguishable from one another. In Varro, this distinction operates both through individuating etymologies and through the distinctions he proposes between members of word families and their signified concepts. By visibility, Garden means what’s really there – what she terms ‘cultural (in)visibility’. This includes ‘the way in which tangible elements within the landscape may assume a greater or lesser presence depending on their roles and whether they are recognized or have been designated as “heritage”’. For Varro’s Rome, this highlights the role of the guide and etymologist in signposting, excavating and designating what makes for significance and a pause on the tour. Returning to Varro’s second ‘tour’ of Rome, moving from macrocosm (the town), we saw how Varro pushed us to the specifics of vicus and then to via. A



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town is therefore encountered as a walled settlement of miniature sub-collections of buildings (aedificia) which form vici through their relationship lining both sides of viae.26 Hence, the townscape is initially conceived as a series of walled-in focal points (the hearths or aedes from which Varro derives aedificium). These relate to each other spatially as neighbours and also dynamically as bordered sites between which particular movement patterns are encouraged. This becomes clear, immediately, when Varro turns to a subcategory of via, the fundula or cul-de-sac (Ling. 5.145), so-called from fundus (‘bottom’ or ‘basis’), and further glossed by Varro as a no-through-road (pervium non est). Following the linguistic path, Varro’s audience finds that one only ‘recognizes’ or perceives the essential quality of a fundula for the first time by entering or turning one’s gaze down it. By moving (the eyes, the body, the feet) toward its concluding end-stop point, the wayfarer then quickly gains confirmation that this is a ‘short’ street or path, so by definition the route declares its impermeable qualities quickly (-ula ending). To know fully that this is not a via requires a combined metaphysical and practicebased approach. From a via, the logical starting point, the experience metamorphoses terminologically and perceptually (by experience – there is no way out), and then mnemonically (one recalls the map and blockage points on future strolls). Next, offering more positively fluid networking potential, comes the angiportum. The text is tricky here, but even without emendation it delivers a nexus of ‘narrow’ (angustus), driving (agere) and entry (portus). Portus often implies harbour or river mouth, and even asylum, so one way of imagining structured movement in the interstices between buildings or neighbourhoods might be to conceptualize it as a series of sorties (factoring in ago) whereby the protagonist develops knowledge of the town by experiencing reversals or halts (angustus, portus) and, in the process of treading the ground, begins to learn the narrative possibilities and constraints of new urban space. In this way one might imagine the angiportum as embedding defensive/offensive sorties into urban rhetoric, and implying a driving of the moving body into a confined space that is both entry and exit, refuge and site of encounter or commerce. This is quite differently nuanced to the semiotics of porta, as we saw introduced earlier (Ling. 5.142). This texture makes even more sense when we read on to the next stop on the tour: the forum. The juxtaposition takes us from the in/out dynamics of portus, a place of convergence and transition, to a further refinement of movement: movement connected to rhetoric, communication and collective and centralizing agency. Varro tells us that the place where people bring together (conferrent) their quarrels, and draw together their debates (controversiae), and to where they carry (ferrent) things which they want to sell (discourse bundled in with cabbages and leeks), they called it a forum (a ‘carry-place’). We are moving toward a space with focal qualities as a point of convergence (a forum), and we are porting ideological and physical burdens (goods and disputes) from the portus – the entrance or ‘harbour’ – even though no actual harbour etymology has been offered. Moving textually in this way, through the angiportum, has transformed us into participants in the urban endeavour. Next (Ling. 5.146), Varro elucidates how what one is carrying, or perhaps transporting (literally or metaphorically), determines the character and thereby name of

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one’s target gathering point. If one has a herd of cows, this requires a destination-space which works for herds and has good and straightforward access points – open but not too open. So the place where this trade is most popular and productive becomes a special type of forum because the nature of the trade necessitates a particular kind of defined space: hence, a Forum Bouarium. Vegetables and market-gardening produce coalesce by the same logic at a Forum Holitorium. Reaching the Forum Holitorium, a specifically Roman markup becomes clearer. According to Varro’s story, this site was formerly the old Macellum, a space overflowing with vegetables (copia). Its ‘former’ (and the designation might have been expected to signal ‘authentic’) name, however, reroutes the tourist to two unexpected Greek spaces: Spartans, Varro notes, still call a vegetable market a μάκελλον, whilst Ionians call garden entrances μακελλώτας hortorum and connect the term to entering small fortified settlements. This hints at deeply embedded Mediterranean cosmopolitanism amongst those coagulating in this specific and increasingly Roman space, giving a vivid flavour to the kinds of route for which it marks the goal, whether for Romans, migrants or visitors. If we have been reading the text as a narrative, and in sequence, we will know that Varro’s explicit drawing in of Greece in the Produce Market area is in play for the Cattle Market too: back at section 5.96 he told us that animals kept for profit (including cows) have the same names in Latium as in Greece because their names echo their noises. The Forum Boarium, thus, just ‘is’ itself – its name is what (one imagines) it sounds like when one approaches it, whether one speaks/hears it in Greek or Latin.27 But of course this neatly totalizing solution fractures when one recalls that in the late first century bce, the Forum Bouarium was aetiologically complex. Livy and then Virgil, like Propertius and Ovid a little later, associate it with the trans-European hero and paradoxically civilizing brute, Hercules; in particular, it marks a stop on his trip back home via Italy, with Geryon’s cattle.28 This is not the only story muddying the waters of how this transitory space functioned in the late first century bce. Ovid also connects it to a work of art – a bronze statue of an ox, later described by Pliny, from which Ovid has the place derive its name.29 The practice of cattle trading and its spatial pragmatics is therefore not at all as neat a solution as Varro proposes. Then the more ostentatiously complex produce- and vegetable-themed Forum Holitorium is topographically adjacent, making for a zone that showcases how the derivation of meaning for places can be both denotative and connotative.30 The Produce Market suggests a settled agricultural community (a transition from herdsmen to cultivators), but also (as the Greco-Spartan overtones hint) an ethnically heterogeneous one, and leads into a list of other kinds of produce market where Varro briskly makes it clear that (if we remained in any doubt) Rome is our location: we are clearly talking about a zone or set of themed commercial zones south and west of the Forum Romanum and bounded by the Tiber (where fish are bought and sold). So far, our route with Varro has avoided giving three-dimensional reality to the Forum, except by highlighting key sites around it (in contrast to the site’s bustling literary-political centrality in Horace, perhaps a decade after Varro was writing).31 In space syntax terminology, Varro makes the Forum Romanum an extremely ‘thin’ space – so meagre, in fact, that we have instantly been diverted south-westwards toward



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the Tiber (our first forum categories), and then back northeast (again, no reference to the Forum Romanum) toward a structure built by Marcus Fulvius Nobilior (179 bce) which replaced previous commercial sites and was tagged the Macellum. There, Varro sites the ‘luxury’ goods and delicacies which define a space as ‘greed’-oriented. Narratologically, then, the story draws us from simple communities, through to a world where trade in basic or surplus commodities shades gradually into a complex luxury market.32 With this we arrive at our first edifice, the Macellum, marking a shift from what seems like an autochthonous ‘district’ of sorts (the various essential fora) to a formal, planned and built intervention in the urban landscape.33 This has all been movement through the implicit hurly-burly of commercial, mercantile urban life; it has also, inevitably, been what Östenberg identifies as ‘escorted movement’ – Varro is our docent.34 From the Macellum he takes us southwest (and for anyone who knows Rome, the Argiletum springs to mind) into the Forum at last (Ling. 5.148). The Argiletum seems especially likely to be an implied route as it opens into the Forum opposite the Lacus Curtius, which is Varro’s next focus. This site synecdochically becomes the Forum at this point in the route. This happens semantically (In foro Lacum Curtium) but also because it receives an exceptionally extensive treatment, spreading out in narrative terms to enforce a pause, after which Varro moves northwestwards to the Arx. Although the Lacus Curtius is significant, the scope of this chapter means making some omissions, and I have tackled the Lacus extensively elsewhere.35 Hence, I propose that we move on past this site to Varro’s next stop, on the Capitoline. Varro keeps his audience focused on the northern end of the hill by pointing us towards the Arx, which he qualifies using arcere – this is a place from which things (here, enemies) are kept, which in turn is because it is the most fortified place in the city. From the height, we next move rapidly down to the depths and visit the imprisoning carcer (this Capitoline peak is thus both a ‘keep out’ space and one in dialogue with a containing, segregating space). The etymology offered is from coercere (‘to confine’, giving ‘place of confinement’) but, as one reads, the aural link between the phonics of arx ab arcendo and carcer a coercendo is very strong, especially with both phrases linked in the text to ‘prohibition’ (the forms prohiberi and prohibentur). This suggests a mash-up between verbal and spatial in the metalink between the two sites, with the unspoken bulk of the hill-body reifying it associatively and physically, buttressed by the semantics of the etymological juxtaposition. Movement continues to underpin subsequent sites on Varro’s itinerary, and does so explicitly. Though this chapter lacks the space to visit them all,36 we might pause our procession at one of the most persistently iconic sites: the Circus Maximus. Without exploring the full ramifications of Varro’s Circus Maximus, one might wonder whether Caesar’s massive enlargement of the Circus (46 bce), including extension of the stands and seating to form a continuous audience loop, has influenced Varro’s treatment – De lingua latina was still under construction in 45 bce, so there’s a potential for lively topicality. The rationale for the Circus is that ‘it was built for the shows around (circum) the place where the games are held, and because it’s there, around the turning posts, that the procession makes its way and the horses race’.37 The rhetoric emphasizes a natural rightness to man-made schemes where buildings or structures

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respond explicitly to natural movement patterns; here, in another valley setting off Rome’s formative hills, urban form is already immanent in the landscape (Fig. 8.2) and continues to speak to the relationship, even as Rome became ruinous. Engaging in extensive enhancements to the Circus might imply an appreciation of the natural topography’s inherently urban tendency at key patriotic sites. Through a different ideological filter, such urban regeneration might also recognize the historical power of Rome’s landscape to shape behaviour radically and to generate and exert crowd control, two key strategies for late Republican success.38 Varro adds performance-cultural density to this etymology by citing the comic dramatist Plautus for the term circus as a place which specifically encourages games and encircling movement, before making another connection to a site we have already visited (back at Ling. 5.152): the carcer – a name for the horses’ starting gates. There is a juicy irony that the Circus (a place which is characterized by running around, or parading through, or even lively debauchery) also has the ultimate stasis point at its ‘prime’ spot: the horses’ starting gates, Varro says, are today (nunc) called the ‘cells’ (carceres). As Varro plausibly suggests, this hints at the horses being held under restraint (coercentur) before they burst out into the notional freedom of the race. These stalls, Varro records, were once (back in the late third century bce) called the Town (oppidum), via a quote from Naevius.39 Varro’s comment suggests either that there was a forgetfulness about the ‘Town’ tag, which he wants to remedy by commemorating the historical name, or that the Cells/Town dialogue is one which continues to be meaningful in some way and therefore demands attention. Naevius’ lines describe  a parading dictator who doesn’t stop his chariot until he reaches the Town, giving a political edge to Varro’s interest. This continues to develop if we move on to the innermost or central – perhaps connoting the deepest/farthest (intumus) – part of the Circus, which Varro tells us derives its name (ad Murciae) either from a pre-existing myrtle grove (echoed in a contemporary shrine to Venus Murtea) or from the fact that it was a manufactory zone (the potters’ quarter).40 To understand the array of available meaning, we need to step back for a moment. We are in the valley separating the Aventine and the Palatine. The Aventine hill had two ‘peaks’, and the SE peak had been associated with the name Murcus.41 This may filter through into Livy’s comment a couple of decades or so later that Latins who were granted citizenship after Rome’s victory at Medullia were settled ‘at Murcia’s’, making a direct geographic connection (the valley) between the Aventine and the Palatine.42 Connecting this spatial reading to a tribal topography, the Aventine was already, Livy had made clear, tagged as the place where ‘newcomers’ settled: elsewhere, the Palatine was the original Roman settlement, the Sabines occupied the Capitol and Arx, and the Caelian was associated with the Albans.43 That this was way back when Rome was ruled by Ancus Marcius further enriches the semiotics and, although Varro makes no reference to a pun on Marcius or Murcus, readers might already have felt the exclusion of Ancus Marcius’ enlargement of the Roman citizenship from Varro’s main discussion of the Aventine ethnoscape (Ling. 5.43).44 Semiotic gaps can instantiate meaning too,45 and making the Circus’ first turn/farthest point connect to the SE Aventine also expands the ‘heritagescape’ towards the Remoria, and to the tradition of the ‘augury’ by which Romulus founded Rome, itself implicitly present when Varro first explored



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Fig. 8.2  ‘Vestigij del Circo Massimo che fu cosi cognominato dalla sua grandezza’, 1607–20 (Stefano Du Perac Parisino). The vestigial qualities of the Circus in this early seventeenth-century imaginary show it growing out of but also collapsing back into the former valley to which antiquity accorded its origins. The form is skeletally evident, with the banked seating evoked by the Palatine ruins, with the Aventine eye-view offering an elevated gaze from exurb into a distinctly palimpsestic cityscape. British School at Rome Library, Thomas Ashby collection, tapri-L611.D9.011. the Aventine earlier in book 5. All this in part of the landscape which even before Rome was awaiting its ultimate Circus form.

To conclude, and where next? Scrolling forward to the end of Varro’s tour, we finally reach a network of streets in the Carinae area (taking in the Oppian and Cispian slopes). This closing shift in the tour’s rhythm takes us deep into Rome’s history – with zones name-checking Sabine migrancy, the Punic Wars and the despotic cruelty of monarchy. Thus, even though Varro’s Latin is glossed with a patina of deep-seated age, which might be expected to signal stability, there is also a very real way in which his locational etymologies are explicitly tottering: destabilized by their discursive status as declinable and ruinable objects within a study of Latin, a language that embodies Rome’s foundational heterogeneity and centripetal quality. Topography – the discourse of fixed places – might therefore function paradoxically as the quintessential guarantor of Rome as a work-in-progress in Varro’s scheme. Revisiting Cicero’s famous comment about Varro, he had said that it was in Varro’s books that a people, in their own city ‘yet still wandering and straying as if strangers’,

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could find a way home, an aide mémoire as it were, ‘that led us home, so that we were at last able to recognize who and where we were’.46 A genre norm for didactic is that its audience lacks expertise and requires guidance to the territory: with Cicero’s words in mind, we might imagine Varro addressing an audience expecting to be at a loss in their own city, perhaps explicably so given the turbulence of the preceding decades; this was an audience in need of a primer.47 Through Varro’s carefully selected organization of data and etymological modelling of discourse against time and space, he enables a suitably enthusiastic readership to author their own urban networks. Yet despite the empowering overtones of didactic, this rhetorical position also speaks to a less optimistic relationship between a personalized imaginary Rome and the real-world city. Varro’s guidebook frames and only partly decodes a world not just of signs but also of hidden arcana which might or might not prove to be the referents. Varro’s imaginaire delivers power-user knowledge of perceptible signs and arcana, and elite readers could be expected to appreciate Varro’s delivery of a polyphonous and transitory approach to discourse. Moreover, parole is most potent when filtered through langue – inhabiting the city is underpinned by the movement-rich, dynamic foundations of linguistic structure. Nevertheless, this reading suggests that it is in the dialogic and transitory quality of an ‘all roads lead to and from Rome’ model that the gaps in certainty lie, and perhaps thereby the opportunities for renegotiation of certainty and identity – that is, for progress.

9

Augustan Literary Tours: Walking and Reading the City Timothy M. O’Sullivan

It has become axiomatic in modern scholarship that the city of ancient Rome functioned as a text, with its countless buildings, monuments and inscriptions providing an array of stories waiting to be ‘read’ by its urban denizens.1 Individual buildings or monuments could serve as signifiers of past events, or even evoke multiple events at the same time. A triumphal arch, for instance, alluded both to a specific historical achievement (typically an act of war) and to the celebration of that achievement in Rome. This metaphor is particularly well suited to the imperial period, when emperors such as Augustus or Domitian authored urban epics by leaving their marks all over the city.2 The layering effect of such varied stories often inspires a comparison of the city to a palimpsest, with the same manuscript endlessly rewritten by successive generations of dynasts and builders.3 Unfortunately, there is little direct evidence for the metaphor of ‘reading the city’ in antiquity.4 Yet the city of Rome clearly loomed large for ancient authors, both as a backdrop for action and as a subject in and of itself, endlessly constructed by successive generations of writers – a phenomenon Catharine Edwards has called ‘written Rome’. The city has enjoyed a parallel existence, one might say, in the texts of Roman writers, and in later authors as well.5 Thus the trope of written Rome says as much about our experience of the city as it does about the ancient experience of the city: we moderns move through ancient Rome primarily by reading literature about it, thus the appeal to modern scholars of a metaphor that unites literary and physical (and literal and metaphorical) movement. As soon as we frame the issue in these terms, we can see that the metaphor of reading the city does indeed owe a great debt to ancient authors, who themselves were keen to explore the connections between literary and physical movement. In this chapter, I propose to examine one particular instance of this phenomenon: the ‘urban tour’ poems that are especially prevalent in Augustan literature.6 Poets such as Virgil, Horace, Propertius and Ovid introduce the reader to the site of Rome by describing acts of movement through the city, and by having readers imagine the monuments and topography of Rome through someone else’s eyes (and feet). My argument will be that these poems tell us a great deal about the Augustan revolution and the effect it had on how people moved through Rome, and not just in the obvious sense that

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the poems contain a wealth of information about Augustan topography. Rather, I am interested in the way that these authors are primed, as it were, to frame the effects of the Augustan transformation in terms of movement because they are working in a tradition that thinks of the poetic process itself as a kind of movement. Indeed, the cultural metaphor that connected literary and physical movement in antiquity is as old as Western literature itself: Odysseus, after all, acts as both a narrator and a traveller in books 9–12 of the Odyssey.7 In this chapter we will explore the metaphor from a Roman perspective. What were the ways that Romans were trained to ‘move’ through their texts? And how did the metaphor of narrative movement impact their experience of the city itself? A number of scholars have explored the interactions between the visual and the verbal realms in antiquity, but there has been less emphasis on movement in particular as the point of comparison.8 Yet Rome is a particularly fertile site for this sort of investigation. The scale and ambition of the Augustan city fostered the development of an itinerary genre that was previously reserved for longer journeys, and the comparison of a walk through Rome to grander excursions was an appropriate topos for the burgeoning cosmopolis.9

Literary movement Before turning to the urban tour poems, let us first examine the metaphor of literary movement in more detail. There is a host of ways in which both writing and reading were figured as acts of movement in antiquity. Take the word legere itself: the word has more of a physical connotation than English ‘read’, and can even convey the act of motion. Its literal meaning is something like ‘to select’, so that it can have a broader visual connotation than just the act of reading (‘to pick out with the eyes’). Virgil uses the word when Aeneas ‘reads’ the parade of heroes from the top of the tumulus in Aen. 6.754–5 (tumulum capit unde omnis longo ordine posset adversos legere). Legere can even mean ‘traverse’ (OLD s.v. lego 7), as in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, where Arethusa tells Ceres that ‘no other [nymph] traversed the woodlands more eagerly’ than she (5.578–9, nec me studiosius altera saltus / legit). We may well wonder, then, whether the sense of sequential movement implicit in Latin legere has a significant impact on Roman reading practice. One is tempted to justify the reading-as-moving metaphor in the technology of the scroll, which imposed a kind of linear pathway to be travelled by any reader – or writer for that matter.10 Certainly, the act of movement through a scroll could invite comparison to a physical journey, as in the famous conclusion of Horace’s Satirae 1.5; coming to the end of his description of their journey to Brundisium, he notes that the town marked ‘the end of both a long papyrus sheet and a long journey’ (Sat. 1.5.104, Brundisium longae finis chartaeque viaeque est).11 Scholars of the technology of ancient reading, William Johnson in particular, have examined the ways in which ancient reading practices might have had cognitive effects on ancient readers.12 Ancient reading practice was qualitatively different from modern practice, and the bulk of that difference revolved around the amount of interpretive work left to the person moving through the text.



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This qualitative difference is an important one: by leaving more up to the ancient reader, his or her experience of the act of reading was less directed than that of the modern reader – the use of the scroll notwithstanding.13 Thus, reading brought with it extra responsibilities but also a kind of freedom, as Quintilian makes clear in a passage where he lists the benefits of reading privately over listening to someone else read: ‘Reading is free and does not hurry past us with the speed of oral delivery; we can reread a passage again and again if we are in doubt about it or wish to fix it in the memory. We may return [sc. to what we have read] and examine it.’14 The metaphors are slightly mixed, but listening to an oral delivery for Quintilian is akin to standing still and watching a procession pass by, while private reading allows for a freedom of movement on the part of the reader. Thus the active engagement expected of the ancient reader would have made reading an even more attractive metaphor for the individual experience of a built landscape. Nevertheless, we should be hesitant to ascribe too much significance to the specific phenomenon of scrolling through a text. For one thing, the language of narrative itself typically depends on movement metaphors, in antiquity and today (and regardless of the medium). The diegetic mode, after all, comes from diêgêsis and diêgeomai, both words for narrative and narration in ancient Greek that derive from the act of ‘leading through,’ as in leading the listener or reader through a series of events.15 And perhaps even ‘narrative’ is too restrictive a term: walking is an active metaphor for the flow of speech more generally (see, e.g., Gell. NA 11.13.10), and the pace of a speech in rhetorical writing is often likened to the pace of someone walking or running (e.g. Cic. De orat. 1.160). Indeed, on an even more basic level, movement is a metaphor for cognitive operations more generally, as recent work by William Short reminds us.16 He analyses the prevalence of what he calls ‘idea-locations’ in Roman thought and culture, noting that the Romans consistently employed the vocabulary of space, and movement into or through space, for cognitive acts such as deliberation, attention and conception. Still, the existence of a broader cultural metaphor connecting movement and mental activity does not preclude the possibility that reading is a particular instance of this phenomenon, with its own specific associations and own specific history. So, for instance, the authors of ancient Greek epigram books, as Regina Höschele has convincingly shown, consciously figured their readers as following in their footsteps as they read through the ‘inscriptions’ located along the ‘road’ of the scroll.17 This ploy depends upon the broader cognitive ability of readers to imagine their act of reading as a form of movement, while also gaining power from the ancient phenomenon of posting inscriptions along the sides of roads, such that the act of journeying almost inevitably involved multiple acts of reading.18 Höschele collects the ample evidence for the ‘reading and writing as journey’ metaphor that preceded these epigram collections. She also notes that a key shift in perspective from author as journeyer to reader as journeyer seems to occur in the Hellenistic period, with the rise of the reader as a figure of sorts in the playful poetry of the age.19 Given this abundance of metaphorical connections between the act of reading or writing and the act of movement, it is no surprise that Roman poets would take up the metaphor and run with it, as it were. And here too, they are working in a tradition. As

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is well known, the self-reflective age of Hellenistic poets employed a host of movement metaphors for the process of writing poetry, for the effect of poetry on its listeners, and for the ways that one poet follows in the footsteps of his predecessors.20 The last of these is a metaphor we see on occasion in the Augustan poets, nowhere more clearly than in Horace’s CV poem, Epist. 1.19. In his summary of his poetic career, Horace famously brags about the new path he forged by writing Latin poems in so many Greek meters (21–2): Libera per vacuum posui vestigia princeps, / non aliena meo pressi pede (‘I was the first to put my free footsteps into the void, nor did I press anyone else’s [footsteps] with my foot’). Horace is the princeps of the realm of lyric poetry, where his poems forged a path that no one else had walked before. The second clause may be gently ironic – Horace may not have walked in any Roman’s footsteps when composing in some of his more recherché meters, but he of course did walk in alien footsteps, since the whole point of his enterprise was to follow Greek precedents.21 Given this playfulness, we may even want to see a pun in libera … vestigia in line 21, since the poet is talking about the achievements of his lyric libri. Despite the difference in vowel quality between liber and līber, Ovid clearly uses this pun in the next generation and there’s no reason to think that Horace didn’t get there first.22 It may also be relevant that Cicero on a number of occasions uses vestigia (‘footprints’) to refer to the ‘traces’ left in wax tablets by the mark of a stylus, that is, to the physical product of one of the more common writing mediums in antiquity.23

Augustan ‘urban tour’ poems Having looked at how ancient authors conceptualized literary production and reception in terms of movement, we are now ready to examine the genre of the itinerary poem that emerges in late Republican and Augustan poetry.24 These poems exploit the recognizable topography of the city for its familiarity as an organizing principle, and as a background to everyday urban experience; the result is not simply the indirect praise of the builders of these monuments (especially Augustus), but rather the praise of their city as well.25 These poets represent Rome, not only mimetically, by constructing a verbal image of the city, but also politically, as the self-appointed ambassadors of Rome both for their contemporaries and for future generations.26 By (writing about) walking through the city, they fulfil their diplomatic mission: walking, the most basic and universal experience of place, is not only representative of the urban experience, but also an analogue for our experience of the city through the text. We are guided into the text, as readers, by walking alongside its protagonists. The metaliterary possibilities of the urban tour are thus apparent from the genre’s very beginning. Although there are predecessors in Roman comedy (see, e.g. Pl. Curc. 462–86, with Moore),27 the first clear itinerary poem is Catullus 55, where he scours the city in search of his friend Camerius (55.1–12): Oramus, si forte non molestumst, demonstres ubi sint tuae latebrae. te in campo quaesivimus minore,



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te in circo, te in omnibus libellis, te in templo summi Iovis sacrato. in Magni simul ambulatione femellas omnes, amice, prendi; quas vultu video tamen serenas. ‘aufertis’ sic usque flagitabam ‘Camerium mihi, pessimae puellae?’ ‘en,’ inquit quaedam, sinum reducens, ‘en hic in roseis latet papillis!’ I’m begging you, if it’s not too much trouble: show me where your hiding places are. I’ve looked for you in the lesser Campus, I’ve looked for you in the Circus, I’ve looked for you in all the books, I’ve looked for you in the precinct of Jupiter on high. I also grabbed hold of all the ladies in the portico of Pompey, my friend, but I saw that their expressions were untroubled. I kept demanding, ‘Are you keeping Camerius from me, you bad girls?’ Baring her chest, one of them answered, ‘Look, he’s hiding here between my rosy breasts’.

Despite the anaphora and the specificity of place names, the precise route that Catullus follows in his pursuit of Camerius is in no way clear to the modern reader, and has been the subject of much discussion.28 The third destination poses a lexical problem rather than a topographical one: how does one search for somebody in libellis? Suggestions have ranged from placards (announcing the sale of Camerius’ goods) to lost-and-founds to, by a sort of metonymy, bookstores. The final suggestion has won the most support, no doubt because it matches more easily the other items on the list, which are all clearly spatial, and because it has a comparandum, albeit 150 years later, in a poem by Martial.29 As we chase after Catullus chasing after Camerius, bustling through the temples and plazas and shops, the joke is on us, for the tour ends between the rosy breasts of one of the girls in Pompey’s portico (in roseis … papillis).30 As we have seen, it is not immediately apparent why Catullus is searching so eagerly for his friend, although a number of scholars have seen the poem as a travesty of Hercules’ homoerotic pursuit of Hylas. In fact, our confusion as we follow Catullus around may encourage us to read the poem in a metaliterary way: Camerius’ shadowy haunts give him up no more readily than this obscure poem surrenders its real meaning. In this way, the poetic symbolism of Catullus 55 may have influenced the ending of Horace Odes 1.9, where the intimus angulus of a piazza in the Campus Martius offers a similar image of a darkly-lit hiding place as a poetic space.31 Furthermore, while we are searching for metaliterary meaning, we might also return to the perplexing metonymy in omnibus libellis, where the recognizable topography of the city of Rome is replaced for a moment by a lexical item that typically refers to the space of writing, not of walking. As such, the reader has reason to pause at this moment when the poet collapses the distinction between the topographical tour of the narrator and the literary tour of the reader – as we search for meaning in libellis Catulli. A generation later, Horace revives the itinerary poem in the first book of his Satirae, particularly in 1.5, his journey to Brundisium, and in 1.9, his encounter with

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the ‘pest’ on the Via Sacra. We have already seen how the journey to Brundisium calls attention to the metaliterary quality of the journey at the end of the poem, where he claims to reach the end of the trip and of the papyrus scroll. And it is well known that the poem is a homage to a poem by Lucilius, who included a journey poem in his third book of Satirae, according to Porphyrio.32 As such, Horace’s satire literalizes the metaphor of ‘walking in the footsteps’ of a predecessor, while also, of course, forging its own path, since the trip veers off to another part of Italy altogether.33 But it is in another poem, Satirae 1.9, that Horace actually takes us through the city of Rome itself. Like Catullus 55, the poem tells of a pursuit through the streets of Rome, but this time the poet himself is being chased by an aggressive social climber.34 Here, too, many have suspected that this walk makes a larger literary point. Jennifer Ferriss-Hill has recently argued that the pest in Horace’s Satirae 1.9 is none other than Lucilius himself, and that his dogged pursuit of Horace through the streets of Rome is a physical representation of Horace’s anxiety of influence.35 Scholars have often seen a more metaphorical component to this walk through the city, particularly given the ‘pedestrian’ genre of satire.36 Seeing Lucilius in the picture clarifies the joke, as it were, since the poem positions Lucilius as a sectator of the poet, who then takes his rightful place as reluctant sectator of his predecessor by the end of the poem. The poem’s interaction with Augustan Rome is less the issue here (though Ferriss-Hill notes that the way the pest marvels at the splendour of the city has an added point if we imagine Lucilius being transported almost 100 years into the future, to a very different Rome).37 Nonetheless, the poem shows just how flexible the intersection of literary and physical movement had become by the late 30s bce – something that would be even clearer if we had the complete poems of Lucilius. The tours of Catullus and Horace share a number of features, most importantly the injection of the authors themselves as characters roaming through the city, but also the impulse to use a walk through the city as a backdrop for the development of interpersonal relationships and even as a display of social standing.38 We see many of the same features at work in the next tour we will consider, the famous walk through the site of Rome by Aeneas and Evander in the eighth book of Virgil’s Aeneid.39 Our first introduction in the epic to the physical site of the future city comes via an ambulatory tour, as the Arcadian king Evander and his Trojan guest stroll from the Tiber to the Palatine (Aen. 8.306–12): Exim se cuncti divinis rebus ad urbem perfectis referunt. ibat rex obsitus aevo, et comitem Aenean iuxta natumque tenebat ingrediens varioque viam sermone levabat. miratur facilisque oculos fert omnia circum Aeneas, capiturque locis et singula laetus exquiritque auditque virum monimenta priorum. Then, having fulfilled the divine rites, they all make their way to the city. The aged king went along, and he had beside him as he walked his companion Aeneas and his own son, and he lightened their way with different stories. Amazed, Aeneas throws his ready glance all around; he is taken by the places and, delighted, he asks and hears about the individual monuments of earlier men.



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The last three lines in particular are as close as we may come to an idealized version of what it meant to walk through the city of Rome – and, of course, idealized from a very specific point of view. Notice how the city is constructed primarily as a collection of ‘monuments of earlier men’ (virum monimenta priorum), even before the city of Rome existed at all.40 Note, too, that these monuments are designed to provoke not only wonder but also curiosity: they instruct passers-by and make them wiser, teaching them how to live. Virgil’s contemporary Varro (Ling. 6.49) famously connects the word monimentum to both the act of remembering (meminisse) and the act of advising (monere): these monuments thus sit at the nexus between the past and the future, not only reminding the citizens who encountered them of the deeds of previous Romans, but also advising them on how to behave in such a way that they themselves might one day be commemorated.41 But again, this is a version of the city that is highly selective, as the virum part of virum monimenta priorum makes abundantly clear. These are the monuments of prior men, promoting military and political achievements, both of which were the province of Roman men not women. But the distinction is not only one of gender: these are monuments of men – mortals – and not gods. The landscape is, of course, sacred: the whole point of their walk is to get from the Ara Maxima, which commemorates a time when Hercules himself wandered through the city, to Evander’s hut on the Palatine. But the phrase also emphasizes a version of the city dominated by commemorations of the virtuous deeds of real human beings who lived and breathed in this place, in whose footsteps Romans continue to walk.42 By now it should be clear that Aeneas’ and Evander’s stroll is a very different walk than the walks described by Catullus and Horace. Here, I argue, we start to see evidence for the way that movement through the city was transformed in the Augustan age. In one sense, the version of Rome that Virgil lays out is entirely consistent with Republican Roman visions of how to experience the city, and indeed Roman versions of place more generally. Walking with ancestors is a very Roman thing to do, as the aristocratic Roman funeral reveals.43 Yet a quick comparison of this tour to the ones described by Horace and Catullus shows that the city of Rome plays a much bigger role in this tour, both as a sacred site and as a monument to Augustan greatness. Nowhere is this clearer in the Virgilian tour than in that dramatic juxtaposition of chronological viewpoints in the famous parenthetical comment on the Capitoline hill, ‘now golden, but once upon a time bristling with wild brambles’ (8.348, aurea nunc, olim silvestribus horrida dumis). The inclusion of the temporal adverb nunc in the midst of such a vivid story about a previous age is jarring, and intentionally so, for it dramatizes the reader’s participation in this guided tour. The adverb also makes it clear that this is not only an aristocratic vision of an idealized Rome, but a specifically Augustan vision. Monuments like the Forum of Augustus show just how much the Augustan vision of Rome owed to Virgil. The Forum, with its combination of sacred space and history, complete with statues of great men from Aeneas to Augustus – virum monimenta priorum – seems to be a clear analogue for the kind of experience of the city promoted by Virgil in Aeneid 8 (not to mention, of course, the often cited precedent of the parade of heroes in the underworld in Aeneid 6).44 In the tour of the site of Rome, Virgil conjures up a Rome that, paradoxically, both compresses and emphasizes the distance between the past and the present. On the one

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hand, the scene emphasizes that Rome is a timeless site of fundamentally social, moral and sacred behaviour, with even some of the same monuments surviving 1,000 years later. Yet at the same time, the scene also emphasizes the golden progress embodied by the Augustan transformation. This, in short, was a move that the Augustan renovation of the city also continually made (not to mention the Augustan renovation of the state): Augustus somehow managed to both conflate the primeval and inherently moral past with the new golden age, while also emphasizing, where necessary, the changes that were needed to resuscitate that age.45 Just three years after the publication of the Aeneid, Propertius’ fourth book of elegies appeared, and the collection makes it clear that poets were now obliged to respond not only to the new Augustan cityscape but also to its newest monument: the Aeneid itself.46 The elegiac poet turns from the private love affairs of his first three books to a very public project: praise of the city of Rome, and an aetiology of its institutions. It is clear once again that the Augustan interest in both transformation and tradition has had an effect on all the city denizens.47 Fittingly, Propertius starts the entire collection with a city tour. The narrator of the poem guides the gaze of the stranger (hospes) through the sights of Augustan Rome, encouraging him to imagine them in their original rustic state before the arrival of Aeneas and the gens Iulia. The poem clearly elaborates upon the tour of Evander and Aeneas in Aeneid 8, though we may well wonder whether it is a homage or a parody. Notably, the poem figures its readers as strangers in the foreign land of Propertius’ text, with the author guiding us through a world of his own creation; the conceit suggests that this poem (and the entire book) is in some way analogous with Augustan Rome. Later in the poem, Propertius makes the conflation explicit, claiming, albeit by way of a recusatio, that he is trying to construct Rome in verse (4.1.55–60): optima nutricum nostris, lupa Martia, rebus, qualia creverunt moenia lacte tuo! moenia namque pio coner disponere versu: ei mihi, quod nostrost parvus in ore sonus! sed tamen exiguo quodcumque e pectore rivi fluxerit, hoc patriae serviet omne meae. She-wolf of Mars, best of nurses for our state, what walls have risen from your milk! Indeed, let me try to arrange those walls in dutiful verse: alas, that the sound of my voice is so weak! But nevertheless, whatever rivulet flows from my feeble chest, all of it will serve my country.

The phrase sets book 4 up as coterminous with the city of Rome itself, so that in retrospect the opening line of the poem (‘Whatever you see here, stranger’; hoc quodcumque vides, hospes) clearly has a double reference with that deictic hoc: this city and this text that you see before you. As it turns out, the poem doesn’t have much movement in it at all; that is, the ‘tour guide’ motif with which the poem begins turns out to be somewhat of a stationary tour, as if we are gazing out on Rome from a high vantage point, most likely from the Palatine hill.48 Yet we might well see the narrator of the poem as a guide giving us the lay of the land before we start on our tour of the



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city, which the remainder of the fourth book will constitute. In fact, Hutchinson sees the opening poem, in particular its opening address to a stranger, as an epigram of sorts; thus, we may want to see this poem as the first stop on the longer itinerary of the book (and scroll) itself.49 An even more explicit development of Evander’s tour is Ovid Tristia 3.1, in which Ovid dramatizes the displacement enforced by his exile by sending his book to Rome as a tourist, nervously asking the reader for directions.50 Ovid cheekily reverses the expected roles, making the reader (rather than the narrator) the keeper of topographical knowledge. The topos of his poetry’s ability to travel where Ovid cannot is introduced in the very first lines of the Tristia; here he pushes the metaphor further by making the book itself the narrator, ironically fulfilling his earlier wish (Tr. 1.1.57–8) that he could become his book.51 The metapoetic play is foregrounded throughout the poem, indeed throughout the Tristia, as was shown in a now classic article by Stephen Hinds in 1985.52 At the heart of this metapoetic play is literary movement: Ovid’s poem limps because it is tired from the journey, and because the elegiac meter requires that every other line be shorter than the other. Ovid literalizes the metaphor of literary movement that we examined at the start of the chapter, with the poem literally walking (with feet both physical and metrical) through the streets of Rome. Moreover, Ovid explicitly connects the movement of the poem with the movement of the readers, who, as tour guides, actually get the poem moving (Tr. 3.1.19–20): ‘Dicite, lectores, si non grave, qua sit eundum,/ quasque petam sedes hospes in urbe liber’ (‘Tell me, readers, if it’s not too much trouble, where I should go,/ and what resting place this book should seek out, a stranger in this city’). It is thus the readers who lead the poem through the city, and Ovid recognizes the unusual burden this request places on them, who usually follow in the footsteps of the author or book. Note here Ovid’s use of hospes – ‘stranger’ or ‘guest’ – to refer to the book: he is explicitly inverting the relationship established by Propertius, where the reader was a hospes, a guest in the land of the author, a land that Propertius sets up in emulation with Augustan Rome itself. Note, too, that in the model text for both tours (Aen. 8.362–8), Evander calls Aeneas hospes as he welcomes him into his hut. Indeed, the multiple levels of ironic self-awareness on the part of the poem are only enhanced by its reference to Aeneas and Evander’s tour. Ovid’s tour manages to follow a similar route to that of Aeneas and Evander (both, pointedly, end up on the Palatine), without mentioning any of the same topography.53 Still, there is a clear emphasis, as in Aeneid 8, on understanding modern monuments via ancient stories (Tr. 3.1.27–35): paruit, et ducens ‘haec sunt fora Caesaris,’ inquit, ‘haec est a sacris quae via nomen habet, hic locus est Vestae, qui Pallada servat et ignem, haec fuit antiqui regia parva Numae’. inde petens dextram ‘porta est’ ait ‘ista Palati, hic Stator, hoc primum condita Roma loco est’. singula dum miror, video fulgentibus armis conspicuos postes tectaque digna deo, et ‘Iovis haec’ dixi ‘domus est?’

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He obeyed, and as he led the way he said, ‘This is the forum of Caesar; and this is the road that takes its name from sacred rites. This is the region of Vesta, which protects Athena and the flame. And this here was the little palace of old Numa’. Then, heading to the right, he said, ‘That there is the gate of the Palatine hill. Here is Jupiter the Stayer, on this spot was Rome first founded’. While I marvel at each thing, I catch sight of doorposts conspicuous with gleaming weapons and a building worthy of a god. ‘Is this,’ I asked, ‘Jupiter’s house?’

By including such prosaic details as which direction they turned, Ovid manages to make his tour seem more realistic than that of Aeneas and Evander, yet at the same time the tour is so condensed – all of Rome in just six or so lines – that it hardly seems to aim at verism at all. The sites are rattled off in such rapid fire that the tour guide seems either rushed or bored; perhaps it is Ovid himself growing tired of the familiar Augustan motif even as he exploits it. If that is the case, then our poet manages to poke fun and praise in the same breath, for the long pause by the doors of Augustus’ house is unabashedly encomiastic.54 With the exception of the Forum of Caesar, all the other stops on the tour are noteworthy for their antiquity; the inclusion of Augustus’ residence on such a tour reinforces the emperor’s claim that he had ‘restored’ the ancient ways of the republic. Yet, at the same time, we can only presume that Augustus found Virgil’s tour more appealing than Ovid’s, despite the fact that both tours prominently feature the Palatine; the first emphasizes the humble qualities of Evander’s hut in a passage that came to be among the most famous of the Aeneid, while Ovid showers effusive praise on the outward appearance of Augustus’ home, which, as we know from other sources, the emperor went out of his way to keep simple.55 On the door, of course, Ovid’s book finds the famous oak wreath given by the senate to honour Augustus for his achievements. Wondering what it could be for, the book finds an answer written on the door itself (Tr. 3.1.47–8): causa superpositae scripto est testata coronae: / servatos civis indicat huius ope (‘The reason for the crown placed above [sc. the door] is made manifest by the inscription: it shows that the citizens were saved with the help of this man’). Ovid then turns the famous slogan – that Augustus had saved all citizens’ lives by his transformation of the state – into a witty plea to save just one more: the life of Ovid himself, living a virtual death on the Black Sea. But I wonder whether we might read this encounter between texts – Ovid’s and, in a certain sense, Augustus’ – as a larger confrontation between rival authors.56 After all, Latin auctor has a much broader range of meaning than English ‘author’, shading over to the meaning of authority as well.57 If Augustan Rome is offering a new narrative, as it were, for its citizens, then Augustus is clearly its author and authority. Yet Ovid takes this connection even further; the poem seems to suggest that Augustus, by leaving his stamp on the city, has in some sense become the city. Just a few lines later, Ovid’s book grows despondent before the doors of the princeps (Tr. 3.1.53–6): Me miserum! Vereorque locum vereorque potentem, et quatitur trepido littera nostra metu. Aspicis exsangui chartam pallere colore? Aspicis alternos intremuisse pedes?



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Woe is me! I dread the place, and I dread the powerful man, and my letters tremble with restless fear. Do you see how my paper is pale and drained of blood? Do you see how my alternating feet tremble?

Vereorque locum vereorque potentem – just as Ovid and his text are one, so Augustus and this place are one. In the immediate context, his house stands in for his person, a common enough collocation in Republican Rome.58 But I would suggest that we should understand locum in both a specific sense (Augustus’ house) and in a general sense: the ‘place’ of Augustan Rome more generally, where Augustus has famously left no brick unmarbled. And if the Rome of Augustus is indeed so ‘Augustan’ (and we should not forget that this kind of polysemy was one of the benefits of choosing an adjective for a name), we begin to see a much more serious point to the amusing picture of this poor papyrus scroll limping around the city and getting kicked out of the Palatine. The poem reveals that movement through Rome is still necessary for publication – indeed, that’s what publication means, even to a poet trapped on the periphery. Poems are published by moving through elite circles, from reader to reader.59 And Ovid needs some help if he himself is to move through those circles again, and help from friends to pass his book around.60 So we have here yet another type of literary movement: Ovid addresses the ‘friendly reader’ who will guide this poem around Rome by copying it, distributing it and making it available to the poet’s circle, to which Ovid no longer has physical access. For all the jokes, then, the poem is quite serious in its request. Note how it ends (Tr. 3.1.75–82): Forsitan et nobis olim minus asper et illi evictus longo tempore Caesar erit. Di, precor, atque adeo (neque enim mihi turba roganda est) Caesar, ades voto, maxime dive, meo. Interea, quoniam statio mihi publica clausa est, privato liceat delituisse loco. Vos quoque, si fas est, confusa pudore repulsae sumite plebeiae carmina nostra manus. Perhaps one day Caesar, won over by the passage of time, will be less harsh both to me and to him [sc. Ovid]. Gods, I pray, and indeed – since I shouldn’t ask the crowd – Caesar, be present to my prayer, greatest divine one. Meanwhile, since a public resting-place is closed off to me, let it be granted that I hide out in a private place. You too, plebeian hands – if it is right – take up my poems, which are confounded by the shame of rejection.

The poem ends with ring composition: the book that asked the reader to take his hand and guide him around Rome now asks the private hands of non-elite readers to literally take up his cause by picking him up and reading him. Ovid’s story is now just one of many competing stories, and his principal literary rival, as it were, is the emperor himself. The idea of texts and monuments in competition is, of course, not new – Horace’s Odes famously ends with the same point, that he has built, through his poems, a monument that will outlast the pyramids.61 But Ovid’s poem reveals the

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distance between Horace’s poem, written in the mid-20s bce, and the final years of Augustus’ reign, when all had been ‘changed, changed utterly’. For all the transformation of the Augustan city from brick to marble, movement has been curtailed for those who don’t play along.62 There are fewer paths, and some authors have to beg friends to let them take the hidden byways, byways that have become harder and harder to find.63 In the end, as he always seems to do, Ovid calls into question the whole Augustan project even in the course of extolling it. The new Augustan city offers a world tour of sorts for some visitors, but it is a strictly guided tour, open only to those who play the game. Virgil played it, Propertius pretended to chafe against it and Ovid exposes its seamy undersides. This chapter has been primarily concerned with movement in a metaphorical sense, but the Augustan transformation also ushered in changes in movement at a physical level.64 For some Roman elites, paths to power were literally redirected, and the cursus honorum – itself dependent on the metaphor of movement, as Diana Spencer has remarked – completely eviscerated.65 We should not imagine, of course, that it became literally harder to move through the city for the average Roman – if anything, it was probably a great deal more pleasant.66 But for elite Romans used to competing for power on the streets of Rome, movement through the city was not what it once was. Triumphs were severely restricted.67 Public processions, canvassing for votes: all these things started to disappear, or to take on new meanings. Even the act of voting – so dependent itself on movement within the saepta, or enclosures, during the comitia – was eventually curtailed. It is therefore no coincidence that these poets, so trained to see the metaphorical possibilities of movement to describe the way that poetry is written, read and transmitted, take these questions and start to pose them in the context of moving through the terrible beauty of the new Augustan cityscape.

Acknowledgements I am grateful to the editors of this volume for their invitation to participate in the Moving City conference and to Ida Östenberg in particular for her comments on an earlier draft of this chapter.

Part Three

Processional Movement

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Moving In and Moving Out: Ritual Movements between Rome and its Suburbium Kristine Iara

Research that aims to reconstruct the sacral topography of imperial Rome usually has its limits within the Aurelian Wall. Even within this boundary, though, the sacral topography of urbs Roma has until now never been examined in a synoptical way.1 Similarly understudied, yet vitally important aspects of Rome’s sacral topography are the various connections between the single cult places, whether static connections such as streets or the dynamic connections that arise from religiously motivated movements from one place to the other.2. This chapter will tackle these two aspects: first, it helps to reconstruct Rome’s sacral landscape by taking into account both Urbs and suburbium; and second, it focuses on the connections between the single cult places, in particular, on those connections constituted by the religiously motivated movements from urbs Roma to the suburbium and from the suburbium into the Urbs. The objects of the study are cross-border ritual movements within religious festivals3 which were constituent parts of a given festival and therefore ritually prescribed within this festival. Thus, this study is limited to processions, that is, to ritual movements that were (usually) carried out by groups and pertained to the sacra publica as parts of festivals within the Roman calendar,4 and generally with the participation of one or more priests from the official priestly colleges. The principal question regarding the crossing of boundaries5 within these movements concerns the relationship between and the perception of ‘inside’ and ‘outside’, whether and how the boundaries between ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ were handled within the ritual, and whether they had an impact on the movements. The three case studies6 discussed in the following each show a different role of boundaries within the ritual activities of the festival in question. Their existence, therefore, was perceived differently, and so they were handled differently. These differences are due both to the specific developments of the cult in question over the course of time and to particular cultic requirements.

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Magna Mater’s March festival Magna Mater – the Great Mother, also known as Cybele – was imported to Rome as early as 204 bce.7 She was immediately included among the official cults, and she also received a sanctuary on a prominent and, in terms of Rome’s sacral topography, very important place: the Palatine hill.8 In addition to this sanctuary, she was also honoured with other cult places in Rome: her shrine on the spina of the Circus Maximus, a tholos on the Via Sacra, the Phrygianum at the Vatican hill and supposedly a sacellum situated at the confluence of the Tiber and the Almo, just southwest of the Urbs, not far from the Porta Capena.9 Furthermore, the official residences of the two collegia connected with her cult are also of importance. The Basilica Hilariana,10 residence of the dendrophori, is situated on the Caelian hill, while that of the cannophori11 is supposed to have been close to the Almo, even if it is not attested archaeologically. Two festivals took place in honour of the goddess: the Megalensia in April and a sequence of festivals in March. In contrast to the Megalensia, more ‘Roman’ in its features and related activities,12 the events of the March festival had a dramatic course, recalling the myth of Cybele’s love for Attis. As also reflected in the festival’s course, the main elements of this myth are Attis’ frenzied suicide, caused by Cybele’s jealousy, Cybele’s deep grief over her love’s death, and his burial. The ‘exotic’ and wild aspects of both myth and the emotionally charged festival are frequently mentioned in the literary sources.13 The March festival proves an interesting case study for our discussion. The sequence of the festival days developed subsequently to its full extension during the imperial period.14 On the first day, Canna intrat (15 March), the cannophori,15 the reed-bearers, arrived in a ceremonious procession at the Palatine sanctuary, supposedly from the Almo river, which provided the reed.16 On Arbor intrat (22 March), the dendrophori,17 the tree-bearers, carried the decorated pine tree into the sanctuary, again in a procession, which was of a funereal character and which was accompanied by expressions of deep grief.18 The dendrophori supposedly came from their residence, the Basilica Hilariana on the Caelian hill.19 The days Sanguem and Hilaria (24 and 25 March, respectively) represented the emotional climax of the festival: profound grief and ritual lamentation on Sanguem, commemorating the blood and the death of Attis,20 while the day of Hilaria was devoted to excessive joy.21 The gods were carried in what the literary sources testify was a cheerful, hilarious and boisterous procession through the city.22 After one day of resting (Requietio, 26 March),23 the goddess was carried in a procession from her temple on the Palatine through the city to the Almo river, where she and the sacrificial instruments underwent the ritual washing and purification (Lavatio, 27 March).24 In addition to her Phrygian priests, the quindecimviri sacris faciundis were also present,25 and the event was accompanied by merriment and exultation.26 Upon closer inspection, the different ritual movements within the festival read as follows. The first procession, that of the cannophori, supposedly came in from the suburbium from the Almo, entering through the Porta Capena.27 The dendrophori came from the Basilica Hilariana on the Caelian hill; their ritual movements took



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place within the limits of the Urbs itself. On their way to the focal point of the cult on the Palatine, both processions passed other monuments related to Magna Mater,28 thus linking them by means of ritual movements, both on a virtual map of the cult and concretely on Rome’s urban layout, the streets. Even if the two days Sanguem and Hilaria represented the festival’s emotional peak, it was the Lavatio which constituted its main aspect.29 This becomes clear when we keep in mind that the festival belonged to Cybele and not primarily to Attis, who actually ‘has no part beyond the funeral’:30 the festival was in fact dealing with the main elements of the myth from Cybele’s point of view. The principal locations of the cult were, accordingly, the Palatine sanctuary and the sacellum at the Almo. Therefore, it is only when we understand that the dendrophoría (the tree-carrying ritual on Arbor intrat, 22 March) and the Lavatio (the ritual washing on the homonymous day, 27 March) were the main events of the festival that the topology of the cult of Magna Mater becomes evident.31 Religiously motivated movements took place on both days. The two focal points of the cult were her sanctuary on the Palatine hill, within the very centre of the Urbs, and the Almo river in the suburbium. These were the two indispensable locations of the two main events of the cult: the burial of Attis within the sanctuary on the Palatine, and the purification of the goddess in the Almo from the miásmata she was affected by from the funeral.32 The ritual movements between these points connected them by following the narrative of the mythohistorical accounts of Cybele’s arrival in Rome, travelling on ship from Phrygia and entering Rome via the Tiber. For the procession on the occasion of the Lavatio, the goddess – in the form of an effigy, the famous sacred stone – was removed from the Palatine temple and accompanied to her ritual bath in the Almo. The course of the movements along the Via Appia and/or the Via Ostiensis33 followed in reverse the account of the goddess’s arrival in Rome in 204 bce. The fundamental role of the Almo and the Tiber within both the ritual and the cult’s topology is also obvious if one takes into account that the goddess, in Phrygia, habitually bathed in the river Gallos once a year.34

The transvectio equitum The transvectio equitum – a traditional parade of the Roman equestrian order – is the other principal example of ritual movements between Urbs and suburbium whose main cultic points were situated within the Urbs, whereas the movements’ starting point was originally situated outside. Established in 304 bce, the transvectio equitum distinguished itself by a certain longevity, and there is evidence for its celebration also in late antiquity.35 The religious-sacral and the military-political aspects of this festival were equally important; even more, they were inseparable. Accordingly, the gods involved in the ceremony were those indispensable for the state, Rome’s military success and warfare, namely Jupiter, Mars and the Dioscuri. The latter were also associated particularly with the equites.36 The transvectio equitum was thus, at the same time, both a religious procession and a military parade and, at least originally, it was carried out on horseback.

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The procession started at the Temple of Mars on the Via Appia near Porta Capena,37 and directed its movements towards the city centre. Entering the city gate or, in any case, the Porta Capena area, the equites moved to the Forum Romanum, where a sacrifice was offered to Castor and Pollux, whose temple’s38 dies natalis was the very same day, 15 July. From the Forum, they went on, heading to the Capitol, aiming to sacrifice at the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus.39 In the case of this festival, Jupiter, Mars and the Dioscuri – the gods so strongly associated with knights, military prowess and the image of Rome the victorious – were connected in a visibly perceivable way by the solemn and lavishly celebrated procession.40 This association was further emphasized by the affinity of this particular procession to the pompa triumphalis,41 and especially when also taking into consideration the mental connotation surely present for everyone: in time of war, the equites performed the very same movements in and out of the city space. The procession started at the Temple of Mars. It was necessarily the case that this temple was, originally, situated outside the Urbs, as arms and armour were not allowed inside the boundaries – this applied also to the god of war himself. Later on in time, with increasing building density and also the extension of the pomerium, the temple was situated inside. Nevertheless, that its original location was outside the Urbs was perceivable at least as long as the Porta Capena42 stood upright, and it was additionally and regularly commemorated by the event of the transvectio equitum.

Dea Dia and the first and the fifth milestones The Temple of Mars on the Via Appia is but one example of the sanctuaries and related festivals at the first and the fifth milestones, respectively, on the main roads leading out of Rome, all of which were of very ancient origin and all of which bore a particular significance related to the boundaries of Rome and her territory.43 These cult places formed a sacral belt around the city of Rome, emphasizing early boundaries, sacral, administrative and jurisdictional alike.44 Particularly noteworthy in our context is that their main cultic focus was situated within the suburbium, even as each place was specifically and intimately connected with the Urbs itself. Dea Dia will serve as the case study here. Her sanctuary is well-excavated, and the rituals within her cult are well-known, thanks to the epigraphic records; so are her priests, the Arval Brethren, who produced this extensive epigraphic evidence.45 About the goddess herself, not much is known.46 Her sanctuary was situated at the fifth milestone on the Via Campana,47 and the festival in her honour, one of the feriae conceptivae,48 took place at the end of May. The sacred grove of Dea Dia in the suburbium was the only cult place of this goddess within Rome;49 she did not have any temple or another kind of cult place in the Urbs itself. A statue of the goddess was supposedly in the Urbs, participating at the rituals in the house of the magister.50 Thus, she was present inside and outside alike. Because of the Arval Brethren’s accurate annual records inscribed in marble, much is known about the rituals.51 The cultic activities of the Arval Brethren took place



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mainly, but not exclusively, outside the Urbs, and these priests did not have any official residence in the Urbs itself.52 They met at different places for the cultic activities which had to take place within the Urbs: the indictio was performed at the Pantheon or, most frequently, the Temple of Concordia;53 a part of their rituals, namely the beginning and the ending of the three-day ceremony consisting of sacrificing, feasting and observing various rituals, took place in the domus of the magister. The complex rituals within the three-day ceremony were precisely prescribed and also recorded in the Acta Arvalia.54 These rituals served two distinct aims: to ensure a rich harvest55 and to preserve the well-being of the emperor and the imperial family.56 As apparent from the Arval Hymn, the principal divinities involved were Mars, the Lares and the Semones; Dea Dia herself was not addressed in the hymn, but received major and sumptuous sacrifices.57 While the main cultic activities of the Arvals thus took place in the suburbium, their actions were directed towards Rome, for the sake of Rome and its inhabitants. In this cult, the movements to, from and within the site are particularly striking. As indicated in the Acta Arvalia, the rituals were in fact performed partly at the sanctuary (in luco), which was in the suburbium, and partly at the magister’s home (domi), situated in the Urbs. The Arval Brethren must have frequently moved in and out of the city when performing the rituals, though we do not know by which means or whether individually or collectively. Since there is no mention at all of this in the Acta, most probably it was not a part of the prescribed rituals. The ritual movements on-site, though, are those of the greatest interest for our purpose. On the second day of the festival, the Arvals tripodaverunt, that is, they performed their ritual dance while singing the Arval Hymn.58 The most convincing interpretation of this characteristic ritual movement, which is circular, explains it in relation to the circular movement performed on the occasion of the ambarvalia, a springtime ritual that sought to protect Roman fields, crops and territory from any kind of danger. The relationship between the ambarvalia and the Dea Dia ritual is a much-discussed issue in scholarship, which has produced a wide spectrum of explanations, ranging from the two rituals being identical, to following each other in a chronological sequence, to simply overlapping in some elements.59 However, the most obvious and plausible relationship between the two rituals is one on the level of scale.60 On the one hand, the ambarvalia and the Dea Dia ritual were the same: the two rituals had the same aims, involved the same gods – above all Mars and the Lares – and took place during the same period of the year. On the other hand, however, they were not identical. The ambarvalia were the rituals carried out, supposedly by the paterfamilias, for the sake of individuals and their families. The Dea Dia ritual was its counterpart on a ‘large scale’ and carried out by the Arval Brethren for the collective good, that is, the welfare of the populus Romanus (pro salute rei publicae). The difference between the two events is thus one of scale, in terms of the agents (paterfamilias/state priests), the territory in question (individual estates/the ager Romanus) and target group (individual family/the entire populus Romanus). The main ritual element in both cases was the circular movement. The movement performed around the individual estates within the ambarvalia corresponds with the movements

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around the boundaries of the ager Romanus within the state ritual, on a larger scale. The tripodatio of the Arval Brethren served exactly this very same scope: it must be seen as a ritual shortcut and symbolic substitute for the large-scale circular movement, the procession around the limits of Rome’s territory, by now impracticable.61

The Urbs and the suburbium: Results and conclusions By combining the archaeological evidence with the literary sources, we can map out the single cult places that played a role in one festival or another and thus reveal their distribution within the cityscape of Rome. The subsequent mapping of the connections – be it the permanent ones, such as streets, or the ephemeral ones, such as processions on the occasion of religious festivals – illuminates how individual places all over Rome are interconnected, particularly in regard to religion. Establishing the material and ideal interconnectedness of individual places allows us to draw conclusions both on a micro-scale, regarding the topology of one or more specific cults, and on a macro-scale, regarding the topology of the sacred in Rome as a whole. In particular, these examples show that even though the rituals in question emphasized and used the Urbs and the suburbium differently, these two components were interdependent and complementary, forming a coherent area of ritual activity. In the three examples examined – Magna Mater’s festival, the transvectio equitum and the festival of Dea Dia – the ritual movements connected Urbs and suburbium in different ways. The first two festivals had a common feature, namely that the focal point of the cult was situated in the Urbs itself. Outside the Urbs, at some distance in the suburbium, there was another cultic spot: not the principal sanctuary itself, but nevertheless a cult place indispensable for the ritual in question. In the first example, the March festival in honour of Magna Mater, the ritual movements connected the single cult places of the goddess that were distributed both in the Urbs and the suburbium. Ever since her relocation to Rome, Magna Mater and her cult regularly embraced, involved, appropriated and used Urbs and suburbium alike. These two areas of Rome were connected and tied together: First, they were physically and permanently connected, by means of the roads and the river, both distinctive elements within this cult and its mytho-historical account, being literally the conveyor of the sacred. Second, on the level of narrative, the ephemeral connections – the processions – followed the itinerary of the narration of Cybele’s arrival in Rome. Third, they were connected ritually, by means of the festival taking place annually, involving both these areas, virtually ignoring the boundary in between. In the second example, the transvectio equitum, the religious movements similarly tied together the cult places where the ritual activities and the sacredness culminated within this festival, namely the three temples at Porta Capena, in the Forum Romanum and on the Capitoline hill, respectively. Moreover, they also perceivably tied together the gods honoured with this festival – Mars, the Dioscuri and Jupiter Optimus Maximus – who were all indispensable for the particular concept of the



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festival in question. Thus, the procession rendered the festival’s concept visible and tangible; the ideal concept was materialized by means of ritual movements. Again, as a matter of course, Urbs and suburbium were areas used in equal measure for the ritual. In this case, however, the boundary between ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ was explicitly emphasized. In this case, the areas in the first course of the Via Appia and around Porta Capena are obvious locations for a cultic activity of this character. Here in particular, in this part of the Urbs and the suburbium, there was a high concentration of military might, victory, self-representation, status and prestige – values and concepts materialized and monumentalized both by funerary monuments and by votive temples commemorating individual victories.62 This applies also for the two other places involved in the movements within this festival, the Forum Romanum and the Capitoline hill, both representing concretely and symbolically, more than any other place in the Urbs, the sphere of the state and the magnificence of Rome.63 The third example, the festival in honour of Dea Dia, is a different matter. The stage for the ceremony itself consists of a single cult place which is situated in the suburbium, though the ritual activities are directed at Rome as a whole. This becomes especially obvious if this sanctuary’s character as border sanctuary (Grenzheiligtum) is taken into consideration. Although both Urbs and suburbium were involved with the ritual, they were connected in a different way as compared to the other two festivals examined here. The ritual activities, as they were carried out by the Arvals, took place partly outside and partly inside, shifting as a matter of course between taking place domi and in luco. As originally conceived, the principal movement relevant for the cult, a circular procession, originally – at least in the original concept – also physically embraced Rome and her territory, and as such, it referred and dealt explicitly with her boundaries. This movement was now condensed to one single spot in the suburbium, which happens to be situated on this very boundary line on which the movements originally were meant to be carried out. The tripodatio of the Arval Brethren, performed at one single spot in the suburbium, was the performance of the movement originally meant to move around Rome, in a surrogate, contracted form, but nevertheless no less sacral, no less solemn and no less effective. The tripodatio, while only taking place locally in the suburbium, was performed with an enormous, far-reaching and effective force: for the sake of the whole Urbs itself. The religious and ritualistic interdependence between Urbs and suburbium cannot be more visible than in this case. What, then, was the relationship between ‘inside’ and ‘outside’ and between Urbs and suburbium from the point of view of the sacred topography, and how were these relationships perceived? We can state that as a matter of fact, the ritual activities examined here took place both inside and outside Rome – that is, both within and beyond the pomerium – and the activities in question involved both Urbs and suburbium in equal measure and with conscious distinction. Nevertheless, the crossing of boundaries became manifest in different ways and by different means in the three examples. In the first case, Magna Mater’s festival, the crossing is consequent and happens almost unperceived, as if there were no boundaries: the boundary played no role at all within the ritual and was virtually rendered non-existent. In the second case, the transvectio equitum, Rome’s sacral boundary, the pomerium, was crossed

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actively and consciously, at least as originally performed: Mars had to unconditionally stay outside, and for this reason the direction of movements was inevitably from outside to inside. In the third case, the matter of boundaries is fully and, in terms of sacredness, fundamentally addressed. The whole ritual deals explicitly with boundaries: it aims at their protection, and the Arval Brethren’s movements are carried out on these boundaries, even if pars pro toto. These three cults, thus, each display a particular and specific handling of the boundaries, depending on historical developments and specific cultic requirements. The boundary becomes manifest in different degrees of intensity, from indistinctive to constitutive and substantial, but without effectively separating these two areas.64 In terms of sacredness, and regarding the concept of the festivals in question, it was one and the same: with no distinction being made between Urbs and suburbium and with both being integral parts of Rome’s sacral topography, the two constituted one coherent area of ritual activity.

11

Augustus’ Triumphal and Triumph-like Returns Carsten Hjort Lange

The greatest honour and the grandest spectacle Rome could bestow on a military commander was to allow him the glory of celebrating a triumph.1 A general’s quest for a triumph started already on the battlefield, where the army acclaimed a victorious commander as imperator. He then sent a despatch to the Senate, adorned with laurel, in which he reported the victory and requested the decreeing of a supplicatio, a ceremony in which all the temples were open and the people gave thanks and made offerings. It created a presumption in favour of the subsequent grant of a triumph. When the commander returned to Rome and sought a triumph, a Senate meeting was held outside the pomerium to hear his report and decide upon his request. If a triumph was granted, the triumphal procession would follow: the procession advanced from the Circus Flaminius and crossed the pomerium at the Porta Triumphalis. All triumphs later culminated in the approach by the Via Sacra to the Forum Romanum, before climbing the Capitoline.2 The last part of the journey was more exclusive: the main procession would have ended on the Forum, as captive enemies were occasionally taken to the Tullianum for execution.3 This triumphal convention gradually came under pressure during the Late Republic, however, and in the end developed into the honour system of the Principate (triumphs given in absence). Similarly, the Romans celebrated non-triumphal returns. For example, magistrates would normally be accompanied by crowds both when departing (profectio) and when returning (reditus) to Rome.4 The importance of reditus is shown by Cicero, who describes his own return from exile (Pis. 51–5, Att. 4.1.5). Here he focuses on his reception, which he even presents as comparable to that of a triumph and in mocking contrast to Lucius Piso’s low-key return from his Macedonian command, when Piso allegedly sneaked in at night (Pis. 53, no triumph was granted to Piso). Conversely, every municipium and colonia greeted Cicero on his way home (51), as in triumph. It later culminated not on the Capitoline but at the house of Cicero (52), where Clodius had erected a shrine to Libertas after Cicero was banished. Later during the Principate, the emperor’s arrivals in Rome and other cities (adventus) were opportunities for the display of gratitude and loyalty by their subjects, as a ritual of consensus.5 As already noted, however, the transformation of the Roman political system in the Late Republic led to a corresponding transformation in the function and character of

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the triumph.6 Augustus’ non-triumphal returns after 29 bce are related to his decline of triumphs. The Senate reacted to this by bestowing triumphal honours, linked to his triumph-like returns: they became substitute honours replacing the triumph proper. Refusal of triumph had implications for the returns of the princeps, as he had to enter the city by alternative routes, not the Porta Triumphalis; but this of course had to take place without relinquishing a ceremonial entry. Apart from the triumphal gate itself, the entries of Augustus after 29 bce are remarkably similar to the triumphal entries in 29 bce. This chapter will argue that Augustus’ movements across the pomerium, in triumph as well as in triumph-like celebrations (returns), are central to the Augustan regime. By analysing these returns, it will focus on their role within the wider ideological framework of his reign. These entries gave Augustus the possibility to locate geographical and ideological markers, in monumental form, at the city’s main entrances in the north and south. Furthermore, Augustus initiated the process of defining the adventus of the emperor. Accompanied by friends and well-wishers, Augustus would cross the pomerium, the sacred boundary of the city, and thus move from the civil to the military sphere and vice versa. Importantly, whereas the actual crossing of the pomerium was a central ritual of magistrates in Republican times, during the Principate it became a ritual coupled almost exclusively with the entries of Augustus.

Perusia 40 bce After the siege and fall of Perusia in 40 bce, Octavian returned to Rome.7 We do not know all the imperatorial acclamations of Octavian: the first salutation came on 16 April 43 bce after the Battle of Forum Gallorum, at Mutina;8 the sixth is Actium (Oros. 6.19.14). It is reasonable to conclude that Octavian’s second imperatorial acclamation was Perusia (App. B Civ. 5.46). As earlier after Philippi, Octavian did not celebrate a triumph after Perusia, as they were openly recognized as civil wars. With a few exceptions, a general could not expect to triumph after a victory in an exclusively civil war, only in a civil war that could also be represented as a foreign war – it was by nature of their external character that Rome’s victories qualified for a triumph.9 According to Dio Cassius, however, Octavian staged a triumph-like return after Perusia, even wearing triumphal dress and a laurel crown (48.16.1). Octavian’s return as in triumph shows his willingness to take traditions to their limits and beyond. Mary Beard is right in suggesting that the language of triumph also provided a suitable way of representing the imperial adventus.10 But in the Late Republic, as well as during imperial times, the evidence suggests that the Romans knew full well the difference between triumphs and triumph-like ceremonies.11



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A peaceful ceremonial entry: Brundisium 40 bce After Antonius arrived at Brundisium during the summer of 40 bce, tensions between him and Octavian grew, and for a time it seemed that further civil war might ensue. The soldiers were reluctant to fight each other, however, leading to the Treaty of Brundisium.12 The soldiers will have acclaimed the peace-making generals, and this will have been followed by their joint ovation as a symbol of reconciliation. This probably represents Octavian’s third imperatorial acclamation. The Fasti Triumphales entry is at first surprising, as it does not mention a foreign foe, or indeed any foe (a similar entry was made for Antonius): Imp. Caesar Divi f. C. f. IIIvir r(ei) p(ublicae) c(onstituendae) ov[ans, an. DCCXIII]/ quod pacem cum M. Antonio fecit […] (‘Imp. Caesar Divi f. C. f., triumvir r.p.c., an ovation because he made peace with Marcus Antonius’).13 This was in fact nothing new, as there was neither victory nor enemy in Caesar’s 44 bce ovans ex monte Albano.14 As for the triumvirs, they were awarded an ovation for avoiding civil war (triumviri rei publicae constituendae: ending the civil war and restoring order),15 moving across the pomerium in triumphal dress and on horseback (Dio Cass. 48.31.3). Here we have a quite different and novel form of ovation (beginning with Caesar), namely the ovation simply as a ceremonial entry into Rome, without a preceding war. According to the ancient evidence, the ovation concluded on the Capitoline, as did the triumph.16 Antonius and Octavian may have entered through the Porta Triumphalis on the Campus Martius, or alternatively, through the Porta Capena, as they approached the city from the south.

Entering on horseback: Naulochus 36 bce Even though Octavian’s new assignment after the pact of Brundisium 40 bce was to deal with Sextus Pompeius and thus to end the civil war, the Sicilian War was represented as a slave war (RG 25.1; the Fasti Triumphales is vague on the matter, however), and accordingly it was celebrated with an ovation, similar to the slave wars of 132, 99 and 71 bce.17 Having decisively defeated Sextus Pompeius on 3 September 36 bce at Naulochus (EJ, p. 51; App. B Civ. 5.119–22; Livy Per. 129), Octavian returned to Rome on 13 November, entering the city.18 According to Appian, the Senate voted him many honours before he returned home and gave him the possibility to accept or decline them as he pleased (B Civ. 5.130). Dio Cassius adds that he was given the ovation before his return to Rome, on learning of his success (49.15.1). He accepted that the Senate and the Roman people would meet him some distance from Rome and then escort him back to the city (App. B Civ. 5.130). Octavian entered the city on horseback (Suet. Aug. 22; App. B Civ. 5.130; Dio Cass. 49.15–16), not on foot, the supposed traditional manner.19 We have only limited information on procedure in ovations.20 Aulus Gellius (5.6.27) suggests that there was disagreement on the issue already in antiquity. The only instances where a horse is said explicitly to have been used are for Caesar (Dio Cass. 44.4.3) and Octavian, and we have to reckon with the possibility that Caesar’s riding was an innovation (apart

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from perhaps Claudius Nero in 207 bce, Livy 28.9.9–11). Plutarch’s description of the ovation and Alban Mount triumph of Claudius Marcellus (Plut. Marc. 22; cf. Plut. Crass. 11.8; Dion. Hal. 5.47.3) explicitly mentions that Marcellus entered on foot in 211 bce, although he may not have known what was done in specific cases (Marcellus of course will not have walked all the way from the Alban Mount). And indeed, entering on foot, even as a show of modesty, would have been a rather poor and unspectacular show. Crossing the pomerium, Octavian was escorted to the Capitoline and then to his house. On the following day he addressed the Senate and the people, detailing his achievements. This might normally have happened at the Temple of Bellona outside the pomerium, but since the ovation was given to Octavian in absence, as an honour, the triumphal ritual had changed. Appian (B Civ. 5.130) even seems to suggest that Octavian accepted the ovation after detailing his achievements. It does however seem more likely that he entered the city in ovation and then on the following day gave his address. According to Dio Cassius (49.15.3), this did indeed happen before he crossed the pomerium in the traditional manner. It thus appears that Appian and Dio Cassius are in contradiction. The only way to harmonize their accounts would be to suppose that the house to which they accompanied Octavian on the day before his speeches, according to Appian, was not the Palatine house, but another, suburban house outside the pomerium. Alternatively, Dio Cassius is right that the speeches were delivered outside the pomerium, and so (by implication) he crossed the pomerium for the first time in ovation; Appian’s version may thus just be confused. Of course, as triumvir, Octavian could have crossed the pomerium without losing his imperium, but there seems no reason why he should have made the ovation a later ceremony on this occasion rather than making it his first entrance. If the speeches were given outside the pomerium, that would probably have taken place in the Campus Martius/Circus Flaminius area, with the ovation leading through the Porta Triumphalis. Octavian would have wanted it to have seemed as much like a triumph as possible (thus entering on horseback rather than on foot). This does not preclude some other ovations moving through southern gates, particularly the two linked with the Alban Mount (see below).

The triple triumph of 29 bce After Octavian’s victories at Actium and Alexandria and during the period of waiting for the Younger Caesar, the Senate passed a number of resolutions in honour of these victories (Dio Cass. 51.19.1–20.5).21 In fact, all of Octavian’s triumphs and ovations were voted to him by the Senate before he returned, on learning of his successes – thus without the indignity of his having to request them in person.22 This is clearly the case for the Actian and Alexandrian triumphs (Dio Cass. 51.19.1, 19.5).23 There were two triumphs in a single war; both fought with the same purpose and against the same enemy.24



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Octavian returned to Rome and celebrated a triple triumph over three consecutive days (13–15 August) for his victories in Dalmatia, Actium and Egypt.25 The greatest of all his receptions likely came on this return. Velleius (2.89.1; contra Dio Cass. 51.20.4) certainly suggests that Octavian was received enthusiastically on his return to Italy and Rome. Augustus very likely declined all future triumphs thereafter in order to preserve its uniqueness (RG 4.1).26 According to Dio Cassius, Octavian only entered on the final day, but he chose to make three triumphs appear as one as a matter of convenience. In the list of honours mentioned by Dio Cassius, the three triumphs are distinct. In the Res Gestae, Augustus also distinctly mentions three separate triumphs and not a multi-day triumph, as had been celebrated previously: [Bis] ovans triumphavi et tri[s egi] curulis triumphos et appella[tus sum v]iciens et semel imperator, [decernente pl]uris triumphos mihi sena[t] u, qu[ibus omnibus su]persedi (‘I celebrated two triumphal ovations and three curule triumphs, and I have been hailed twenty-one times as victorious general, although the senate voted me more triumphs, from all of which I abstained’).27 It is probable that Octavian, somewhat curiously, processed through the city on each day. He would have been followed by different groups of senators, 700 in all (RG 25.3), including the current magistrates, depending on who had served on the respective campaigns. Some senators may even have entered twice. Dio Cassius (51.21.9) mentions that the procession on the last day was unusual, because the magistrates did not take the traditional position at the front. This has often been linked to Octavian’s monarchical position, but it seems more reasonable to presume that the senators and magistrates had been soldiers in the army of Octavian and were thus relocated.28 The year 29 bce also saw the first closing of the Temple of Janus under Augustus.29 This closing took place on the surprising date of 11 January 29 bce, before Octavian returned to Rome. On the basis of the clear implication in Dio Cassius’ narrative that the closing took place before Octavian’s return, the year is assumed to be 29 bce (Dio Cass. 51.20.4–5), while the Fasti Praenestini provide the date 11 January (the right side of the stone, indicating the year, is lost however).30 According to Dio Cassius, the temple was re-opened in 27 bce, when Augustus set out for Spain (Dio Cass. 53.26.5; Oros. 6.21.1). The closing is best seen in connection with Octavian’s victories and triumphs: there could be no triumph without pacification, and the closing of the Temple of Janus is thus part of the justification for triumph. Res Gestae 13 explains that [Ianum] Quirin[um, quem cl]aussum ess[e maiores nostri voluer]unt, cum [p]er totum i[mperium po]puli Roma[ni terra marique es]set parta victoriis pax (‘Our ancestors wanted Janus Quirinus to be closed when peace had been achieved by victories on land and sea throughout the whole empire of the Roman people’). This was the triumph (or alternatively triumphs, if Alexandria is included – in both wars, Actium and Alexandria, the enemies were Cleopatra and Antonius) that ended war, both civil and foreign, and brought peace to Rome (RG 3.1, 4.1, 34.1) – the ultimate triumph no less, which fits the title ‘conqueror of the known world’ (RG, heading). If victory meant peace, effectively ending the war, the victorious general might be granted a triumph – this was the normal procedure.31 It seems thus very likely that the temple was closed before Octavian entered Rome 29 bce, in triumph. The closing of the temple might not have been part of Octavian’s return, but there

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are still ideological implications: Res Gestae 13 makes it clear that the closings reflect peace as the result of victory, as symbolically connected to the return of Octavian. There is one key aspect of the triple triumph of 29 bce that has never been answered, even though it has wider implications. As a victorious general, Octavian would have approached the city of Rome from the East, but how did he and his men arrive at the Campus Martius?

A practical problem: Victorious generals returning from the East Once drawn up, the triumphal procession advanced from the Circus Flaminius and crossed the pomerium at the Porta Triumphalis. The gate’s location is uncertain, though Filippo Coarelli has argued that it formed part of the Porta Carmentalis.32 In any event, Cicero’s comments on Piso’s return to Rome in 55 bce (Pis. 55) and the fact that Augustus’ funeral left the city by the Porta Triumphalis show that it was an actual gate, not a shifting location, as suggested by Timothy Peter Wiseman.33 The question of the triumphal route of commanders approaching by the Via Appia/Latina, which must include all those fighting wars in the East, has as far as I know never been raised in all the vast bibliography on the route. They may have travelled along the eastern side of the city, outside the walls, but the lack of roads will have left many unhappy farmers. Alternatively, the returning commanders could have moved west, between the Aventine and the Tiber and then on from the Forum Boarium to the Temple of Bellona on the Campus Martius. A third possibility was to go through the Porta Capena and then along the left side of the Circus Maximus to the Forum Boarium. The section of the city walls between the Capitoline and the Aventine is hugely disputed, and it is possible that the circuit never protected the area of the Forum Boarium and the Tiber port.34 Indeed, if the Forum Boarium was ever enclosed, the fortification appears to have been disused already by the third century bce.35 One problem is that we do not know where exactly the pomerium ran in the valley between the Aventine and the Palatine. The only evidence is Tacitus, and of the various places he mentions, the location of the Altar of Hercules is only approximately known and those of the other places not at all. We are left with his statement that the pomerium ran ‘along the base of the Palatine hill’ (Ann. 12.24, per ima montis Palatini), which, if taken literally, might imply that the Circus Maximus itself was outside the pomerium. Senate meetings at the Temples of Apollo and Bellona are attested by Livy for, among others, Marcellus on returning from Sicily, and Flamininus, Manlius Vulso and Fulvius Nobilior after their campaigns in the Greek East.36 It seems unlikely that the Senate would have expected such commanders to make their way round to these temples in the Circus Flaminius if their armies remained at the south of Rome. It thus seems reasonable to accept that commanders and their armies did make their way to the Campus Martius before the Senate hearing and the subsequent triumph.



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However, are we really to assume that the victorious general would be lurking round the city or, more likely, cross in effect through the city? And even if so, would this not have been part of the spectacle? For whatever reason, it is unmentioned in the ancient evidence, as the sources concentrated instead on the triumph proper and the travelling in triumph-like procession through Italy. Marcellus only received an ovation, but celebrated an Alban Mount triumph (Livy 26.21.1–4; Val. Max. 2.8.5; Plut. Marc. 21–2; De vir. ill. 45.6), and probably made his spectacular entry into Rome at the Porta Capena (see below). T. Quinctius Flamininus came across to Brundisium and then proceeded to Rome as in triumph: Inde per totam Italiam ad urbem prope triumphantes non minore agmine rerum captarum quam suo prae se acto venerunt (Livy 34.52.2, ‘Thence they proceeded all the way through Italy to Rome in a virtual triumph, the captured articles forming as long a column as the troops which marched ahead of him’). He was then granted an audience with the Senate and triumphed for three days. Livy does not tell what happened in Rome, but in appearance the spectacle began already at Brundisium. Whenever and wherever the spectacle began, a consequence of these movements in and around Rome is clearly that great importance was attached to passing through the Porta Triumphalis, it being felt that, at least for curule triumphs, the crossing of the pomerium had to be at this point. In 167 bce Aemilius Paullus apparently solved the problem by coming up the Tiber on Perseus’ flagship, as both Livy and Plutarch attest.37 According to Livy, spectators had gathered along the route to witness the spectacle – already his arrival by ship was as in triumph (cf. Plut. Cato Min. 39 on Cato in 56 bce). Later in 167 bce, Anicius Gallus and Gnaeus Octavius arrived with their fleet (Livy 45.35.4), thus perhaps suggesting that the navalia functioned as the maritime approach of the triumphant commander.38 There is no doubt of the existence of a navalia on the Campus Martius, opposite the Prata Quinctia (Livy 3.26.8; cf. Plin. HN 18.20). A possible reading of a disputed fragment of the Forma Urbis (fragments 23, 24a–d) may also show a [NAVA]LIA in the area below the Aventine on the left Tiber bank (constructed in opus incertum in the early second century bce).39 It is thus impossible to know with certainty where they arrived in the city.

The princeps’ return 24 bce Augustus travelled to Gaul in 27 bce and then to Spain in 26 bce for the Cantabrian War.40 The promise of securing the provinces from internal as well as external enemies justified the division of the provinces and enabled Augustus to retain most of the legions under his command.41 Even if we know very little about Augustus’ actual return on 13 June 24 bce, the events can be safely reconstructed as follows. Augustus will have left as a holder of imperium and taken the auspices at the Capitoline, proclaiming there a vow for his command and the public welfare (Cic. Verr. 2.5.34). He would then put on the paludamentum, the purple military cloak, and cross the pomerium accompanied by friends and well-wishers. The passing from the civil sphere (domi) to the military

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sphere (militiae) would then be reversed on his return.42 On the occasions where Augustus was hailed imperator, he will have made sacrifices on his return crossing of the pomerium.43 This is evident in Res Gestae 4.1: L[aurum de f]asc[i]bus deposui in Capi[tolio, votis quae] quoque bello nuncupaveram [sol]utis (‘I deposited the laurel from my fasces in the Capitoline temple, in fulfilment of the vows which I had taken in each war’). Augustus clearly took vows for each of his post-27 bce departures. At the same time, the new provincial arrangements of 27 bce had put an end to the departure ritual for proconsuls, and perhaps thenceforth the emperor alone wore the paludamentum.44 Augustus would have been welcomed back as a commander; similar to Republican generals, he would have redeemed the undertaking in accordance with his vow on the Capitoline, and he will have dedicated his laurels on the Capitoline, votis solutis.45 Dio Cassius only briefly recounts Augustus’ return, but he does mention that Augustus was given honours (53.28.3), partly because of his recovery from illness (53.28.1). Furthermore, Dio Cassius mentions that Augustus promised to give the people 400 sesterces each (53.28.1) – this sum equals the sum paid out to the people after his triple triumph of 29 bce (RG 15.1). Though Augustus declined to triumph in 25 bce after his Cantabrian success (Dio Cass. 53.26.5; Flor. 2.33.53), he apparently felt that the people should not suffer for his modesty on his return. He did however accept the right to wear the crown and triumphal dress on the first day of every year, and the Temple of Janus was to be closed in 25 bce.46 Augustus’ return in 24 bce was part of a process in which non-triumphal returns included triumphal features, and on this occasion there might have been quite a spectacle with large crowds greeting Augustus (Cic. Mur. 68-9). Horace certainly anticipates a conventional reception (Carm. 3.14).

The Porta Capena: Returning from the East in 19 bce In 22 bce Augustus had travelled to the East, and in 20 bce he was voted an ovation for the Parthian settlement (Dio Cass. 54.8.3), which he declined. In 19 bce he returned to Rome, where he entered the city at night (Dio Cass. 54.10.4). After 29 bce (or alternatively, certainly after 24 bce), Augustus did not allow his returns to Rome to become the great demonstrations of popular welcome which characterized the adventus of later emperors. Suetonius (Aug. 53.2; cf. Dio Cass. 54.25.3–4 on 13 bce) writes that non temere urbe oppidove ullo egressus aut quoquam ingressus est nisi vespera aut noctu, ne quem officii causa inquietaret (‘He did not if he could help it leave or enter any city or town except in the evening or at night, to avoid disturbing anyone by the obligations of ceremony’). As this was only a diplomatic success, he would have avoided a triumphal or triumph-like return. According to Dio Cassius (54.8.3), Augustus entered the city on horseback, that is, in ovation, but this cannot be the case, because Octavian’s two ovations (40 and 36 bce) are well known (they are mentioned on the Fasti Triumphales)47 and because Dio Cassius himself states that Augustus entered the city at night (54.10.4).48 This should be seen in sharp contrast to



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Cicero’s above-mentioned comments that Piso sneaked in at night (Pis. 53) – the ritual of moving across the pomerium had clearly changed. Augustus did however accept the Ara Fortunae Reducis and that the day be remembered as feriae and called Augustalia (RG 11: annual sacrifice on 12 October, to be conducted by priests and even the Vestal Virgins). According to Dio Cassius (54.10.3), he did not accept other honours on this occasion, though he was met by a delegation in Campania, an unprecedented honour (RG 12.2).49 These were all honours voted in Augustus’ absence. The Ara Fortunae Reducis was placed in front of the Temple of Honour and Virtue just outside the Porta Capena (RG 11, Aram [Fortunae] Red[ucis a]nte aedes Honoris et Virtutis ad portam Cap[enam). This gives us a precise description of the altar and its context. The temple was dedicated in 205 bce by the son of the victor Marcus Claudius Marcellus.50 Marcellus celebrated an Alban Mount triumph, but this was accompanied by a celebration in Rome, as a combination of an Alban Mount triumph and an ovation.51 Marcellus may have entered the city through the Porta Capena in his ovation rather than first carrying on to the Campus Martius (Livy 26.21.6; Plut. Marc. 22.1; De vir. ill. 45.6; Val. Max. 2.8.5). Similarly, Caesar may have entered through the Porta Capena for his ovation in 44 bce.52 If Caesar had proceeded straight from the Alban Mount, it is hard to see that there would have been an alternative, and certainly the Fasti Triumphales entry mentions this as a combined manifestation: ovans ex monte Albano.53 No triumphal celebration took place at the Alban Mount, but it may clarify that Caesar returned, in ovation, from the Alban Mount, and thus went through the Porta Capena, not the Porta Triumphalis. As for Marcellus in 211 bce, people in Rome knew what was coming – the Senate meeting had already happened, and the spectacle was well underway when Marcellus reached Rome. Perhaps this was also the reason why Cicero, who certainly came in by this route when returning from exile, described his reception in quasi-triumphal terms (Att. 4.1.5, Pis. 51–5). Antonius and Octavian in 40 bce, arriving from Brundisium, would also naturally have chosen to enter at the Porta Capena, a gate that had clear triumphal connotations.

Peace is named after Augustus: Returning to Rome in 13 bce In 16 bce Augustus travelled to Gaul, and the Temple of Janus was opened.54 The last decreed closing apparently never occurred.55 Similar to how he preserved the uniqueness of the triple triumph by declining more triumphs, Augustus may have declined the last closing of the Temple of Janus, as he no longer campaigned in person.56 Augustus returned on 4 July 13 bce (Dio Cass. 54.25). As in 19 bce, he entered Rome at night, allegedly to avoid disturbing anyone (Dio Cass. 54.25.3–4; cf. Suet. Aug. 53.2). The next day he deposited the laurels from his fasces on the Capitoline (RG. 4.1). Dio Cassius (54.19.7) also mentions games to Jupiter for Augustus’ safe return, vowed on his departure from Rome in 16 bce and held in 13 bce on his return.57

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While the Ara Fortunae Reducis was obviously connected to the return of Augustus, the Ara Pacis was connected to his assignment, that is to say, the pacification of the Empire, but also to his actual return to Rome after having fulfilled the assignment. As in 19 bce, the Ara Pacis was located on Augustus’ return route – in 13 bce he will have approached the city on the Via Flaminia. Significantly, this pacification process was only possible because of Augustus, and so the altar was given his name – the Ara Pacis Augustae – and consecrated on the field of Mars (RG 12.2, aram [Pacis A]u[g] ust[ae senatus pro] redi[t]u meo consa[c]randam [censuit] ad campum [Martium]). The closing of the Temple of Janus was connected to his person (RG 13), as an alternative to the triumph. Pax and Augustus became thereby closely tied together, and Augustus now claimed to have fulfilled his assignment – the Empire was pacified. The difference between the geographical markers is evident: Res Gestae 11 on the Ara Fortunae Reducis is precise, whereas Res Gestae 12 on the Ara Pacis is less so. However, the Campus Martius became central to Augustus early on; as befitting the context of 32 bce, Augustus’ Mausoleum formed a counterpoint to the decidedly un-Roman wishes of Antonius, whose will stated his intent to be buried in Alexandria next to Cleopatra. The Mausoleum in Rome is the perfect counterpart to Alexandria.58 The last alteration to the building programme on the Campus Martius was the Res Gestae, erected in front of the Mausoleum after Augustus’ death (Suet. Aug. 101.4). The field of Mars turned into a symbolic field of peace after Augustus’ victories.59 Importantly, the entrances of both the Mausoleum and the Ara Pacis point inwards to the northern part of the Campus Martius, not out to the Via Flaminia or the Tiber. In fact the most recent research on the Pantheon suggests that it also faced north and thus inwards to the northern part of the Campus Martius.60 The Mausoleum and the Pantheon (including the Aqua Virgo and Agrippa’s other surrounding buildings) served thereby as geographical markers, creating an Augustan space on the northern parts of the field of Mars.

Advances into central Europe 12–8 bce Augustus launched an advance into central Europe in 12 bce and was stationed in Northern Italy and Gaul until 8 bce.61 It seems that he did not return to Rome after the campaigns of 11 bce.62 In 12 bce Augustus received his eleventh imperatorial acclamation, and dedicated laurels on his return for the Alpine victory won by Drusus and Tiberius, who fought under his auspices, and in 9 bce his thirteenth.63 At the end of 10 bce, he returned to Rome (Dio Cass. 54.36.4). New salutations could not be taken until he had returned and deposited the laurels. After the death of Drusus in 9 bce, Augustus declined to enter the city, probably as an act of mourning (Dio Cass. 55.5.1–2). Augustus even chose to deliver a laudatio in Drusus’ honour in the Circus Flaminius, outside the pomerium.64 He did eventually enter the city in 8 bce (Dio Cass. 55.4.4–5.2; ILS 8894), where he delivered the laurel wreath to the Temple of Jupiter Feretrius (not as was customary in the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus on the Capitoline; cf. Dio Cass. 54.25.4), as he had been



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hailed imperator.65 Drusus’ final entry into Rome virtually resembled a triumph (Sen. De consolatione ad Marciam 3.1).

The last departure: The triumphal funeral of 14 ce Even when Augustus’ returns were characterized by absence or refusal of triumph after 29 bce, triumphal themes were a central part of the ideology of the regime. Augustus’ funeral was no exception. The procession left the city by the Porta Triumphalis and ended near or at the Mausoleum (Suet. Aug. 100.2; Dio Cass. 56.42.1). We know that Augustus had left a document with instructions for his funeral; nothing was left to chance (Suet. Aug. 101.4; Dio Cass. 56.33.1). The funeral procession also included a wax image of Augustus in triumphal garb, a triumphal chariot carrying his image, and images of the nations he had conquered (Dio Cass. 56.34.1–3). Augustus’ funeral in many ways sums up the compromise between tradition and innovation so typical for his reign.

Conclusion Augustus’ refusal of triumph after 29 bce had implications for his subsequent returns to Rome, but this of course needed to take place without relinquishing a ceremonial entry. Or if this was altogether declined – that is, if he returned at night – the princeps used monumental markers at the main northern and southern entrances of the city. Augustus thus marked the area around the gates as he used them – as markers at the end of his successful journeys. The Res Gestae mentions a festival and vows to the health of Augustus (RG 9) as well as the hymn of the Salii (RG 10), which may originally have been designed to ensure the safety of Rome at war,66 but the safety of Rome was now connected to the safety of Augustus. Moreover, two chapters are about the safe return of the princeps and altars as monumental manifestations of these returns (RG 11–12).67 The returns of Augustus are thus connected to the fulfilment of his assignments: without Augustus there would have been no victory and no peace (RG 13). It should furthermore be noted that the chronology of the Res Gestae is relative: the closing of the doors of the Temple of Janus comes first in chronological terms but last in the Res Gestae, after the two altars (RG 11–12). There is thus a distinct movement from war to peace in these chapters. The altars are substitutes for the traditional return ritual of the Roman magistrate, including the triumph, and connected to the crossing of the pomerium, the movement from militiae to domi, from war to peace. They are the result of Augustus’ refusal of triumph, but at the same time the altars, as well as the Temple of Janus, became symbols of the new assignment of the princeps: pacification. He may have declined triumphs after 29 bce, but he made a show of declining them, and additionally, he even turned his funeral into a triumphal show. Augustus had defined anew a traditional war ritual – the triumph – and at the same time he had begun the process of defining the adventus of the princeps.

12

Rite of Passage: On Ceremonial Movements and Vicarious Memories (Fourth Century ce) Gitte Lønstrup Dal Santo

This chapter explores ceremonial movements in late fourth-century suburban Rome from a phenomenological, mnemonic and spatial point of view. It employs the notions of ‘bodily re-enactments’ of ‘vicarious memories’ of the past to assert the importance of physical movement within and sense experience of that particular kind of architectural space offered by the subterranean cities of the dead – known since the ninth century as catacombs.1 These spaces housed and anchored precious memories of the Christian past. What this chapter aims to do is zoom in on the interplay in these catacombs between movement, sense experience, space and vicarious memories – ‘vicarious’ because they were remembered by a person or a group that had not personally experienced a given event.2 Christian pilgrims sought out the catacombs (or coemeteria, as they were called in the fourth century) to visit the shrines of the martyrs, honour their memory and, crucially, pray for their intercession at the time of salvation. While private visits to these shrines outside the walls and gates of Rome had existed for decades and even centuries, they acquired a greater degree of organization during the pontificate of Damasus from 366 to 384.3 From that point onwards, visits to the martyr graves may be considered as organized bodily re-enactments that were designed to create, activate and preserve vicarious memories of the witnesses and founders of the Roman Church, who had the power to intercede on the day of salvation. The memories were vicarious inasmuch as it was exceedingly unlikely that any of Rome’s late fourth-century pilgrims had actually experienced persecution and martyrdoms themselves thanks to the conversion of the Roman emperors. Indeed, in his epigram to Saints Peter and Marcellinus, Damasus recounts how he, as a child, had met the executioner of these saints.4 Damasus promoted the cult of martyrs at Rome by systematically mapping and monumentalizing the Christian martyr shrines that constituted the sacred topography of the city. Below we shall see how he succeeded in this mission. Because the Roman Church perceived of the martyrs as having consolidated the foundation of the Roman Church, they were key figures in the stories of the earliest Christian past.5 By imposing a more regular order on the visits to the martyrs’ shrines, Damasus elevated the role which the martyrs played in defining the collective identity of the Roman

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Church. His interventions lay the foundations for the liturgical and stational practices formalized in the early Middle Ages that are reflected in such pilgrimage itineraries as that of Einsiedeln from the eighth century.6 Damasus became a crucial agent in reviving, constructing and dispersing a particular set of memories about the martyrs to the Christian faithful – the group of individuals who came to interiorize these memories to ensure their own salvation.7 Movement and sense experience was central to this process of interiorization. This is not surprising, as the spatial and sensational anchoring of memories follows the advice given in traditional treatises on memory technique known to the educated.8 Comparing Damasus’ practice to Augustine’s reflections on the relationship between memory, sense experience and religious experience in the tenth book of his Confessiones, I shall argue that the sense experiences staged by Damasus were meant to enhance the interiorization and re-enactment of vicarious recollections of the Christian past, which it was in the pope’s interest to anchor and in the recipients’ interest to perform.

Memoria martyrum: The making of memory and sacred topography in fourth-century Rome The ancient word for a martyr shrine was memoria martyrum. As the term indicates, these sites were, in every sense of the word, ‘sacred sites of memory’ – materially as well as ceremonially.9 A map of Damasus’ interventions in the sacred topography of Rome illustrates that he adorned more than fifty martyr shrines in Rome’s coemeteria (Fig. 12.1). The coemeteria, which formed an outer ring around the city, were established towards the end of the second century along the consular roads that were flanked by Roman mausolea, hypogea and columbaria.10 Epigraphy shows that Christians of all social levels, laymen as well as clerics, were buried there.11 Damasus set out to commemorate the martyr tombs with epigrams, monumental marble tablets carved with verses (Fig. 12.1).12 In an intriguing, direct and literary way, the memoriae and their epigrams underline the manner in which memories are often anchored to places and bodily re-enactments. The so-called Crypt of the Popes in the San Callisto catacomb, one of the earliest catacombs, housed the tombs of at least nine bishops of Rome.13 To honour the memory of his predecessors, several of whom he acclaimed as martyrs, Damasus composed verses in hexameters to the ‘resting popes’ in the crypt. Marble columns were erected to monumentalize the commemorative ensemble, a marble floor was laid and a shaft to the surface was opened, allowing a beam of sunlight to penetrate the darkness and create a suggestive chiaroscuro ambiance in the subterranean crypt. The chamber’s flickering oil lamps would only have amplified the resulting interplay between light and darkness, creating a sombre atmosphere. Furthermore, the staircase to the catacomb closest to the crypt was enlarged and paved with marble. From this staircase, pilgrims would enter the city of the dead (Fig. 12.2).14 In addition to the Crypt of the Popes, the San Callisto catacomb housed other sacred sites (Fig. 12.2). Bishop Eusebius was buried adjacent to the crypt, while the



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Fig. 12.1  Damasian epigram in the Crypt of the Popes. © Archivio Fotografico, Pontificia Commissione di Archeologia Cristiana.

remains of Bishop Cornelius were buried in the Crypt of Lucina, when his remains were brought back to Rome from exile in Civitavecchia (Centumcellae), where he apparently died in 253.15 These sacred sites were connected by a complex subterranean network of routes, itinera ad sanctos (Fig. 12.2).16 To define these underground routes and make them visible to the visitor, Damasus employed a range of devices: light

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Fig. 12.2  Map of the holy sites, itinera ad sanctos and staircases in the San Callisto catacomb (from Vincenzo Fiocchi Nicolai, ‘Itinera ad sanctos’, Fig. 2a). © Archivio Fotografico, Pontificia Commissione di Archeologia Cristiana.



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shafts, arches and columns framing the entrance, as well as white-painted walls that were intended to facilitate the flow of pilgrims and prevent them from getting lost in a labyrinth where most galleries not only were identical but often extended more than ten kilometres on three to four levels.17 Marble-clad staircases marked the entrances to and exits from the routes, connecting the itineraries above ground with the sacred sites below ground.18 Archaeological evidence shows that Damasus’ interventions also consisted in enlarging the galleries leading to the martyr graves and the area immediately surrounding them, thus creating a space for people to gather during the ceremonies. Damasus’ interventions in the catacombs seem to have been designed to help pilgrims interiorize the vicarious recollection of the martyrs through sense experience and ceremonial re-enactments. To stage the cult of martyrs and anchor their memory here was a deliberate choice. Rather than employing the space in Rome’s well-lit Constantinian basilicas above ground, which for their beauty and monumentality would have been memorable and mnemonic spaces indeed, Damasus chose the disorienting space plunged in the darkness of the cemeteries.19 This choice may, to some extent, have been guided by practical issues of ownership. Nevertheless, Damasus used the means at his disposal well to amplify the effect on the pilgrim.20 No less a figure than Jerome, who served as Damasus’ trusted secretary towards the end of his pontificate, has left us an account of his own participation in private ceremonies commemorating the martyrs on their feast days and Sundays. Jerome described this experience half a century later, in the aftermath of the sack of Rome by Alaric and his Goths in 410, as he recalls his early years in Rome during the 360s. Whatever bias Jerome’s testimony may contain because of his close ties with Damasus, who had been dead for 26 years when Alaric attacked Rome, his personal account provides us with a first-hand experience of the confrontational setting that Damasus would choose for promoting the cult of martyrs: On Sundays we went to the tombs of the Apostles and the martyrs; we descended into the galleries, carved out of the bowels of the earth, full of graves so dark that the words of the Psalms 54:16 – ‘ Let them go down alive into hell’ – seemed to become real. The darkness which surrounded us may be described through the words of Virgil [Aen. 2.755]: ‘Horror is dense everywhere; even silence thickens with terror.’21

Jerome’s account tells us something about the mnemonic-sensorial nature and power of the cavernous labyrinths, with or without Damasus’ interventions. Not only did he improve access to the holy sites, Damasus also maximized the potential inherent in these subterranean spaces by skilfully contrasting the darkness with light showers. The Spanish poet Prudentius has left a detailed description of his vivid experience of this chiaroscuro atmosphere, which clearly made a strong impression on him when he visited the catacombs between 402 and 403: Countless are the graves of saints I have seen in the city of Romulus […]. Many a grave is lettered and tells the martyr’s name or bears some epitaph […].22 Not far outside the wall […] yawns a cave which goes deep down in dark pits. Into its

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hidden depths a downward path shows the way by turning, winding steps, with the help of light from a source unseen; for the light of day enters the first approach as far as the top of the cleft and illuminates the entrance; then as you go forward easily you see the dark night of the place fill the mysterious cavern with blackness, but you find openings let into the chasm. However doubtful you may feel of this fabric of narrow halls running back on either hand in darksome galleries, still through the holes pierced in the vault many a gleam of light makes its way down to the hollow interior of the disembowelled mount and thus underground it is granted to see the brightness of a sun which is not there, and have the benefit of its light.23

While the young Jerome was horrified by the numerous graves in the sinister ‘Realm of Death’ before Damasus’ interventions, Prudentius seems to have been fascinated by the light that now lit up the gloomy abyss otherwise deprived of daylight and oxygen. Apart from oil lamps, the shafts were the only source of light in the catacombs that allowed sun beams and fresh air to pour down from the surface at strategic points and bring occasional relief as they briefly dissolved the darkness. With Damasus’ interventions, the visitors would have descended into the galleries and walked through the darkness of the labyrinth until they arrived at a martyr tomb strikingly showered in the sky light pouring down the shaft. Such a suggestive sight may in fact still be seen as one turns the corner of the gallery leading to the tomb of Pope Cornelius in San Callisto. The embodied quality of the experience of walking in darkness until suddenly seeing the shower of light is a significant parallel to the spiritual journey. Indeed, the act of walking the itinerary was in itself as crucial a part of the spiritual experience as the point of culmination at the sacred site of the martyr shrine. Jerome’s and Prudentius’ accounts of the subterranean passageways document the overwhelmingly rich variety of sense experiences, which the visitor underwent when walking the itinera ad sanctos: from the descent into the eerie darkness, through the endless narrow and humid galleries filled with a smell of decomposing bodies towards the light-showed tombs. Among the sounds that interrupted the subterranean silence, which struck Jerome as terrifying, were only the sounds of pilgrims walking, singing psalms, saying prayers and, perhaps, celebrating the Eucharist and reciting Damasus’ epigrams in the solemn rhythm of the hexameter.24 The movement through this carefully choreographed space, where the darkness, dampness and never-ending labyrinthine galleries were overwhelming, was capable of engaging the body, the mind and the spirit. This was almost certainly central to Damasus’ strategic programme. His demonstrated awareness of the intimate connection between sense experience, space and memory was rooted in the Greco-Roman education and tradition of which Augustine was an important contemporary and posterior transmitter.

Contextualizing Damasus with Augustine’s ideas on vicarious recollections and sense experience In the tenth book of Confessiones (c. 397), Augustine pondered the relation between sense experience, religious experience, space and memory. Conceiving of his own



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memory in spatial terms, he describes it as a chamber, a storehouse, a receptacle, a treasury and a palace. All of these figures have their roots in ancient mnemonics, with which Augustine would have been familiar through his training as a rhetorician.25 Moreover, he describes memory as a great power (magna ista vis est memoriae), served by corporeal senses (Conf. 10.8). The five corporeal senses, of which vision was the greatest according to Augustine, import images of things and experiences to the memory chamber. It is important to note that it is not the thing or the experience in itself that enters the gateway of the senses and is stored, but an image of it: ‘The things which we sense do not enter the memory themselves, but their images are there ready to present themselves to our thoughts when we recall them.’26 This conception of memory demonstrates Augustine’s familiarity with the Aristotelian concepts of memory (mneme in Greek, memoria in Latin) and recollection (anamnesis in Greek, reminiscentia in Latin) described in an appendix to Aristotle’s De anima.27 While mneme is continuous, relates to the past and presupposes a notion of time, anamnesis is discontinuous and presupposes the existence of already established but forgotten memories. Mneme refers to specific memories that we possess; anamnesis refers to the activity of calling memories up. While memory is uncontrollable as it acts upon us, recollection is an ‘active and conscious pursuit of memory; it is the memory that we attempt to recover by art or contemplation’.28 From Aristotle’s point of view, memory is based on sense experience imprinted on the mind as images of things – like the imprint of a seal.29 Hence, the idea Augustine inherited from Aristotle is that rather than remembering the things in themselves, we remember their impressions on the mind, which are the fruit of physical sense experiences. Recollection and representation cannot take place until an imprint is implanted in the soul. Key to Augustine’s reflections on memory, space and sense experience is his search for the sanctuary of God within the chambers of his memory. At first he fails to solve this challenge and wonders, ‘Where, then, did I find you, so that I could learn of you? For you were not in my memory before I learned of you.’30 Undoubtedly, God truly dwells in memory, ‘because I remember you ever since I first came to learn of you, and it is there that I find you when I am reminded of you’.31 Augustine concludes that God is not to be found amongst the images of material things as he is not the image of a material body (Conf. 10.25). God’s dwelling in his memory is indeterminable and yet omnipresent. He nevertheless realizes that it was only when he sensed God that he became aware of him. In other words, Augustine’s memory of God came through sense experience – all five of them: You were with me, but I was not with you. […] You called me; you cried aloud to me; you broke my barrier of deafness. You shone upon me; your radiance enveloped me; you put my blindness to flight. You shed your fragrance about me; I drew breath and now I gasp for your sweet odour. I tasted you, and now I hunger and thirst for you. You touched me, and I am inflamed with love of your peace.32

Although Augustine does not make the distinction here between corporeal and incorporeal senses (i.e. bodily and spiritual senses), which he would later do in De Genesi ad litteram, we must assume that he refers to spiritual deafness, blindness, hunger

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and thirst. That is, the full understanding and storing of God in the memory comes through the spiritual senses. Importantly, however, the bodily senses are channels leading to the spiritual senses. This is the basic principle behind the so-called anagogic ability: the capacity of the visible to act as a vehicle of the invisible, of spiritual matter. This is described in Psalm 120, on which Augustine’s commentary is telling: ‘Scripture teaches us about the spiritual through the bodily and proves the invisible through the visible.’33 Although written after Damasus’ pontificate, Augustine’s reflections in Confessiones provide an analogy to the overall approach guiding Damasus’ employment of space and sense experience. He was, quite plausibly, acquainted with the ancient technologies of mnemonics known to Augustine.34 With components of light and darkness, Damasus excelled in awakening the believer’s senses of the corporally and spiritually visible and invisible as a gateway to the memory of God, the saints and their foundation of the Roman Church. Indeed, in a way and on a scale unparalleled among his predecessors, Damasus chose an architectural framework that stimulated the visitors’ sense experience and presented them with real, striking and memorable loci endowed with sacred imagines serving to recollect the witnesses and founders of Christian Rome.35 As such, his strategy corresponds to the advice given in the manual on memory technique, Rhetorica ad Herennium (first century bce), with respect to creating mnemonic spaces and images, loci and imagines. The most efficient inventions, it said, were compelling images and spaces that aroused a pleasurable, shocking, spectacular or overwhelming reaction that would stimulate the memory.36 Indeed, this was precisely the effect of the at-once frightening and fascinating mise-en-scène created by Damasus in the catacombs. Augustine taught his congregation at Hippo to sharpen their senses in order to stimulate the experience and memory of God. With the pun spectacula spectant (‘they see the spectacles’), Augustine played with the likeness between the verb spectare and the noun spectaculum, intending the corporeal vision (spectare) to be the vehicle that made the sacred spectaculum visible.37 Hence, he instructed his congregation to see the martyr acts when they were read aloud during the service, as he did himself (quando leguntur passiones martyrum, specto).38 The congregation had to sense the spectacle that took place in front of their eyes as it was re-enacted (magnum spectaculum positum est ante oculos fidae nostrae). ‘Were this not a spectaculum, why would you have come today (nam si nulla sunt spectacula, cur hodie convenistis)?’, he asked, playing with an analogy to the worldly spectacles in the arena.39 Every time the martyrs’ acts were read aloud on their annual feast, the spectacle of martyrdom was re-enacted – a re-enactment that permitted the believers to recollect and experience a martyrdom which they had not witnessed personally. When staging the cult of the martyrs in the catacombs – and not in the churches within the walls of the city – Damasus certainly played on the spectacular and compelling in order to enhance the vicarious recollection of the martyrs’ sacrifice. In Charles Hedrick’s words, Aristotle’s concept of recollection, anamnesis, is an ‘active and conscious pursuit of memory’, a ‘calling up of memories’ – or re-enactment.40 Recollection, recall and re-enactment all presuppose the existence of an already established memory, or mneme, of the past. When seen in the light of Damasus’



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interventions in the catacombs to promote the cult of martyrs, we might say that he, on the one hand, represented an active and conscious pursuit of an existing memory of these figures of the past: a recollection, recalling and re-enactment of memories, which none of the members of the community had witnessed. On the other hand, Damasus also laid the grounds for new memories of the (manipulated) past by inventing previously unknown martyrs and memoriae, or reviving the memory of the forgotten martyrs. These representations of the past were subsequently interiorized by the Christian community. The process of interiorization – without which memories fall into oblivion – may be measured by responses, reactions and imitations. Above all, the process can be traced in the increased burials in the so-called retro sanctos areas immediately surrounding the martyr tombs monumentalized by Damasus, in the growing number of refrigeria and graffiti at the tombs and in the stylistic and idiomatic imitation of the epigrams that were later copied by pilgrims. Damasus’ promotion of the martyrs as figures of the past reflects the establishment of vicarious recollections of the foundation of Christian Rome – sometimes recalling forgotten martyrs, sometimes inventing new ones and sometimes renegotiating existing ones, as the past was given ‘presentness’ and retrospectively changed according to the needs of the present.41 Because the nature of memory is not static but dynamic, this allows, and allowed then, for a continual renegotiation of the representation and reception of the past. As an agent of memory-making, Damasus represented, negotiated, situated, enacted, maintained, manipulated, dissolved and transformed the way in which the Christian community remembered the past: the foundation of the Roman Church.42 An important outcome of the memory-making process was the consolidation of togetherness and connection both socially and culturally among members of the Christian community in and outside Rome.43 The ulterior motive behind this enterprise of consolidating the memories of the Christian past was almost certainly to legitimize the authoritative status of the Roman Church. This legitimization would eventually allow him to confirm the primacy of Rome as the leading See in the church at the council in 382.44 Although Irenaeus, bishop of Lyon, had already attributed an authoritative status to the Roman See in the second century, the context and historical setting in which Irenaeus was writing was different from the Rome in which Damasus was head of the See of St Peter.45 It was a Rome challenged by schismatics, ‘Arian’ emperors and the new imperial capital – a new Rome – that was taking over the administration of the empire. The Roman martyr graves became emblematic vehicles in the endeavour to re-found Rome as a Christian capital and to confirm its primacy. 46 By imprinting this version of the past into the body and mind of his congregation through ceremonial re-enactments in suburban space, Damasus imparted a sense of community to those actively involved both socially and culturally among members of the Christian community in and outside Rome – a process in which ceremonies moving from urban to suburban space implored viewers to enact and vicariously remember that which they had not experienced themselves. These vicarious memories were anchored to the memoriae martyrum that worked as nodal points in the sacred topography of Rome. The commemorative ceremonies enacted at these sacred sites of memory gave rise to what Paul Connerton has called

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a ‘mnemonics of the body’, that is, a series of bodily practices through which the past was re-enacted – motivated by the individual’s salvation.47 The re-enactment of these vicarious recollections took place in the recitation of the epigrams, in walking the itinera ad sanctos and in the commemorative ceremonies, all of which offered the participant a variety of visual, auditive and olfactory sense experiences and physical movement.48 There was a double outcome of this embodied sense experience: not only did it enhance the spiritual experience of the individual desiring salvation, it also enhanced the visitor’s interiorization of the memory of the martyrs that was anchored to these sacred sites. And these memories of the Christian past were inseparable from Damasus’ political programme.

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The Laetaniae Septiformes of Gregory I, S. Maria Maggioreand Early Marian Cult in Rome Margaret M. Andrews

Gregory’s laetaniae septiformes In September of 589, the Tiber inundated Rome after extraordinary rainfall. The violent waters destroyed buildings and provisions across the city. By November a plague had descended upon Rome’s residents; by February of 590, Pope Pelagius II was dead. Fear and panic washed over the population; many abandoned their houses and fled the city.1 Entrusted with restoring order to Rome, Gregory, a deacon and rising star in the ecclesiastical bureaucracy, was proclaimed Pelagius’ successor as pope. Despite his initial reluctance and a delayed confirmation, Gregory recognized the need to deal with the flood and plague immediately. In the only extant account, Gregory of Tours relates how in a Sunday morning sermon, the newly elected Gregory called for three days of prayer and repentance culminating with a laetania septiformis, a seven-form penitential procession, the following Wednesday at dawn.2 Seven groups classified by age, sex and ecclesiastical status were to gather at designated churches throughout the city. The clergy and the priests of the sixth ecclesiastical region were to meet at SS. Cosma e Damiano; abbots and monks, along with presbyters of the fourth region, were to gather at S. Vitale; nuns with their congregations and the first-region presbyters at SS. Marcellino e Pietro; children and the second region priests at SS. Giovanni e Paolo; laymen and the priests of the seventh region at S. Stefano Rotondo; widows and the priests of the fifth region at S. Eufemia; and married women with the third-region priests at S. Clemente. Once gathered, each group would process to S. Maria Maggiore at the top of the Cispian hill, where Gregory would then conduct a papal mass (Fig. 13.1). Thirteen years later in 603, Gregory organized another laetania septiformis. Gregory’s own account of the procession gives no indication of what disaster or plight was afflicting the city at this time, but, as before, the procession was clearly meant to be penitential, and, as before, S. Maria Maggiore was the terminus.3 Though organized and executed in the same format as the earlier litany, the churches used as gathering points and the groups assigned to each one differed. This time, the clergy met at the S. Giovanni in Laterano, the laymen at S. Marcello, monks at SS. Giovanni e Paolo, nuns at SS. Cosma e Damiano, married women at S. Stefano Rotondo, widows at S. Vitale and the children and poor at S. Cecilia (Fig. 13.2). The participants were supposed to reflect upon their

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Fig. 13.1  Plan of Gregory’s laetania septiformis in 590 with hypothesized routes of procession to S. Maria Maggiore. Map by Margaret M. Andrews. individual and collective sins on the way to S. Maria Maggiore, and, in doing so, generate genuine feelings of contrition, penitence, shame and humility. In both of the seven-form processions, the participants should have been in tears by the time they arrived at the basilica, a visible indication of their genuine need and desire to confess their sins with truly contrite hearts and to ask God to have mercy on both the city and its population. Despite, or perhaps because of, their exceptional and somewhat enigmatic nature, Gregory’s two known laetaniae septiformes are a relatively understudied feature of Rome’s early Christian ceremonies.4 They are usually mentioned only in passing before discussing the better known annual penitential procession known as the laetania maior (‘Great Litany’), which Gregory also performed and with which the laetaniae septiformes are often conflated.5 But given the critical circumstances under which they were organized, the large number of participants involved and the large swath of Rome’s urban landscape that was implicated in the ceremony, the importance of the two sets of processions should not be overlooked. They are not only some of the earliest Christian processions known in Rome, but they also would remain unique in their divided structure and the mandatory participation of all members of Christian Rome, on which indeed the success of the ritual depended. Moreover, the processions mark the first time that S. Maria Maggiore became an important processional locus for the city. By choosing it as the destination for both laetaniae, Gregory appealed specifically to Mary and introduced her as a civic intercessor to Rome. He likely drew off recent developments in the East, particularly in Constantinople, where processions associated with the cult of Mary as a granter of mercy were becoming increasingly prevalent in both imperial and patriarchal ceremony. Gregory’s laetaniae septiformes

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Fig. 13.2  Plan of Gregory’s laetania septiformis in 603 with hypothesized routes of procession to S. Maria Maggiore. Map by Margaret M. Andrews. represent the Roman foundations of a public and papal programme of Marian celebration closely associated with processions that would grow into a regular feature of Rome’s Christian ceremony.

S. Maria Maggiore as terminus Since both Gregory of Tours’ account and Pope Gregory’s own instructions give few details for the actual processions, it is difficult to know how the laetaniae septiformes actually worked, apart from the explicit instructions that both processions should begin at dawn. Each group presumably set out from its respective church at the same time, but each procession, with its different participants, route and topographical difficulty and length, could hardly have been coordinated with perfect harmony. The primary routes taken to get to S. Maria Maggiore would have been more passable in some places than in others, not only because of the flood but even under normal urban conditions. It seems probable that the likely rather sizable groups chose primary thoroughfares over winding small streets, even if it meant longer walks. Some groups would have arrived at the basilica before others, while certain processions probably would have converged prior to arrival. In the 590 procession, the laymen beginning down at S. Stefano Rotondo were probably one of the last groups to arrive, while the widows from S. Eufemia would almost certainly have arrived first, perhaps fitting at a time when the group of widows would have been increasing relative to the others because of the plague. In the 603 procession, on the other hand, the children

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and poor would almost certainly have been last, while the clergy and monks likely arrived together, after the nuns. These complicated and seemingly random logistical dynamics, however, may have been intentional, reflecting precisely the kind of civic unity that the ceremony was meant to evoke. In his two studies of the processions, Jacob Latham has noted that they are characterized by a particularly high degree of inclusivity across all social, economic and ecclesiastical categories, and that each of the seven categories represented a particular contingent of the Church. In order to participate, residents of Rome had to identify as a member of a society classified in Christian terms rather than in economic or political ones.6 While Latham goes on to discuss the significance of the interpellation and subjectivity that the processions created among the participants, we can see also how the logistics of the processions – how and where they flowed and interacted – emphasized such demographic inclusivity and representative equality. Hierarchies were dismissed as the children and the clergy converged on the Clivus Suburanus or the nuns and married women on the ancient Via Merulana in the 590 procession. In the 603 procession, the monks and clergy may have met along the Argiletum, with both groups following the nuns up the Clivus Suburanus. The random convergence of the groups and order of their arrival at S. Maria Maggiore would have only served to underscore the equality of each of the participants – all Christians, all sinners and all repentant – in the eyes of God. As the location where the entire city and Gregory eventually converged and became united in supplication, the basilica of S. Maria Maggiore and area around it on top of the Cispian hill were transformed into a representation of the repentant Christian city as a whole. The basilica had stood at the peak of the Cispian, the highest point of the city on the eastern side of the Tiber, since the 430s, when it was constructed under Popes Celestine and Sixtus III, who ultimately dedicated it in 432.7 Much larger than the small titular churches that had much more subtly emerged out of the residential neighbourhoods of the imperial capital, S. Maria Maggiore was a massive papal construction that drastically intruded upon and altered the pre-existing urban fabric.8 In the imperial period, the hill was characterized by residential occupation spread between the Vicus Patricius to the north and the Clivus Suburanus to the south. With very few monuments and only a few small shrines, it merited virtually no mention in ancient literary sources.9 The scant and overwhelmingly residential archaeological evidence only confirms the impression of a decidedly non-monumental zone.10 By the fifth century, many of the formerly grand houses on the hill had been abandoned during the contemporary political turbulence, including the structure of imperial date below S. Maria Maggiore itself. The upper part of the Cispian had by then become even more of an insignificant part of Rome’s cityscape.11 The construction of the basilica in the 420s and 430s on the peak of the hill, however, completely reversed this trend. With an original capacity of likely over 2000 worshippers, the basilica served almost as a second cathedral for the fifth-century city, located closer to the zones of denser population than both the Lateran and S. Pietro.12 Given its size, it played host to as many stational liturgies as the Lateran or the Vatican, and in the 460s Pope Hilary designated it as the place of storage for all the liturgical objects used in stational services throughout the city.13 S. Maria Maggiore

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thus incorporated the Cispian hill into a monumental urban landscape from which during the imperial period it had been increasingly excluded, and the new basilica immediately gave the hill a sacred and civic importance it had never before enjoyed. Though a venue for several important stational services, S. Maria Maggiore most commonly appears in our early Christian sources as a location for ecclesiastical or doctrinal debates and conflicts.14 This role was already one played by its predecessor, the Liberian basilica, which had been constructed by Pope Liberius around 350 somewhere in the vicinity of where S. Maria Maggiore would later rise. Liberius himself was a contentious pope, exiled then reinstated over his replacement, Felix, and the original basilica was undoubtedly intended at least in part as a way for Felix to lay claim to a part of the city. Thus, when upon Liberius’ death in 366 his supporters hailed Ursinus as their new pope against Damasus, they used his basilica as a stronghold and rally point. In a famous act of urban violence, Damasus gathered a crowd and attacked the basilica, significantly damaging it and killing many.15 Later papal claimant Lawrence, who had roots along the Vicus Patricius, would use S. Maria Maggiore as his base during his conflict with Symmachus around 500.16 Doctrinally, Pope Hilary had used the church in the 460s as a venue to condemn all heresies and to confirm the decrees of the councils of Nicaea, Chalcedon and Ephesus, while Gelasius I would later use the front of the basilica as the site for burning the books of Manicheans he had exiled from Rome.17 Thus, the Liberian basilica and the pre-Gregorian basilica of S. Maria Maggiore were indeed second Laterans, important liturgical settings but also basilicas firmly linked to the patriarch and closely associated with ecclesiastical administration on all fronts. Gregory’s processions could be contextualized with the earlier struggles of papal succession in which the basilica had played a role as a venue for partisan processions and rallies. When he staged the first procession in 590, he had been elected pope, but not yet confirmed. The quick decision to turn to contrition and supplication that Gregory of Tours emphasizes in his account demonstrated not only Gregory’s authority, but also his humility, at once commanding a unity of faith and repentance among Rome’s people and placing the hopes of its salvation in the power of divine intercession. Gregory’s engagement with the basilica as the culminating point of city-wide ritual processions could thus also be seen as an act of asserting himself as the leader of an at-last unified Roman Church in the building that had witnessed earlier papal candidates fail to do the same. Indeed, throughout early Christian Rome, processions centred on papal display were more common than liturgical ones and seem to have been carried out largely in the context of factional strife within the Roman Church or during conflicts of papal succession. Supporters of one candidate would march within or across the city to stake a claim on the papacy, attempting to physically control significant sites, such as the Lateran and the Vatican.18 Felix attempted a public procession during the exile of Liberius at some point in the 350s, and in 418, supporters of Boniface marched on S. Pietro to claim it against Eulalius, who had been ordained as pope and who was occupying the Lateran at that time.19 A newly-elected Pelagius I (556–561) processed from S. Pancrazio on the Janiculum to S. Pietro in the Vatican in 556 to prove the truth and sanctity of a vow proclaiming his innocence in the death of his predecessor Vigilius.20 His procession was therefore juridical in nature.

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Liturgical processions were not unknown to Rome before Gregory’s pontificate, but they were not yet frequent, and S. Maria Maggiore had played no role in them.21 Gregory himself described the Great Litany as a ‘ceremony of great antiquity’ in 589 and an ‘annual rite’ in 591, only a year after conducting the first of the seven-form litanies.22 It was famously coincident on April 25 with the Robigalia, an agricultural pagan festival and procession – that coursed along roughly the same route from the Via Lata, beginning at S. Lorenzo in Lucina and ending at S. Pietro on the Vatican hill. It was also deeply penitential, seeking general mercy for all the various sins that Rome and its residents had committed.23 When the first laetania maior was performed is unknown, but Gregory’s testimony clearly indicates that it predated the late sixth century. Apart from the Great Litany, it would not be until the mid-sixth century that the first papal procession with an ultimately liturgical and spiritual focus was held. The so-called and misnamed Leonine Sacramentary, which actually dates to the papacy of Vigilius (537–55), already records penitential processions on the Wednesday and Friday of the December Ember week, but the origin and destination churches for the ceremonies are unknown.24 Gregory’s seven-form processions were something different from a papal strut, however, and were certainly not triumphal, agonistic or juridical, as previous processions were. Instead, they were ad hoc solutions to acute crises rather than annual celebrations expressing general civic repentance for general civic misfortune; what was at stake was the salvation of the city, its populace and its church, lying in the collective supplication that the multiple processions themselves generated. They were complete novelties in Rome during Gregory’s time, both in the kind of procession they represented and their topographic scope, which included most of the city in a single ritual. As the location where Gregory’s procession culminated, the Cispian hill became a sacred destination of utmost importance for the first time in Rome’s history. Gregory’s processions to S. Maria Maggiore mark the first time that the Cispian served as the terminus for a procession of the Roman people – pagan or Christian – and the first time that the Argiletum and Clivus Suburanus, which led up to the Cispian and passed by the entrance of the basilica, served as the primary thoroughfare for a public procession.25 In pre-Christian Rome, matrons would have made their way to the Temple of Juno Lucina on the western tip of the hill – essentially the only monument on the entire Cispian – to celebrate the Matronalia on 1 March, but there is no evidence to suggest that a unified procession or collective offering ever took place on that day.26 The Christian Cispian therefore bore a completely different significance for the city than the imperial one. Gregory’s two processions to S. Maria Maggiore therefore mark a rather dramatic shift both in Rome’s processional practices of the time and in the significance of the S. Maria Maggiore and the Cispian within Rome’s ideological and sacred landscape.

S. Maria Maggiore and Marian Rome If the basilica of S. Maria Maggiore had never been at the focus of the kind of liturgy that Gregory’s seven-form processions represented, we might ask whether Gregory

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saw a significance in it that made it particularly suitable as the destination of the processions. None of the churches at the origins of the seven processions seem to bear any obvious significance for the processions or to the specific groups that gathered at them. Four of them featured in both the 590 and the 603 litanies, but the groups that gathered at them were different each time, as is the order in which they were listed and the order, presumably, in which the groups actually arrived at S. Maria Maggiore. S. Maria Maggiore, however, as the destination for both litanies, must have had a certain significance. It has been suggested that, apart from its size, patriarchal importance and significance as a location of ecclesiastical unity within Rome, S. Maria Maggiore was a convenient destination for the 590 procession because it is situated on a hill, above and removed from the low-lying, flooded zone of the city.27 While such convenience cannot work against S. Maria Maggiore as Gregory’s choice, the repetition of it as the destination of the second procession in 603 suggests that its importance went beyond the practicalities of its physical situation. I suggest that its significance lay in its dedication to Mary, and in this respect, the processions and the role of the basilica in them represent an important early development in the emergence of civic and public devotion to Mary in Rome. S. Maria Maggiore was the first basilica dedicated to Mary in Rome, but it would remain the only one for at least a century, until the foundation or conversion of S. Maria Antiqua at the foot of the Palatine, which is commonly accepted to have occurred around the middle of the sixth century.28 The coincidence between the Council of Ephesus in 431 and the dedication of the basilica by Sixtus III, who was confirmed pope in 432, led to the initial belief that the Marian dedication of the church was connected to the Council of Ephesus, where Mary as theotokos – mother of God instead of a human Christ – was declared orthodoxy, but more recent scholarship favours a primarily Christological reading of both the council and the mosaics.29 Just as at the council, where Mary’s nature was only debated insofar as its implications for Christ’s nature, Mary was depicted in S. Maria Maggiore only in scenes where she played a critical role in the narrative as Christ’s mother, that is, in the Annunciation, the Presentation and the Epiphany. The decorative programme therefore ultimately focuses on Christ as a triumphant victor and the promised heir to Abraham and David.30 Thus, the Marian dedication of the basilica did not reflect a fully developed concept of Mary independent of her son in early fifth-century Rome, but simply an acknowledgement of her increasing presence in refining Christological and theological narratives. Indeed, Marian veneration seems to have been slow on the uptake in Rome. The earliest festivals, which were associated with Christmas, may have existed by the sixth century, but an articulated papal Marian liturgy in Rome only becomes apparent in extant liturgical books and lectionaries dating to the middle of the seventh century, and these sources do not necessarily come from Rome.31 Processions accompanying these celebrations appear only at the end of the seventh century, when Sergius I introduced them to celebrate the Assumption on 15 August, the Nativity of Mary on 8 September, the Presentation on 2 February and the Annunciation on 25 March.32 The adoption of these Marian feasts and processions in Rome is commonly attributed to an influence of eastern liturgy on the Roman Church that became pronounced after

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the Byzantine reconquest, particularly during the seventh century when many popes, including Sergius, were of eastern origin.33 The chronology and nature of the emerging Marian cult and liturgy are much clearer in the East, however, where it appears earlier. In the imperial capital of Constantinople, Marian festivals are already apparent in the late fourth century, and, by the seventh century, the Virgin Mary was considered a special guardian and protectress of the city.34 Traces of this particular aspect of the cult – Mary as intercessor and saviour – are clear, however, in the earliest periods of Marian veneration in the East. Testament of such powers appears in the fourth-century Sub tuum praesidium poem and in the writings of Gregory of Nazianzus, Sozomen, Procopius, Evagrius Scholasticus and Corippus.35 There was a particular proliferation of Marian shrines constructed under imperial patronage in Constantinople during the fifth and sixth centuries, and in the late sixth century her image began to replace that of Victory on imperial lead seals.36 Ad hoc disaster response on both an individual and an urban scale played a significant role in the development of Marian cult and processions in the new imperial city, and a particularly civic view of Mary as intercessor grew more pronounced under Justinian, who of course faced many threats to his leadership, including the plague in 542. Mischa Meier has interestingly associated Justinian’s introduction one year later of the Marian feast of the Presentation and an imperial procession held annually on 2 February with attempts to build and annually reinforce popular confidence in himself as emperor.37 Decades later in 577, the patriarch Eutychios led a procession to combat plague after he had been restored to office from exile; it coursed from Hagia Sophia to the Blachernae shrine of Mary.38 Mary’s perceived protection of the city would grow stronger through other miraculous intercessions in the early seventh century and continue to strengthen thereafter, but already in the sixth century, the imperial court and the patriarchs alike in Constantinople were turning to Mary for salvation and legitimacy during crises, with litanies and processions to her shrines throughout the city.39 Though Rome at the time lacked such a Marian presence, it seems unlikely that Gregory would have been unfamiliar with these developments in the East. Having been sent to Constantinople in 579 as apokrisiarios, the papal envoy of Pelagius II, Gregory spent six years at the imperial court there pleading for imperial aid for Rome and Italy against continual Lombard threats. Not only was Rome under threat of invasion at the time of Gregory’s departure, but it had also recently suffered a devastating flood, just as Pelagius II ascended to the papacy.40 I suggest, therefore, that Gregory, familiar as he was with the imperial capital, may have borrowed from contemporary practices in Constantinople to mitigate similar disasters in Rome upon his return. As he was elected but not yet confirmed, the processions gave Gregory in Rome, like Justinian and Eutychios in Constantinople, a means of demonstrating his favour and leadership abilities in a true time of need. He could ensure both the safety of the city and public confidence in his new position as pope. It was thus under Gregory that Rome’s early public Marian cult got its initial boost, doing so just as it had in Constantinople, where it emerged out of times of civic crises that called for dynamic leadership. S. Maria Maggiore was therefore not just a convenient destination for the laetaniae septiformes, nor one chosen for the sake of novelty: as it was the premier

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Marian basilica in the city, Gregory likely wished to draw upon the newly realized and exploited civic intercessory powers that the Virgin bore. Gregory’s processions were roughly contemporary with a wave of Marian church dedications and icon acquisitions that would characterize the city in the seventh century (Fig. 13.3). S. Maria Antiqua, S. Maria in Trastevere and S. Maria ad Martyres in the former Pantheon all became centres of Marian cult, each obtaining its own icon either at the time of its foundation or shortly thereafter.41 Gerhard Wolf has interestingly pointed out how these churches, as the structures surrounding the icons contained within them, became symbols of protection and sanctuary very early in their histories; the very conversion of the Pantheon under Boniface IV in 609 may have been intended as protection against floods in the vulnerable Campus Martius. Later in the seventh century, we hear of threatened parties taking refuge in S. Maria ad Martyres and S. Maria Maggiore, seeking the protection of Mary’s intercession.42 Marian sanctuaries in Rome were taking on the same significance that Gregory had imparted to, or extracted from, S. Maria Maggiore – places to seek mercy and refuge for both individuals and the urban population as a whole. Indeed, though Sergius I’s later Marian processions to S. Maria Maggiore were much more organized, with a single point of gathering (collecta) at S. Adriano in the Forum and a single, more condensed procession up the Clivus Suburanus, they were often still penitential, and along with the other Marian shrines and their icons, they give testament to the strength of the tradition that took hold with Gregory’s seven-form processions.43 By the ninth century, the participation of the icon of S. Maria Maggiore – the Salus Populi Romani, which may date to the sixth or seventh century with the other Marian icons – had been retrojected into the story of Gregory’s

Fig. 13.3  Plan of S. Maria Maggiore and other Marian churches dedicated in the late sixth or early seventh centuries. Map by Margaret M. Andrews.

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plague abatement of 590, a clear indication that an association between the 590 plague and Marian intervention had developed by then.44 Beginning with Gregory, the area around S. Maria Maggiore and the Cispian hill became charged with a religious significance – one that centred on Mary as an intercessor able to work miracles and effect the salvation of the city. Seen in both Gregory’s seven-form processions in Rome and earlier processions in Constantinople, civic crises prompted imperial and ecclesiastical leaders alike to formalize a known but institutionally novel element of Christian doctrine – Marian worship – to save their institutional positions and their city. As rituals occasioned by civic calamity, they were necessarily tied to the landscape and population of the entire city; thus, movement and processions by representatives of all social groups through its various regions were an integral part of carrying them out successfully. Under Gregory in the late sixth century, the basilica and the Cispian hill that it topped became the site where Rome – represented in its spatial and ecclesiastical entirety – sought and received Mary’s intercession and, thus, its own salvation.

14

Movement and the Hero: Following St Lawrence in Late Antique Rome Michael Mulryan

In this chapter I want to look at the implications of the construction of a series of churches dedicated to the martyr-deacon Lawrence in Rome in the Forum and Subura areas. These foundations claimed to be built on the site of important events in Lawrence’s written martyrdom story and seem to mark the beginning of a new sort of movement within the city streets, namely one with a narrative-driven focus, not simply a ritual one.1 It is this link between a single hagiographical narrative and topography that suggests a path to be followed, rather than cult places to be seen in isolation. This new form of external movement seems to be a Christian innovation. The martyrdom of Lawrence is recorded as having taken place under the bishopric of Sixtus II in the mid-third century when the emperor Valerian instigated a persecution of Christians. Lawrence is said to have been a deacon of the Roman Church at this time and been in charge of the treasury. Of all the Roman martyrs he became the most popular by the early Middle Ages in Italy, far more so than Sixtus himself, who was martyred as well. The reason for this popularity may have been the manner of Lawrence’s death, which seems to have involved the deacon being tortured on a brazier in order for the Roman authorities to discover the whereabouts of the Church’s money. This recorded tradition, written down for the first time in the fourth and early fifth centuries, describes Lawrence’s particular boldness and bravery in the face of such punishment, which goes beyond the usual hagiographic tropes. It also describes him bringing a group of the poor to the authorities, saying that these were the Church’s real treasury.2 It is this defiant attitude that seems to particularly mark out Lawrence as a notable Christian hero, above other martyr heroes, who in general go more meekly to their deaths. This is perhaps why Lawrence seems to be especially honoured in Rome with so many early churches dedicated to him within the walls, as well as a large extramural basilica by his burial place. He may also have been used by Bishop Damasus (366–84) as a patron saint for his own political ends because of Lawrence’s links with Church administration and unity.3 By the seventh and eighth centuries a series of three Lawrentian churches, with a fourth added later, also marked points along a now elaborated martyrdom story rich in topographical references, the written form of which originates from the sixth century.4 What is important for us is not the extent of the veracity of these stories, only that they were widely believed, as suggested by the construction of these foundations,

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the existence of a brazier relic in the city in the early sixth century and the earlier popularity of Lawrence.5 Before discussing the implications of these four churches, we should briefly discuss their history and location within the city streets (see Fig. 14.1). An important focus for this Lawrentian devotional path is the church of San Lorenzo in Formonso or Panisperna on the summit of the Viminal hill. The church first appears in the seventh century as Basilica quae appellatur sci. Laurenti ubi graticula eiusdem habetur Laurenti (‘the basilica called St Lawrence, where the gridiron of the same Lawrence is held’), and was restored under Hadrian I (772–95).6 The church is absent from all the usual records before then, yet may have existed as early as the sixth century, housing the brazier relic, or earlier still.7 Some opus reticulatum walls and part of a second-century mosaic floor have been found beneath it.8 The next reference is from the late-eighth- or early-ninth-century Einsiedeln Itinerary, where it is described twice as Sancti Laurentii in formonso ubi ille assatus est (‘St Lawrence in formonso, where he was roasted’) and once as simply Sancti Laurentii in Formonso.9 This not only confirms its existence, but makes it more explicit that it was believed to be built on the site where the saint met his death by being roasted on the gridiron that resided there. A small donation by Leo III (795–816) seems to indicate that it was only a modest oratory.10 The appellation in formonso, is then replaced by the toponym in panisperna. This change certainly took place by the thirteenth century and possibly as early as the twelfth.11 Its description in the pilgrim guides of Rome specifically as the church on the spot where Lawrence was martyred, and where his brazier relic lay, indicates the prominence it achieved as a result of these claims.

Fig. 14.1  The Lawrentian churches in Rome. Map by Margaret M. Andrews.



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At about the same time, in the seventh or eighth century, we see the appearance of the church of San Lorenzo in Fonte (‘St Lawrence on the Spring’) about 200 metres to the south. Remains of an oratory found under the current church date to this period. It lies on the main ancient artery of the vicus Patricius, a road restored in the fifth century.12 This church claims to have been built on or near the place where Lawrence was imprisoned, as it was believed to lie on the site of the house of Hippolytus, his jailer in the sixth-century tradition, whom Lawrence converted and baptized in a miraculous spring, thus the name of the church.13 A well constructed of opus reticulatum can be seen under the church today, and a corridor and niche leading to it seem to have been created in the eighth or ninth century. Another crypt next to it may refer to an earlier house. The oratory has traces of ninth- and eleventh-century decoration.14 To found a church here to St Lawrence so near to another, which also claimed a powerful loca sancta heritage, seems to suggest the active creation of a devotional itinerary. Another foundation initially dedicated to Lawrence is from the first half of the sixth century, and was also situated in the Subura, just east and behind the Forum of Nerva, and built next to the large arch known in the Middle Ages as the Arco dei Pantani, itself by the porticus absidata.15 These both led into Nerva’s Forum and the formal centre of the city from the Subura, and was thus a well-used route. The date is attested by architectural features that still survive within the current church and by the discovery of a now lost ancient altar.16 This is now the church of SS. Quirico e Giulitta and was, perhaps, a rare ex novo build of this era,17 which, coupled with its prominent position in the city, suggests this was an important foundation to the martyr. An original dedication to the deacon martyrs Lawrence and Stephen is suggested with the existence of a mosaic depicting the two men in the first apse, described in the sixteenth century.18 Also, the church is described in the twelfth-century mirabilia as at or near to the basilica Iovis, a structure mentioned in Lawrence’s sixth-century passio as where he was initially interrogated. Several other buildings in the legend are also referred to in the same mirabilia passage.19 The church had lost this original Lawrentian dedication by the late eighth or early ninth century,20 but it is not clear why. Perhaps it had obtained relics of Quiricus and Julietta by that time? Its prominent location just behind the imperial fora and on the important Argiletum-Clivus Suburanus road (see Fig. 14.1) makes it an interesting intervention, a route which also led to the equally important vicus Patricius street and the later S. Lorenzo in Fonte. A much later foundation is the church of San Lorenzo in Miranda, which was constructed in the Roman Forum, within the cella and pronaos of the former Temple of the Divine Faustina and Antoninus, and was said to be built where Lawrence was sentenced to death.21 It is not clear when this tradition originated, but it may have stemmed from the fact that the church lies not far from a grand apsidal hall south of the Templum Pacis, believed by some to be the seat of the urban prefect in the Forum, where many such trials would have been heard.22 Also, many other buildings in the Forum were places where trials took place. This foundation is first mentioned in the written record as a church-monastery in the eleventh century and then in the twelfth century as sanctus Laurentius de mirandi, then as sanctus Laurentius in novamento or monumento in the fifteenth.23 The idea, proposed by Armellini, that it may be a

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seventh- or eighth-century intervention is not based on any apparent evidence; there are no Christian archaeological remains at the site that have been discovered from that period and no documents attest to it this early.24 This late addition to the Lawrentian cult landscape provided this devotional route with a suitably prestigious nodal point that led the devotee through the ruins of the Forum of Nerva, now containing aristocratic houses and gardens,25 to the basilica Iovis ad Sanctum Quiricum and beyond (see above and n. 19). Conceivably, then, we have a period in the sixth to seventh centuries when three churches were founded as a response to the embroidered martyrdom story of Lawrence, which had been written down not long before, with a fourth added in the Forum later. This represents, I would argue, a deliberate attempt to establish a devotional route for devotees of the martyr (see Fig. 14.1 with the linear route shown). Even if such a route was conceived over a longer period of time, it still represents the idea of a narrative-based itinerary, which literally sets in stone the new written version of Lawrence’s heroic martyrdom story. The route’s absence from the medieval pilgrim itineraries should not worry us. These guides were designed to orientate the foreign pilgrim or visitor to see interesting ancient and Christian sites with arbitrary omissions and inclusions of buildings. They were not interested in one particular martyr or tradition. The more detailed list of buildings linked with Lawrence’s passio in the mirabilia, in its first redaction, could be explained by the fact that the author was a Roman,26 and may imply that the route described here was only known and undertaken by local devotees. The lack of a written record of this ‘micro-pilgrimage’ does leave an element of uncertainty of course as to whether this narrative-driven route was actually followed, but the proximity of these foundations to each other and their claims, linked with what was a well-known and popular passio story, does make this a more than plausible journey. The frequency of topographical references in Lawrence’s martyrdom story should be noted. Within the sixth-century passio there is mention of ‘baths near the Palace of Sallust’ where the torture and death take place, and he is also tortured before this in a ‘basilica Iovis’, as we have seen, which lay within a ‘Palace of Tiberius’. These descriptions are then elaborated upon in the later medieval mirabilia.27 The basilica Iovis could be the Capitolium Vetus, which was a shrine to Jupiter, Juno and Minerva, that lay to the north of the Alta Semita street on the Quirinal,28 but this is clearly not the building believed to be the basilica Iovis in the twelfth century which is described as at or very near SS. Quirico e Giulitta behind the Forum of Nerva (see above). The other buildings described cannot be identified in this area with any reliability, with the exception perhaps of the Sallustian Palace. This may have either stood within the Horti Sallustiani, the area roughly between the Alta Semita road to the north on the Quirinal hill and the Aurelian walls, or was the Temple of Salus, referred to as the templum Salusti or Salutis in the fourth century, which lay just to the north or west of the Baths of Constantine, also to the north.29 There is no evidence to suggest that any of these structures lie under the site of our churches, but what is more important is that from the seventh century these buildings were clearly believed to lie beneath or around these churches. The precise naming of the buildings in which the progress of Lawrence’s martyrdom story takes place either implies an equally specific earlier oral



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tradition arising from genuine events, or a need to embellish and embroider a story that shows Christian bravery and defiance in a narrative designed to inspire. Previous Christian movement paths in the city involved moving from the city to the extramural tombs and their basilicas to honour and pray at the remains of a martyr, and, certainly by the seventh century, many Christian processional routes had been formalized between churches within the city.30 What is new here is that an underlying narrative is dictating the itinerary. As far as I am aware this is the only example of this in the Latin West at this time, and something comparable can only be found in Jerusalem and the Holy Land region, where structures were built on important sites in the life of Christ.31 This Lawrentian itinerary changes the usual singular or bipolar linear Christian devotional movement paths – something also characteristic of formal political, funereal and ‘pagan’ processional urban movement – into a more haphazard, narrative-driven arrangement where the final events of a hero’s life are followed by the devotee with presence at churches at various loca sancta defined by a written or earlier oral tradition. This seems to be an Eastern or more ancient Greek practice, at least in principle. Comparable heroes, with geographically locatable events in their life, seem to be individuals such as Herakles, where at Nemea a heroon existed where he killed the lion as one of his labours; it is, however, not certain who this structure was dedicated to.32 Another structure, more definitively in honour of Herakles, was an archaic altar or pyre atop Mount Oeta. Yet this was where the hero died, so it could be regarded as simply a funerary monument.33 Equally, Theseus, whose heroic endeavours also took place at real locatable sites, also seems to have lacked any monumental commemoration of them.34 Even in earlier Roman tradition with Aeneas, a heroon to an unknown individual was built at Lavinium (Practica di Mare), a town which Aeneas is said to have founded. The heroon was built over a seventh-century bce tomb, but only in the fourth century bce, a structure Dionysus of Halicarnassus may be describing. In this way, Aeneus’ legendary death nearby and the presence of an archaic tomb below the heroon again implies a commemorative funerary monument rather than the marking of a legendary event, and also any connection between the hero shrine and Aeneas may be fanciful.35 As such, events in the life of several pagan heroes are locatable and real but do not seem to be commemorated in any material sense, aside from their place of burial. This is replicated in early Christian practice with martyr burial places honoured and remembered in the pre-Constantinian era, and then embellished formally when it was possible to do so openly. What seems to be novel is that other events in the Christian hero’s life, with Lawrence in the West at least, are also signposted with structures, and the importance of ‘place’ appears to take on an extra potency in Christian thinking by the seventh century. Physical memoria built on places of death, not just burial, had become more important by that time, with the eighth-century S. Agnese in Agone, founded beneath the seats of the crumbling Stadium of Domitian, marking the believed site of another martyrdom, alongside that marking Lawrence’s.36 So this process is a wider one in Rome, although it is only with Lawrence that it takes on a more elaborate narrative quality. It seems to be after this that a similar series of churches, over a longer period, are built on important sites leading up to the martyrdom of the apostle Peter

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in the city. There is the fourth-century tomb church on the Vatican hill of course, where he is also said to have been martyred, but it is not until the ninth century that a foundation is created on the spot believed to be where Peter encountered Christ on the Via Appia, the church of Domine Quo Vadis, and not until the sixteenth century that one is built where Peter was believed to have been imprisoned (although there may have been an earlier small oratory here, where there was also another miraculous spring).37 The fourth-century titulus Fasciolae on the intramural Via Appia, which seems to refer to a bandage, later said to have been dropped by Peter on leaving the city, is rededicated to two obscure local martyrs by the sixth century, so a link to Peter is likely to be a later interpolation based on a misreading of the titulus’ original name.38 So is this form of narrative-led external movement, focusing on a mythologized hero, a new Christian innovation? As far as the evidence allows, this does in fact appear to be the case, though with one exception. The only pagan tradition that resembles this idea is that concerning Romulus, where three key sites – specifically, where he and Remus were believed to have been reared by the she-wolf, where they were subsequently brought up by the shepherd Faustulus and perhaps also where Romulus was chosen as king – were commemorated with physical structures, namely the Lupercal, the casa Romuli and an Auguratorium, respectively. These three structures still existed in the fourth century somewhere on the Palatine hill, yet only the Lupercal cave was the focus for any sort of organized attendance, on the day of the Lupercalia festival.39 Romulus’ hut seems to have been regarded as an antiquarian private museum rather than a site to visit, and its existence not far from the imperial palace may have limited those who could see it; the meaning and location of the Auguratorium are uncertain.40 Yet all three do at least show that there was a potential precedent in Rome for a legendary narrative being made real through site commemoration, although with Christianity this form of remembrance became far more elaborate and was now part of popular religious participation. It seems that following the martyrdom of Lawrence was Rome’s equivalent of the churches founded in Jerusalem and elsewhere in the Holy Land following the life of Christ, such as the fourth-century centres on the site of Christ’s Ascension and a shrine of the same period just outside ancient Jerusalem that commemorated the site where Jesus met Lazarus’ sister, along with the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem.41 Pilgrims to Rome or local devotees could now follow the imprisonment, trial, torture and heroic death of Lawrence ‘chronologically’ by moving in succession from San Lorenzo in Fonte to San Lorenzo in Miranda, San Lorenzo in Formonso and the presumed SS. Laurentii et Stephani (the later SS. Quirico e Giulitta), or by taking a more linear route (Fig. 14.1). In this sense these four Christian centres acted as nodes in an elaborate and potent Christianization of the city in the same fashion as processional activity, but with a clear narrative flow that went beyond simple ritual, an element that was the key feature of most formal urban street movement in Rome up to that time. External ‘pagan’ movement involved moving from one sacred site to another to carry out a ritual, with often the act of moving itself being ritualized, especially with the Lupercalia for instance.42 A temple relating to the god or goddess to whom the procession was dedicated or directed towards would usually be the starting point, and often a cult object or statue would accompany the group.43 Even seemingly secular



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processional activity had a religious element, as of course with triumphs and those that began games, which had a planned course through the city, the purpose of which was display.44 There was no underlying story though, even where myths were available. It is interesting that Christian antipathy towards pagan festivals was directed towards these processions and not just the ritual activity behind them. These pompae diaboli were perhaps particularly targeted as they brought pagan ritual into the city streets and emphasized the integral nature such ritual had on city life. In this way, the introduction of Christian processional activity was intended to assert the new world order, and to introduce the idea of superimposing a hagiographical narrative onto those same streets would have had an even more potent impact in that regard. We can be fairly sure there was a formal procession from the city out to the burial place of Lawrence along the Via Tiburtina on his feast day in August from the fourth or fifth century.45 Could this perhaps have involved taking in these churches and their loca sancta along the way from the seventh or eighth century? If one began at S. Lorenzo in Miranda in the Forum, an appropriately prestigious starting point, or even SS. Quirico e Giulitta, they were certainly on the direct route out to Lawrence’s extramural tomb, at S. Lorenzo fuori le mura (see Fig. 14.2). It seems more likely though that this more circuitous route was carried out by individuals or small groups rather than large, organized processions, but it cannot be ruled out. The papal administration would have seen Lawrence, as a deacon and thereby part of the episcopal hierarchy, as a safe establishment figure whose cult they would therefore have encouraged.46 The emergence of this episodic devotional path in the Subura may indeed have been a result of such episcopal favour. Overall, we can say that as part of the Christianization of Rome we begin to see new movement paths within the city streets, with churches and martyr tombs serving as nodal points for processions. From the sixth and seventh centuries, moreover, some

Fig. 14.2  The Lawrentian churches in relation to S. Lorenzo fuori le mura. Map by Margaret M. Andrews.

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churches begin to claim to be sited on places of martyrdom, or in the case of Lawrence, as being sited on important places leading up to that event as well. This narrativedriven devotional movement seems to be a specifically Christian innovation, and Lawrence in Rome was clearly regarded as heroic enough to justify it.

Part Four

Movement and Urban Form

15

Towards a History of Mobility in Ancient Rome (300 bce to 100 ce) Ray Laurence

Mobility is a human practice that is culturally specific, and when we focus on Ancient Rome, we are examining mobility in a large, preindustrial metropolis. Rome as a growing metropolis from 300 bce became a location for the development of new forms of mobility that developed in response to the size and continuing growth of the city. For example, urban journeys of several miles could be taken without seeing the countryside – so different from the urban–rural experience found in other cities in Italy. Rome becomes detached from what may loosely be termed nature, just as the act of paving Rome’s streets also alters the relationship of a footfall on a journey – you cannot follow a person’s tracks or see the impression that their feet made when standing or moving.1 Strangely, Ancient Rome has been largely omitted from recent work on mobility in geography and the social sciences.2 This chapter seeks to engage the study of mobility in the city of Rome with recent developments in the study of space and movement found, principally, in the study of geography.3 My chapter initially draws on developments in the study of the spatial turn, prior to seeking to apply this theory-led discussion to the evidence from antiquity. This is not simply an exercise in theory, but uses theory to recognize that Rome, as a city, produced new concepts of space (e.g. the vicus – neighbourhood/street),4 new technologies of mobility (e.g. paved surfaces), new urban spaces (e.g. the platea),5 a new language of space (e.g. in Varro),6 new critical genres of urban discourse (e.g. in Martial and Juvenal),7 new ideas on the nature of walking,8 new systems of traffic flow9 and a gradation of space from an angiportus to a locus celeberrimus.10 It also produces a literature of urbanism that includes within it mobility or immobility, as well as the alienation of the author.11 The cultural production of language and discourse in Ancient Rome with reference to mobility creates a need for Rome to feature more prominently in the history of urbanism and the history of mobility.

The city’s spatial turns At the very heart of the spatial turn lies the work of Henri Lefebvre, who in the 1970s produced a trialectical understanding of space: material space that is experienced;

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representations of space, such as maps; and spaces of representation that map onto the psychology or mentalité of space.12 These three categories create an understanding of space both in experienced form and in its representational manifestations and were later mapped by David Harvey onto three others – absolute space, relative space and relational space – to create a grid that has implications for understanding our sources on the city of Rome (Fig. 15.1).13 We would place most evidence for movement in the category of relative space, which links this category to material space and the action of moving through the city. What is rather problematic for the study of Rome is that the evidence of material space has greater limitations than in, say, Pompeii, where the study of proxy data for movement, such as wheel ruts, has proven a resource that has been systematically exploited.14 Moving across Fig. 15.1, evidence for the exchange value of movement can be located in the measurement of distance by milestones and within the time-geography that relates journey time to distance (in Martial’s Epigrammata for example, or in the Itinerarium Antonini Augusti).15 The dependency on evidence from literary texts for movement, of, say, itinerant traders, causes our evidence to be categorized as either representations of space or spaces of representation. The history of mobility in Rome derived from literary texts is about the conception of movement, rather than actual lived experience of movement.16 What is less certain is how this conception of movement found in literature maps onto actual material practice. As a result, mobility in Rome exists as a written space or a relative space, in Fig. 15.1, rather than as an absolute space.17 The relationship between space and society has become a major area of debate as each reformulation of the spatial turn has attempted to add to what has gone before, with the original focus on territory shifting in turn to place, scale and finally networks (see Fig. 15.2). The key observation with each refocusing of the spatial turn is that one aspect of space–society relations is privileged, causing the other three to be neglected. What has recently been proposed is to cross-reference all four foci, so that the full ramifications of each approach can be observed (see Fig. 15.3).18 It is an approach designed for use not just in the contemporary city, but also in the exploration of historical forms of urbanism. It is a system that can be readily adapted to the study of the city of Rome and intersects with the other chapters in the present volume. This chapter will utilize each of these foci to explore an aspect of mobility in Rome to highlight how this approach can allow us to develop an overall understanding of the Moving City. At the end of the chapter, territory, place, scale and networks are then cross-referenced to produce an overview of Rome as a moving metropolis.

Territory and space: Four regions, seven hills and, then, 14 regions Because of its size, Rome was an entity difficult to measure or conceptualize except via breaking it down into constituent parts.19 There would appear to have been a register or even census of the people from the time of Julius Caesar based on the vici (neighbourhoods) and based on information derived from the owners of the insulae.20 The



Towards a History of Mobility in Ancient Rome (300 bce to 100 ce) Material Space

Representations of

Spaces of

(experienced space)

Space

Representation

(conceptualized

(lived space)

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space) Absolute Space

Walls, bridges, doors,

Cadastral maps,

Feelings of

streets, buildings,

landscape

contentment at

cities, mountains, etc.

descriptions

home, empowerment

Relative Space

Circulation and flows

Itinerarium Antonini

Anxiety of

(time)

of water, people,

Exchange value =

congestion,

information, etc.

value in motion

exhilaration of time–space compression

Relational Space

Social relations,

Surrealism =

Visions,

(time)

rental, odours,

second-/third-style

memories,

pollution, etc.

wall painting

dreams, stories, etc.

Fig. 15.1  Space as a keyword (from David Harvey, ‘Space as a Key Word’). city needs to be broken down and divided up. The area within the Republican walled circuit of Rome had been divided into four regions by Servius Tullius: Suburana, Esquilina, Collina and Palatina.21 Moreover, there was a hierarchy of tribes, Palatina being the highest and Collina the second highest, with the Suburana (comprising the region known as the Subura) and the Esquilina being distinctly inferior.22 The order of the tribes/regions is mapped via a counter-clockwise enumeration of Suburana, Esquilina, Collina and Palatina.23 The order of this movement shifts from the lowest in the social hierarchy to the highest. However, the routes of religious processions such as that of the Argei and the Ambarvalia may have mapped onto the altars of the Lares Compitales that were associated with the subdivisions (vici) within the regions.24 Yet, we find Dionysius of Halicarnassus (4.14) enumerating the regions: first the Palatine, second the Suburana, third the Collina and fourth the Esquilina – which corresponds

178 Dimension of socio-

The Moving City Principle of Structuration

Observable Patterns

Borders, boundaries,

Inside/outside (e.g.

parcels, enclosure

pomerium)

Proximity, areal

Core to periphery (Forum

differentiation, area

to angiportus)

Hierarchy

Dominant to marginal

spatial relations Territory

Place

Scale

(elite to plebs sordida) Networks

Interconnectivity

Nodal points and their connections

Fig. 15.2  Principal foci of the spatial turn. to a movement from the centre to the periphery.25 Importantly, he also links the division into regions with the setting up of neighbourhood shrines and the festival of the Compitalia, as well as regularizing the residence of persons in a specific region and appointing persons to ensure that a list of persons living in each house was created. It is in 7 bce that this system was replaced by 14 regions, including the fourteenth across the Tiber.26 These new regions were disconnected from the voting units and would seem to have been a system for enumerating the city, as can be seen in the regionary catalogues of late antiquity, but were also a means to allocate resources to the city – for example a cohort of vigiles was assigned to every two regions of the city.27 However, the Republican walls, known as the Servian Wall and the pomerium, continued to have a role in the definition of the city under the empire.28 Yet, it is the regions and the vici that they contain that can be seen to be what was created by Augustus. This located each person in Rome as living in a vicus with local magistrates and located within a larger region composed of a number of vici.29 It also created a relationship between the inhabitants of each neighbourhood in Rome with their emperor, in what might be described as each inhabitant of each vicus becoming a client of the emperor.30 The territorial relationship, for the inhabitant, was mediated through the local magistri and focused on the altar/s of the Lares Augusti. Thus, the territory of the city, divided into vici and regions, was a means to enumerate, measure and control/administer the city. To a certain extent, it is the territorial division that creates a knowledge of the city, and that should perhaps be seen as a technology of



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Field of Operation Territory

Place

Scale

Networks

Past and present

Places in the

Multilevel

Interstate

emerging

territory

government

system

Core–periphery,

Locales, cities,

Differentiation of

Local/urban

borderlands,

localities,

empowerment

governance

empires

globalities

Division of

Scale as area

Vertical ontology

Parallel power

political power

rather than

of nested or tangled

networks

within the state

level

hierarchies

Origin–edge

Global city

Flat ontology with

Networks of

ripple effects

networks,

multiple entry

networks,

polynucleated

points

spaces of

frontiers, borders, boundaries Place

Scale

Networks

cities

partnerships

flows

Fig. 15.3  Integrating approaches to space and society (after Bob Jessop, Neil Brenner and Martin Jones, ‘Theorizing Sociospatial Relations’).

knowledge as much as of administrative functionality, with implications of a linkage of an emperor having a technology of power to ‘control’ the city. There are other competing territorial divisions in Rome though. Caroline Vout’s recent book on The Hills of Rome sets out to see how the number of seven was arrived at and became a canonical way of seeing Rome; this contrasts with the focus of scholarship in the late twentieth century on seeing Rome as a city of monuments and power and as an invented tradition that makes sense of the past.31 In antiquity, these Seven Hills were related to the real-and-imagined territorial definition of Rome by Servius Tullius that involved the building of a wall that included the following hills: Aventine, Caelian, Capitoline, Esquiline, Palatine, Quirinal and Viminal.32 There is a link between hills, walls and territory in the definition of Rome that can also be found in the establishment of Roma Quadrata defined by a wall around the Palatine hill.33

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Interestingly, as re-told by Livy, city extension under Servius Tullius involved a growth in population and inhabited area that was to be defined by a wall and/or pomerium.34 Intriguingly, these accounts of an earlier Rome come from a period in which the city defied definition or required definition as comprised of 14 regions – an increase not just from the four regions of the republic, but also a doubling of seven hills defining the city to 14 regions. The principle of division is by seven, a magic number, but through division it is possible to encapsulate the whole of the city and to define its territory with the provision of meaning in the past that can so easily be proven to be an invented tradition.35 Just as the seven hills could be used to denote the whole of Rome, so could the fourteen regions.36 More importantly, there is a sense in which the regions that were at the edge of the built-up area of Rome could expand and become bigger, whereas the seven hills developed a canonical or fixed territorial short-hand for the city of Rome.37 Underpinning the discussion and definition of the territory of the city was an expectation of expansion, causing the jurists to define the territory of the city by the term continentia or as an agglomeration.38 The great fire of Rome in 64 ce shows us how the territory of Rome included the enumeration of space by both the hills and the regions. Tacitus measures the destruction with reference to the regions: four remained intact, three were levelled to the ground and in the other seven nothing survived but half-burned relics of houses.39 The linkage between regions and fire prevention in the distribution of the seven cohorts of vigiles causes Tacitus’ linkage of regions to destruction by fire to invert the order of the city into disorder under Nero.40 The spread of the fire though was written with reference to the hills: it begins in the Circus abutting the Palatine and the Caelian and is stopped at the foot of the Esquiline six days later.41 The regions measured the territory of the city (and by implication the inhabitants in their homes), whereas the hills provided a definition of the beginning and the end of the story of the fire. Both ways of conceptualizing the area destroyed gave the same sense of destruction and the context for the renewal of Rome with wider streets and colonnades.42

Place: Movement to monuments The histories of the city of Rome that have been written to date have tended to focus on the development of public monuments in relation to the power of the elite, or are written as a history of developments in architecture, or simply chart the topography of the city.43 These histories of the city thereby relate our textual knowledge of Rome to our archaeological knowledge of the Eternal City, but also these histories tend to define monuments by their point of construction. In so doing, the richness of the intersection of past and present that has proven to have been so rich for the Roman meaning of place becomes segmented into temporal moments of urban development. Underlying this observation is the observation that the topographical naming of places in the city of Rome does not create contained or closed spaces, but ones that are relational or relative to other places in the city and relational or relative in terms of time. There is a sense by which any place (monument) cannot be dismantled into a single alphabetized



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entry in a topographical dictionary – each place is related to all other places in Rome and related to events and history from the time the city was founded. However, there is much more to place than just the discourse in literature. David Newsome develops a dialectical relationship between the use or movement to places in Rome and their celebrity – these are each defined by the term locus celeberrimus.44 This definition of place in Rome depends less on the actions of the emperor and much more on the use of space by the inhabitants of the city – causing Pierre Gros to see a locus celeberrimus as a lieux du consensus.45 The absence of a single obvious centre in Rome from the time of Augustus causes places in the city to compete for attention with one another. Strabo, for example, saw the Campus Martius and the three fora of the city causing the rest of the city to become incidental.46 At the same time, the older, narrow, crooked streets of the city were regarded as the opposite to the wide, straight streets that were to be developed after the fire of Rome.47 Place in Rome is founded on use, and movement to a place creates it as a point or node in the city. What is difficult for us to conceive of is how often and how far did the inhabitants of Rome travel to use these famous places in their city. Perhaps, it is not actual usage that constitutes a locus celeberrimus, but knowledge of its availability and memory of using a place in the city in the past. The constitution of place through movement to it causes the issue of boundaries to become less important, because it was the movement of people that created the sense of locus celeberrimus, and such movement included a journey through streets that led to the destination. The definition of place through spatial boundaries varied from the enclosed space of the Forum of Augustus, to the space (defined by structures built around or within its confines) that defines the Forum Romanum, and onto the less defined spaces such as the Via Sacra with its associated monuments. Interestingly, today we see these places as plans or in reconstructions that create empty spaces defined by monuments. However, it was the people moving, stopping and chatting within these spaces that constituted them as places of fame, as much as the monuments and the images of those who did not move – the statues that needed occasionally to be cleared out to create greater space for movement.48

Scale: Time and movement Rome was the first city in which urban journeys could be made over a number of miles, rather than as a 15- to 20-minute stroll across the city.49 The fundamental feature of Rome was that travel through its streets created a particular form of urban living not found in other cities. In Rome, unlike other cities, time spent traversing city space could be measured as a burden (Mart. Epig. 1.108, 3.36, 4.8, 7.51, 8.67, 10.48, 10.70, 11.52) and could result in places within the city being seen as distant from one another. Equally, speed of travel within Rome (unlike in other cities) could have been disrupted by crowded streets narrowed by the encroachment of shops (Mart. Epig. 7.61), and we may see here that the metropolitan journey time was slower than expected – producing a different urban speed than found elsewhere in Italy.50 The

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very features of slow speed and greater distances found in Rome point to a major limitation on movement and the potential for locating individuals in neighbourhoods (vici, or in Martial to a region focused on his apartment). For example, my own study of Martial’s locales found across his twelve books of Epigrammata locates him within a neighbourhood of the southern Campus Martius for his otium, something that contrasts with his role as a client undertaking negotium across the city.51 A preamble to our history of mobility in Rome is, thus, to recognize that the scale of the city imposes restrictions on movement and a desire to restrict time spent in travel from place to place in the city. As a result, we may describe Rome as a city with a greater friction of distance than the smaller cities found across Italy, such as Pompeii. This conception of Rome as a city with a higher friction of distance is important for the historical understanding of Rome as a specific form of urbanism. It causes us to recognize a need for the elite to be near the Forum, but not too near to ensure that they are seen to cross at least part of the city followed by their clients and supporters.52 It also helps to explain the location of the Praetorian camp on the edge of the city under the emperor Tiberius. The camp is located out of the sight of most of the population, whereas the earlier billeting of soldiers across the city was more prominent,53 yet all would be aware of the presence of the Praetorians and their camp on the edge of the city.54 The concentration of soldiers at the edge of the city caused them to move across the city to be deployed in their role as the emperor’s guards or for policing within the city itself. The appointment of Claudius as emperor involved the removal of the future emperor from the palace to the Praetorian camp and a movement across the city.55 Urban space not just separated military power to appoint an emperor from the palace, but also was complicit in the creation, even within the palace, of the emperor as first citizen – rather than military autocrat. Claudius in the Praetorian camp was a princeps backed by the military might of these soldiers; in the palace, he was the princeps who was protected by these soldiers. Movement to/from different locations in Rome could restructure how the emperor’s power was seen by those watching his gestures, listening to his words and subject to his power.56

Networks: Streets and their surfaces There have been many ways to elucidate the development of Rome, from simple demographic estimation of population growth through to charting the development of public buildings and the development of the public city. However, there is an alternative history of the city that can be written to chart the development of paved surfaces, beginning with the creation of the Forum as a level public space in the city.57 The paving of the Forum in limestone can be seen as the first creation of a space for walking, in which walking was not disrupted by pot-holes, puddles, mud and other filth.58 The extension of surfaces of this type created a network of paved streets that extended across the city and into the countryside. This process was stimulated not by the simple extension of streets into the countryside, but by the construction of the Via Appia from Rome to Capua in 312 bce.59 Five years later, in 307 bce, roads were built



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into the ager publicus.60 The Via Appia was paved initially from the Porta Capena to the Temple of Mars in 295 bce and then to Bovillae in 292 bce.61 Individual streets in Rome were paved over the course of the third century bce, for example the clivus publicus – so called because its paving in 238 bce was publicly funded – allowed vehicles to gain access to the Aventine.62 The process was somewhat slow with some 100 years passing before all the streets of the city were paved in a standard hard stone and the roads extending into the ager publicus were upgraded to compacted gravel in 174 bce.63 The effect was to cause movement in the city to be of a quite different nature to that found on the roads into the countryside, but was equivalent to movement on the Via Appia.64 The result by the middle of the second century bce is a city that has paved streets and is connected to its rural hinterland by roads of compacted gravel, with longer distance highways, such as the Via Appia and the Via Flaminia, forming corridors of movement from the city. It should be noted that the paving of the gravel roads in Rome’s hinterland can be established with reference to the field surveys conducted in Rome’s hinterland.65 The importance of the surface of Rome’s streets is highlighted in the Tabula Heracleensis that dates back to the first century bce.66 The law refers to roads in the city and up to a mile from the city and requires the aediles to repair and maintain the road surfaces of the city.67 These magistrates could require those residents/owners of buildings adjacent to the street to maintain the roadway and to ensure above all that standing water did not occur and the roadway could be used.68 For streets that were in front of public buildings, residents/owners were required to let a contract for their maintenance.69 In addition, quattuorviri (aediles) were responsible for cleaning the streets in the city and duumviri were responsible for cleaning the roads up to a mile from the city.70 The powers and responsibilities of the aediles extend not just to the streets themselves, but to another milieu for walking in – the porticoes.71 The emphasis on ease of movement is made clear in that the porticoes were not to be blocked off, and it is notable that heavy wagons (plaustra) were not permitted to utilize the streets of the built-up area of Rome between dawn and the tenth hour of the day.72 As a series of measures, these laws were drafted to ensure that mobility in the city was maintained and the secure surface on which feet trod was a feature of the city of Rome. In literary sources throughout the period of the Empire, we encounter good emperors who repaired the streets of Rome that had become neglected over time – all of which culminates in the extracts quoted in Justinian’s Digesta.73 What is intriguing about the passages in the Digesta is that repair includes the removal of material that had accumulated on the paving and all were responsible for ensuring that the streets were clean.74 This impulse to create clean streets goes back to the Tabula Heracleensis (50–2), but can be traced back further into the second century bce.75 Thus, in Rome, there was an impulse to create a solid surface that was as clean as possible for people to walk on. This created a very different experience of mobility, in which there was no cause to zig-zag around pot-holes and obstacles; instead, movement might occur in a linear fashion with the minimum of impediments to kinetic movement through the city.76 The universality of paved streets in Rome is confirmed by an examination of Lanciani’s Forma Urbis Romae, perhaps causing the fact of paving to become a ‘known

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known’ to scholars and thus of little interest. However, this should not undervalue the importance of the paving, repairing, maintaining and cleaning of Rome’s streets. The streets formed the most extensive urban network of smooth surfaces in the whole of Italy. Pliny the Elder opens his description of Rome in the Naturalis Historia (3.66–7) not with an account of the public monuments of the city but with an account of the extent of the city: it was 13 miles and 200 yards in circumference, divided into fourteen regions, included 265 compita Larum and had roads leading to its gates comprising twenty miles and 765 paces and a total length of 60 miles of all the roads leading through the vici. Rome, for Pliny, was a city of road surfaces that for this reason was more extensive and of greater magnitude than any other city in the world.77 It was the roads that defined the city, and only as an afterthought does Pliny add to this two-dimensional aspect the third dimension of the greater height of Rome’s buildings. Similarly, Strabo notes both the regulation of the height of buildings to no higher than seventy Roman feet and that the talent of the Romans was in building roads, aqueducts and sewers – all items associated with movement.78

Bringing it all together: A template for a history of mobility So far, the discussion has separated the four structuring principles, and it is now time to set out how these structuring principles intersect with each field of operation (Fig. 15.4). Territory obviously has a present–past aspect, revealed in the actions of creating territorial space. In terms of place, the vici develop a monumental aspect as foci for religion and administration. The intersection between territory and scale can be seen within the nesting of people within vici and of vici within a region. The network radiating from a vicus was symbolically represented as a relationship with the emperor and the worship of the Lares Augusti. As we saw, a locus celeberrimus was defined territorially as a core element of the city, but was a place in its own right – which in turn was scaled with reference to other places right down to the angiportus or perhaps even to the brothels and bars of the city. Inevitably, a locus celeberrimus became a locale for the expression of power and was enhanced through the building of monuments that included the writing of the elite or the emperor onto that space. In the discussion above, the whole question about scale revolves around the use of time and, to my mind, involves the fragmentation and territorial separation of power (Senate, Praetorians, palace, people in vici, etc.), but unified around the figures of the emperor and the city prefect. The intersection between scale and place causes the city to be defined by 265 compita Larum and a series of competing loci celeberrimi that causes us to view Rome as composed of a tangled series of hierarchies of space, with each series underpinned by a variety of power networks leading from the local to the elite with their property (wealth) held outside the city, often at some distance. The discussion of networks focused on the paving of streets as defining the past–present relation of the city to territory that included the expansion of the urban network. This expanding network of the streets/urbanism created new nodes or places (even loci celeberrimi); not least of these were the compita of the city that were formally constituted. However, we should



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also allow for the possibilities of the development of new nodes through usage or informal spaces – not least of these nodes were the platea that Francesco Trifilò has shown became formally recognized through the use of inscriptions to re-constitute these spaces as formal and monumental.79 Across the city we may see networks of information that was seen to move as rumours not to the major houses from where it was disseminated to clients, but, instead, to the compitum.80 This overview points to the polyvalency of all socio-spatial activities within Rome that, inevitably, were underpinned by movement. Others might be added, but if we are to see Rome as a moving city, we will need to consider how any aspect of movement might fit into Fig. 15.4 and how Fig. 15.4 may be developed further to capture the nature of change over time.

Rome – the Moving City The exploration of Rome via the overlapping themes of territory, place, scale and networks alerts us to the many meanings that space can acquire or have mapped onto it – in our case multiplying the meanings through cross-referencing each of the four themes with each other. This causes a greater analytical depth to be maintained, but also points to the fact that meaning of space can alter and, in a sense, a city the size of Rome refuses to be defined or for meanings to be restricted. As a result, even a sense of place could be subject to movement and change – especially in texts. More importantly, the scale of Rome – like the new scale of empire – needed to have a network of all-weather surfaces to facilitate the creation of physical networks of movement, both in the city and outside that allowed for travel to a person/person’s home. Movement, in this context, should not be seen entirely focused on the fora at the centre, but, instead, would have included movement through space to other places set at a distance from the centre. It was the scale of Rome that creates a different form of urbanism, in which the city can become segmented with movement defining the nature of segmentation. The building of new monuments, perhaps, responds to movement and, certainly, redefines movement (for example building the Colosseum in media urbe), but the relationship of public monuments and movement is yet to be defined at Rome. As will be seen in other parts of this volume, Rome – Moving City is only just emerging as a frame of productive analysis.

The Moving City

186 Structuring Principle Territory

Territory

Place

Scale

Networks

Relational

Relational

City Prefect

Metropolis to

content to the

content in the

Magistri

Empire/Urbis–

past

present

vicorum

orbis relationship

Place

Edge of the

Constitution of

In media urbe

Locale to

city,

place through

Angiportus to

emperor

extension of

monumentality

locus

the urbs Scale

Networks

celeberrimus

Fragmentation

Competing loca

Vici to Forum

City Prefect

of Rome into

celeberrima

Locus

Regions

regiones and

celeberrimus

Patronage

vici

Balnea to

Vici

thermae

Landlord

Relationship

Creates loci

Communication

Movement of

between vicus

celeberrimi

Forum to

knowledge

compitum

and rumour

and emperor

Fig. 15.4  Application of the intersection of territory, place, scale and networks to Ancient Rome.

16

‘Ships are Seen Gliding Swiftly along the Sacred Tiber’: The River as an Artery of Urban Movement and Development Simon Malmberg The Tiber was essential in supporting the massive urban population of Rome from the late Republic to late antiquity. The strain of supplying up to a million inhabitants in a pre-industrial society necessitated harbour facilities of an unprecedented scale. The harbours transformed the banks of the Tiber not just into the largest port in the Mediterranean area, but also into the largest commercial and industrial zone of the ancient world. In the Republican period it was also the main Roman naval base. During the Empire the port was not limited to certain districts, but stretched more or less continuously along both banks of the Tiber, probably from at least Pons Milvius in the north down to the later location of Santa Passera in the south, with further harbour facilities even further out (Fig. 16.1). The Tiber and its harbours shaped the character of the adjacent city districts of Campus Martius, Transtiberim and Testaccio, which became crowded with warehouses, markets, distribution centres and different kinds of production. Thus, the Tiber was more than infrastructure – it was one of the essential geographical features that shaped the urban form of Rome. During the Republic, the Tiber formed one of the outer limits of Rome, in the Empire the river became integrated into the urban fabric, whereas in late antiquity and the Middle Ages it had become central to city life. The Tiber thus played a major role in the urban transformation of Rome.1 This chapter stems from an ongoing project concerning the Tiber’s impact on Rome, and the conclusions presented here must remain tentative as many areas merit further study. The present chapter will examine the mutual impact of river traffic and urban development at Rome in the long term, suggesting five moments of change in traffic on the Tiber between the second century bce and the fifth century ce. Furthermore, by investigating both Rome’s links with the Tiber valley through its northern ports, as well as its connections with the Mediterranean through the southern ports, this chapter endeavours to clarify the Tiber’s role in the ‘dispersed hinterland’ of Rome.2 By studying the river traffic at three of Rome’s harbours, the chapter will compare the character of movement between the Tiber’s mouths and Rome to river transport from the Tiber valley to Rome.3 The natural conditions of the Tiber determined how and when it could be used as a transport corridor, which was also linked to more general seasonal variations in the Mediterranean basin. These limitations and variations on

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Fig. 16.1  Plan of harbours at Rome. Map by Simon Malmberg. the use of the river will be outlined below. The limits could, however, change because of human intervention in the form of new infrastructure, technology and organization. This could have increased the volume of river traffic, with repercussions on Rome’s urban development.



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Seasonality Traffic on the Tiber was determined not only by the seasonal changes of the river, but also just as much by changing circumstances at sea and by the harvest seasons. The effects of these three factors on river movement will be briefly covered below, focusing on the transport of food supplies. The Tiber had its highest volume of water level and flow from December to March, and the lowest from July to September. Normally, the Tiber had a slow current, which made it navigable up to Orte for most of the year, but from December to March the volume of the river was up to two-thirds more than in summer, which resulted in a strong current, making it hard to move upriver. This was also the period of the year with heavy rainfall, causing devastating floods, which would also pose a hazard to boats by moving large amounts of floating debris down the river. Thus, the Tiber was much harder to use for river craft from December to March. The summer, on the other hand, posed problems with low water levels, especially in the upper reaches of the river. Above the confluence with the Nera, the Tiber seems to have been very hard to navigate during summer, and the low water level also imposed serious problems on river traffic between Orte and Rome.4 At the mouth of the Tiber a sand barrier was formed when the river met the sea. This proved to be a major obstacle to traffic between the Mediterranean and the river.5 In the nineteenth century this sand barrier was never more than two metres below the surface, and during summer much less. This meant that normally ships of 130–90 tons of burden could cross into the Tiber, except for in summer, when only smaller flat-bottomed barges could make it. Also in antiquity the barrier stopped larger ships from entering the Tiber, or they had to be partly offloaded to be able to make it across.6 It was very hazardous for the ships to be at anchor on the open roads with a prevailing westerly wind, and unloading by lighters took time. This meant that other port cities such as Puteoli were probably preferred to transshipment at Ostia. Cargoes at Puteoli were probably transferred to coastal craft which could travel the whole route from Campania, along the coast and upriver to Rome. This system began to change with the building of the Port of Claudius at Portus, equipped with protective breakwaters and linked by a canal to the Tiber. But it was not until the extension of the port by Trajan that a truly effective harbour was created, with a capacity to unload many ships directly at the quays, thus combining protection and efficiency. Other seasonal factors that affected traffic on the Tiber were the harvest seasons and changing conditions at sea. The Egyptian grain was harvested in April and May, and the first grain ships from Alexandria usually reached Italy in early June. They were eagerly awaited, since this meant the end of the winter and spring shortages.7 The peak of grain shipments thus fell in the dry season, when the sand barrier at the Tiber mouth caused the most problems, and must have intensified the need for proper harbour facilities. Italian grain was harvested in June–July, most fruits and vegetables in August–September, wine in October and olives in November, thus providing a steady stream of new agricultural produce reaching Rome both from the Tiber valley and from the seaports in the period between June and November. Some of these

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products could be stored for longer periods, especially wine, oil and grain. Stores of these goods could thus have been shipped to Rome in all seasons.8 Scholars have now demonstrated that the Mediterranean was not, as claimed by some ancient texts, a mare clausum from December to March. However, seasonal conditions varied greatly in different parts of the Mediterranean. In the Tyrrhenian Sea it seems that, although winter traffic across open water did occur, it was much diminished in volume, and most vessels probably stayed close to the shore. The fall in winter shipping caused by unfavourable conditions at sea led to problems in supplying Rome. Indeed, the ancient sources make it clear that the Roman state was prepared to go to great lengths to encourage sea traffic to Rome during winter, but also to regulate the traffic to minimize the risk for loss.9 Authorities and shippers had to walk a tightrope between braving the winter seas or risking famine in Rome. These problems were exacerbated by the inability of moving cargo up the Tiber between December and March. Roads could be an efficient means of moving people between the seaports and Rome. The main use of the Viae Ostiensis and Campana/Portuensis, however, may have come in winter, when they had to be used to transport bulk goods to avert famine in the capital. It may also be in this light that we could interpret the existence of large horrea at Ostia and Portus. Could their primary reason have been storage for products shipped across the Mediterranean in winter and early spring, working as a buffer to the limited capacity of laboriously moving the goods to Rome by road rather than river? As opposed to staple goods, other foodstuffs, such as fruit, vegetables, dairy products and meat, mostly had to be consumed fresh. This provided a market opportunity for farms around Rome, since in this area they did not have to compete with foreign imports. Most of the fruit and vegetable harvest fell in August, when the Tiber was low, thus forcing farmers to either ship their produce in small vessels from Orte or further downriver, or use the dense network of roads in the form of the Viae Amerina, Flaminia, Tiberina and Salaria that complemented the river in the Tiber valley. The difficulties in river transport above the Nera may partly explain the creation of sizeable transshipment ports, for example at Otricoli and Orte in the middle Tiber valley. That a great part of the annual agricultural produce of the Tiber valley was harvested in the dry season may account for a predominance of smaller craft on the Tiber above Rome, which in turn might have led to port facilities at Rome being adapted for these kinds of vessels.10

Moving upriver: The codicaria From the ports at Ostia and Portus cargoes were transported upriver to Rome by a miscellany of craft. Dionysius of Halicarnassus writes that oared ships of any size could reach Rome, presumably because these types, such as galleys or small skiffs, generally had little draught. Merchantmen with a capacity of up to three thousand amphorae (equivalent to around 150–200 tons) could also enter the river, a statement which is in accordance with the maximum tonnage of ships on the Tiber in the nineteenth century.11



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Because of the current, towing must have been preferred to rowing upriver, and it was hard to use sails because of the meandering of the river in its lower course. The towing of ships and barges was done either by men called helciarii or by oxen. Towing a boat the 35 kilometres upriver from Ostia to Rome took three days in antiquity. Going by the road would only take about half a day, and seems to have been the preferred way for passengers to travel. On the return the vessels could drift downriver using the current, which probably took about two days from Rome to Ostia.12 The most common and important Tiber craft was the navis caudicaria or codicaria, known from inscriptions at Rome and Ostia to have been operated by an important and influential corpus of shippers, the codicarii. Depictions show that the codicaria was a proper ship with a deck and hold, upturned prow and stern and equipped with steering oars. It had a curious mast placed well forward, with no signs of rigging. The mast was instead used for towing, to prevent the cable from dipping into the water or rubbing against the riverbank, as was still practised in the nineteenth century. The mast could be lowered to be able to pass under bridges and when not in use. Larger codicariae were equipped with capstans, which could be used to haul the ship upriver, for instance past bridges that lacked a towpath. Two sister ships of this type, dating to the fourth or fifth century ce, have been excavated at the Port of Claudius. It has been estimated that they would be able to carry around fifty tons of cargo, but larger variants of up to 200 tons burden can be presumed to have existed.13 Both Varro and Seneca refer to the codicaria as an ancient type of vessel, but Varro is the first ever to mention this kind of ship. We have many depictions of the type from the imperial period, but there are no examples earlier than the first decades of the second century ce. Neither can we be sure that the short definitions provided by Varro, Seneca and Nonius Marcellus apply to the depictions usually identified as codicariae. Rather than being an ancient type of ship, this points to a development only in the last years of the Republic of the codicaria as a specialized, towed transport ship, perhaps taking its name from an older type. It is also notable that the type does not seem to have been common until the early second century ce, contemporary with the construction of the Port of Trajan. Might the need for coping with the increase in river traffic, caused by the Clodian annona reform or the construction of the new seaport, have spawned a new, specialized vessel? The close connections between grain merchants, bakers and codicarii are attested from inscriptions and laws. It is thus not surprising that the last time we hear about both the codicariae and their shippers are in the first half of the fifth century, their disappearance probably linked to the rapid decline of the population and the supply needs of Rome during that century.14 Since the codicariae could only move upriver by towing, it became very important to establish and maintain towpaths along the Tiber. It is probably in this light we must view the first regulation of the Tiber banks by the censors of 55/54 bce. In all, 21 boundary stones of this year have been found along both banks of the river, between Pons Milvius and Santa Passera (Fig. 16.1). The stones were generally located just a few metres from the Tiber, marking the boundary between public and private land. A new series of 24 markers were placed along both banks of the Tiber by the consuls of 8 bce, from Pons Milvius to a point just downriver from San Paolo fuori le mura, thus marking approximately the same stretch of the river as the censors had done. This

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was complemented by 22 markers put up by Augustus in 7/6 bce, along the right river bank at Prati down to Pons Aelius.15 The importance of administering the Tiber had become so important by 15 ce that a permanent board of senators was created, the curatores riparum et alvei Tiberis (curators of the banks and bed of the Tiber). Among their most important tasks were probably to keep the river clear for traffic, the banks open for towing and the quays unobstructed. There followed a major revision in 100–3, when at least 30 new markers were put up along both banks.16 No new markers seem to have been put up after 198, but the office of curator or comes riparum was maintained until the early fifth century, which attests to the continued importance of the task of keeping the Tiber and its banks open for traffic.17 It has been suggested that there was at first a towpath only along the left bank of the Tiber. This would have been replaced by a new path along the right bank after the building of the new seaport at Portus. In fact, we do not have any evidence for this development. There might have existed towpaths along both banks of the Tiber as early as 55/54 bce, since both banks were regulated. However, the opening of the new harbours of Claudius and Trajan at Portus, which were connected to the Tiber by a canal, must have increased the river traffic considerably. It might have been this increase that prompted the creation of a second towpath along the right bank. At the height of river traffic in the second century ce, we may imagine that both banks were used for towing, while the middle of the riverbed was used for vessels moving downriver using the current, thus creating a three-lane river highway. Evidence suggest a rapid decrease in the volume of river traffic in the course of the fifth century, and this might mark the time when the path along the left bank was abandoned, a situation attested by Procopius in the 530s.18 As we have seen, the Tiber posed peculiar challenges for traffic, caused by changing water levels, the risk of severe flooding in winter and the creation of a sand barrier at the river mouth. This led to the evolution, perhaps in the last decades of the first century bce, of the specialized codicariae, which were adapted to transport bulk cargoes upriver. These heavy vessels had to be towed, which in turn led to the creation of towpaths and a permanent administrative board to handle river traffic. In the next section, the effects this had on the development and layout of Rome’s southern harbours will be investigated.

Rome’s southern ports Of the numerous river harbours at Rome, few have been archaeologically investigated and even fewer properly published. By looking more closely at three of the more welldocumented examples, at Testaccio, Pietra Papa and Tor di Nona (Fig. 16.1), we will hopefully gain more insight into the long-term changes of river movement and into the differences between Rome’s southern and northern ports. The identification of the large concrete building along the waterfront in Testaccio has recently led to renewed debate. The building measured 487 × 60 m and consisted



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of piers that divided it into 50 bays, each probably covered by a barrel vault. For our purposes, it is sufficient to establish that it is very likely that this building should be identified as the Navalia, the shipsheds of the Roman navy.19 We know of the existence of shipsheds in Rome from 192 bce onwards, and it seems Rome was the main Roman naval base until the end of the Republic. The last time we hear that the shipsheds were used for their original purpose was in 56 bce, and they certainly went out of use after Augustus moved the navy to new stations at Misenum and Ravenna.20 The Navalia was left standing when the naval base moved, and new uses had to be found for it. Following a thorough rebuilding, a possible new function could have been as a distribution centre: when the loads arrived at the newly built quays, they had to be sorted and stored temporarily before being moved along. A temporary storage of this type could also have worked as a location for auctioning off those goods that were not part of the annona.21 Rome probably experienced a crisis of supply from the late second century bce, because of the rapidly increasing urban population. The crisis was not solved until the sweeping reforms of the Clodian grain law of 58 bce, which introduced distribution of free grain, inclusion of freedmen of citizen status and a lowering of the minimum qualifying age. The state thus took on responsibility for much of Rome’s food supply, which required an efficient use of the Tiber and an expansion of harbour and storage capacity. The Roman navy may even have been prompted to leave Testaccio after 56 bce because of the demands on river traffic caused by the annona reform. It is therefore not surprising to see that the Navalia was remade into a commercial structure. In the last decades of the first century bce, several large warehouses, such as the Horrea Galbana and Lolliana, were likewise constructed in Testaccio, where none had existed before, thus transforming Testaccio from a military to a commercial district.22 The transformation of Testaccio was completed by the construction of quays to receive the codicariae, the new type of towed river transport. The oldest quay excavated in Testaccio was revealed in 1919–20 during construction of the modern Ponte Sublicio. It may be dated to the late first century bce and consisted of large tufo blocks, two stairways connecting the riverbank to the quay, and large travertine mooring rings cut in the shape of animal heads.23 Just downriver from the Ponte Sublicio, between the Navalia and the Tiber, a 125 m long complex in three levels has been revealed by excavations in 1952 and 1979–84. The quay was formed by an inclined wall which is not preserved, behind which were enclosed substructures in opus mixtum filled with earth, dated to the first part of the second century ce. A series of vaulted rooms faced the quay. In a previous phase, dated to the first century ce, these rooms had large openings towards the landward side. In the second-century rebuilding, they had smaller doorways on this side that led to a newly constructed cryptoportico. On top of the vaulted rooms was a third level, added in the second century, consisting of a series of rooms with a tile roof. These rooms, interpreted as offices, opened towards the landward side and were paved with black and white mosaics. They faced an open space built on top of the cryptoportico. At the end of the fourth century, probably because of flood damage, the lower rooms and the cryptoportico were abandoned and filled in with earth. The upper level continued

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in use until the mid-fifth century, and was then turned into an area for burials in the course of the sixth century.24 Further downstream, also in front of the Navalia, another harbour structure about 130 m long was excavated in 1868–70 (Fig. 16.2). On the riverbank was constructed an inclined wall, 3.4 m high, built in opus reticulatum with two thick bands of bricks and dated to the beginning of the second century ce. Five ramps linked the riverbank and the upper quay. Large mooring rings in travertine were built into the outer walls of the ramps and the main quay wall. The quay continued further southwards, but this section seems to have been destroyed by the building of the Aurelian Wall.25 The quays found in Testaccio may be compared with those excavated in 1939–40 at Pietra Papa, opposite San Paolo fuori le mura (Fig. 16.1). The harbour consisted of a concrete quay, about 250 m long and 3.5 m high, faced with opus reticulatum and two large bands of brick. The face of the wall was inclined, and had along its upper part several large mooring rings in travertine. At least two stairways connected the riverbank with the upper level of the quay. Overall, the quay was very similar in layout to the one found in Testaccio, but had stairways instead of ramps. Behind the quay at Pietra Papa were excavated two bathhouses and a large cistern probably connected to an aqueduct, workshops, a marble fountain and remains of burials, some of them monumental. Contrary to the situation at Testaccio, no large-scale storage buildings were found. The quay has been dated to either the reign of Claudius or the first part of the second century ce, while Hadrianic brickstamps date most of the buildings behind the quay.26 In this section, we have seen the probable transformation of Testaccio, first into a major naval base, and then, from the last decades of the first century bce, into one of the

Fig. 16.2  Plan of the harbour in Testaccio excavated in 1868–70 (from Guglielmo Gatti, ‘L’arginatura’).



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main commercial harbours of Rome. The new harbour consisted of several large quays, whose layout might have been formed by the types of transport vessels and cargoes that used them. Developments at Testaccio were in many ways mirrored at Pietra Papa. We have also seen evidence for the decline of the harbours in late antiquity, beginning in the 270s and accelerating by the fifth century. Below, we will investigate the development of a harbour in northern Rome, which can then be compared to those in the south.

Rome’s northern ports The discovery of a harbour at Tor di Nona, across the river from the Castel Sant’Angelo, may illustrate the differences between the inland ports in northern Rome and those in the southern part of the city. A large mole was excavated in 1890-1 at Tor di Nona, about 160 m upstream from Pons Aelius (Figs 16.1 and 16.3). The mole, which was around 50 m long, 13.7 m wide and 3.6 m high, had protruded into the river at an oblique angle. It was a sturdy construction, made up of large blocks of tufo stone, which has led many scholars to date the structure to the Republican period.27 However, most studies have failed to take into account the stone mole’s foundations, which were 20.65 m wide. Along the outer edge of the foundation was constructed a cofferdam consisting of interlocking oak beams with lead sheathing on the inside to make the structure watertight. Behind this, at a distance, was constructed a wall of fir planking, and into this mould was poured concrete to form a 4.8 m-thick wall. Behind the concrete wall was a compact foundation consisting of a compressed mix of gravel, sand and clay. This formed the base of the stone mole, as well as a low-level quay, probably for use during the summer’s low river level.28 The use of concrete in the foundations of the mole is decisive for the dating. The oldest examples of underwater use of concrete are from the harbour at Cosa, and can probably be dated to around 80 bce or later, possibly from the Augustan period. The mole at Tor di Nona should thus probably not be dated earlier than the 80s bce, and could conceivably have been built in the Augustan period.29 Indeed, we might ask why so much effort should have been put into building a harbour in northwestern Campus Martius in the second century bce, at a time when the area remained well outside the urban area. An Augustan date would fit better with the new monumental buildings put up by the emperor in the Campus, and this has indeed formed the basis for earlier suggestions for such a date. To this argument we can now add the construction technique of the mole. The harbour at Tor di Nona may be compared with those in southern Rome, primarily in Testaccio and Pietra Papa. The southern harbours had quays that were parallel to the river, with large mooring rings and, at Testaccio, ramps to an upper level. The harbour at Tor di Nona, on the other hand, consisted of a stone mole that protruded obliquely into the river, to provide a shelter for boats which could unload along the downstream side of the mole. The harbour at Tor di Nona also lacked mooring rings and ramps. These differences could be explained by the harbours receiving different kinds of river craft and cargoes.

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An inscription of the third century ce mentions codicari nav[iculari] infra pontem S[ublicium], another, from the reign of Constantine, codicari nabiculari infernates.30 This has been interpreted as evidence for two collegia of codicarii, responsible for different sections of the Tiber: one below, the other above the Pons Sublicius. In fact, there is no evidence for codicariae being used on the river above Rome. The inscriptions should rather be a confirmation that these heavy vessels were normally only used as far upriver as the first bridge over the Tiber. It should be stressed that there are no indications of a towpath along the Tiber upriver from Pons Milvius, and neither are there any boundary markers above that point. That might be because heavy craft that needed towing were not normally used above Rome.31 Most probably, other kinds of vessels plied the Tiber in these parts, just like in the early modern period. One of these smaller craft was called a linter. It was probably a light, open, flat-bottomed boat, able to navigate the Tiber during the dry summer months, probably at least as far up as the confluence with the Nera or even the Paglia. Because of its light construction and load, it did not need to be hauled upriver, but could use oars and sail instead.32 The codicariae from Ostia and Portus docked at the southern harbours. Their size made them less vulnerable, so they did not need a protective mole, but required large mooring rings to secure them in the river current. Their cargoes were sizeable, so ramps had to be provided for wagons, to move indivisible heavy loads such as stones from the quay.33 At Tor di Nona, on the other hand, we might imagine that smaller river craft from the Tiber valley reached the city. They had to be small to be able to navigate the upper parts of the Tiber, but this also made them more fragile, so they needed protection from the current, which was provided by a mole. They also had smaller loads, so the quay facilities could be made simpler, eliminating the need for large mooring rings and ramps. It should also be noted that the major harbours at Rome, with the exception of the Portus Tiberinus, seem to have been situated either upstream or downstream from the bridges, that is, either above the Pons Aelius or below the Pons Sublicius (Fig. 16.1). This might indicate that river traffic tried to avoid passing the bridges, which could be hazardous because of the strong current associated with them, and complicated because of the possible lack of a towpath under the bridges, which would make it necessary to winch codicariae upstream using a capstan.

Transformation and decline The development of the harbours at Rome had reached their culmination in the second century ce. The 270s saw the first reduction of Rome’s port facilities, followed by rapid decline in the fifth and sixth centuries. There was not only decline, but also transformation, caused by major changes in the range of products included in the annona and how they were distributed, both of which had major consequences for river traffic. The construction of the Aurelian Wall in the 270s had a major impact on the urban development of Rome, an impact which has only recently begun to be fully



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understood. The wall cut a swathe of destruction through densely inhabited areas. In Testaccio, the wall was punched right through the port, and followed the river for 800 m. This entailed the destruction of large parts of the harbour facilities along the Tiber. Since there were no gates or posterns in the Aurelian Wall beyond Porta Ostiensis, it also cut off southern Testaccio both from the Tiber and from other river ports further south.34 Monte Testaccio is a testament to the scale of trade that passed through Rome’s southern harbours. The mound, today still 35  m high, consists of carefully stacked shards of oil amphorae from southern Spain, of which the earliest found can be datable to the mid-second century ce, contemporary with the new Port of Trajan becoming fully operational, while the latest pottery deposited is from the 260s. The abandonment of the Monte Testaccio as a disposal site can be explained by the construction of the Aurelian Wall and, it has been suggested, by North African production eclipsing Spanish oil imports. However, Rome still needed oil on a massive scale, so why do we not find a late antique Monte Testaccio somewhere in the city?35 The answer is probably that it was not only the location of unloading oil and other goods that changed in Rome during the third and fourth centuries, but the whole system of supply distribution. Aurelian permanently changed the grain dole into a bread dole, necessitating a centrally organized milling of flour and baking of bread on a grand scale. Instead of handing out grain from one central node at the Porticus Minuciae Frumentariae, located in the southern Campus Martius near the modernday Largo di Torre Argentina, bread was distributed through numerous offices, or steps (gradus), spread over the city. Oil was likewise distributed through 2,300 mensae oleariae. The pork dole was another novelty that became permanent under Aurelian, necessitating yet another transportation, storage and distribution system in Rome. The same applied to wine, which was heavily subsidized and distributed by the state, also from the time of Aurelian.36 These reforms probably led to two major developments. First, the distribution of grain and oil, previously concentrated at certain locations such as the Porticus Minuciae and near the Monte Testaccio, spread out across the city. Second, state responsibility for oil, pork and wine put increasing pressure on the authorities to obtain these products, which may have increased the economic scope for large-scale production of these provisions for the urban market. The Tiber valley was rapidly transformed in the third and fourth centuries from a majority of smallholdings to being dominated by large estates adapted to producing an increased agricultural surplus destined for Rome.37 This might have been directly linked with reforms of the annona and in turn increased the importance of Rome’s inland harbours in the course of the fourth century. This development might have been further reinforced in the fifth century, when major food producing areas such as Tunisia and Sicily were wrested from imperial control. It is thus logical to find the new storage and distribution centres for Aurelian’s reformed annona in the northern Campus Martius. Wine was stored and distributed from the Temple of the Sun, with the Forum Vinarium probably nearby, and pork likewise at the Forum Suarium, probably located not far from the Temple of the Sun (Fig. 16.3).38 Along the whole northern side of the Campus Martius, a river wall was constructed as far south as the Trastevere Wall. According to the Einsiedeln Itinerary, however,

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Fig. 16.3  Plan of harbours in the northern Campus Martius (from Rodolfo Lanciani, Forma Urbis Romae, modified by Simon Malmberg).

five postern gates existed in the Campus Martius wall, in contrast to the situation in Testaccio. The northern, inland ports of Rome might thus have been far less affected by the wall than the southern ports, which show the continued or even increased importance of the northern ports in late antiquity. Three of these posterns were situated on the northern side of the Campus Martius, between the Porta Flaminia and the Porta Sancti Petri (the gate giving access to the Pons Aelius), probably at the most important inland harbours (Fig. 16.3). Later in the Middle Ages these posterns can be located more precisely: the Posterula di San Martino at the Mausoleum of Augustus, the Posterula della Pila at Piazza Nicosia and the Posterula di Dimizia at Tor di Nona. Any remains that might have existed near the Mausoleum of Augustus were obliterated by the building of the new Ripetta harbour at the beginning of the eighteenth century, but a landing place here is attested by ancient sources. There might be remains of ancient docking facilities near Piazza Nicosia, and the name Pila suggests a quay. The postern at Tor di Nona coincides with the ancient mole excavated there.39 In view of the development of new distribution centres at the Temple of the Sun and the Forum Suarium, continued use of the harbour facilities in the northern Campus Martius and the increased importance of produce from the Tiber valley, it is not surprising to find mounds of discarded amphorae accumulating near two of these posterns (Fig. 16.3). Monte Giordano is located only 50  m south of the mole at Tor di Nona. Monte Citorio lies 250  m from the presumed harbour at Piazza Nicosia and between that harbour and the Temple of the Sun, located at Piazza di San Silvestro. De Caprariis has shown that the oldest known name for Monte Citorio is



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Mons Acceptorius, probably named after the acceptores, the agents responsible for the storage and administration of public consumables. The pottery found at Monte Citorio was dated by Lanciani to the fourth and fifth centuries, but these mounds have never been properly investigated archaeologically. The dates of these accumulations must therefore remain hypothetical, although a late-antique date is likely in view of the increased commercial importance of the area at this time.40 The Regionary Catalogues mention a place called Ciconias (‘the Storks’), situated in the northern Campus Martius to the west of Via Flaminia. The place is only mentioned by one other source, an inscription found just north of Piazza di San Silvestro, dated to the late third or early fourth century. This inscription is worth quoting in full: To the cleaners, thirty coins per barrel; to the notaries, twenty coins per receipt; to the barrel-openers, ten coins per barrel; to the porters who usually carry the barrels from Ciconias to the temple, [?] coins; to the guardians of the barrels, [? coins]; regarding the sample bottles, it was decided to return them to their owners after the tasting; to the tax account examiners at Ciconias, upon arrival of the wine, 120 coins per barrel.41

Ciconias was thus a harbour for the unloading and registering of wine. The wine was then carried by porters to a temple, surely the Temple of the Sun at Piazza di San Silvestro, which we know was used to store and distribute the subsidized wine. Several different locations have been suggested for the harbour. In view of the short distance between the Temple of the Sun and the harbour at Posterula della Pila near Piazza Nicosia, this seems to be the logical choice. Other goods, transported in amphorae rather than barrels, were perhaps also unloaded at Ciconias, which might explain the accumulation of the mound at Monte Citorio, whose name links it clearly with the state supply organization.42

Concluding remarks: Five key moments of change One aim of this chapter has been to study the river traffic at three of Rome’s harbours (Testaccio, Pietra Papa and Tor di Nona) in order to compare the character of the northern and southern ports of the city. It has revealed divergences in the physical appearance of the harbours that might suggest differences in the cargoes and types of craft they were built to receive. The southern harbours had quays parallel to the river, mooring rings and ramps, able to handle both larger ships and heavy loads. The port at Tor di Nona, on the other hand, had a mole to protect the boats docking there, and lacked mooring rings and ramps, which might indicate that it was meant to receive smaller river boats with lighter loads. These conclusions must be treated with caution, however, since of Rome’s inland harbours only the three studied here have been excavated and published. It is hoped that future investigations might shed more light on other harbour complexes at, for instance, Santa Passera or Pons Milvius. Another aim was to study some aspects of the mutual impact of river traffic and urban development at Rome in the long term, and five moments of change can be

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hypothesized. It must be underlined that the identification of these moments is as yet provisional, and needs to be put in relation to patterns of change at Rome more generally. The first moment of change may have been in the first decades of the second century bce, when Rome became dependent upon imports from overseas. Already by the late third century bce, Rome had begun to import grain in bulk from Sardinia and Sicily, and by the second century the city had become dependent upon these sources of supply. This led to the gradual expansion of the previously quite modest harbour facilities southwards, where a new harbour called the Emporium was built at the foot of the Aventine. This is also the period when Rome became a major naval base, with dockyard facilities and shipsheds built further to the south, in the Testaccio district.43 The Gracchan reforms of the 130s and 120s bce, followed by a series of grain laws at the beginning of the first century bce, marked a crisis in the supply of Rome that was not solved until the sweeping reforms that led to the Clodian annona, introduced in 58 bce. The following years probably marked the second change in river traffic at Rome, by which the state took responsibility for solving the food crisis. This required an efficient use of the Tiber, which led to the demarcation of the Tiber banks by the censors in 55/54 bce to secure towpaths and off-loading facilities. The naval shipsheds are last attested in use in 56 bce, and soon after the naval base was moved away from Rome. Instead, Testaccio became a commercial district and the site of some of the largest horrea of the Roman world, constructed there in the second half of the first century bce. The creation of a new harbour in the northern Campus Martius in the Augustan period shows the increased importance of the Tiber valley. It was probably also at this time new specialized transport vessels, such as the codicaria, evolved to handle the increased river traffic. The third moment could be said to have begun in the 40s ce with the construction of the Port of Claudius, but probably did not lead to a fundamental change until the creation of the Port of Trajan at the beginning of the second century ce. The construction of the new seaport removed a major transport bottleneck by allowing safe and efficient transshipment directly at the Tiber mouth. This development was accompanied by intensive construction of new quays, storage and market buildings at Rome, which provided the infrastructure for further urban population growth. The length of the Tiber provided the scope for almost unlimited expansion of the size of the port, and facilities rapidly developed along its banks, probably stretching more or less continuously from Pons Milvius in the north to the later location of Santa Passera in the south, a total length of around 12 kilometres. The development and capacity of the river transport infrastructure seem to have reached their peak during the second century ce. Might this indicate that the population was at its maximum at this time, and not the Augustan period as is often believed? The 270s and following decades marked the fourth moment of change. It saw the construction of the Aurelian Wall, which dominated the urban form of Rome for the next 1,600 years. The new wall led to the destruction and abandonment of parts of the harbour system, for example in southern Testaccio. More important for river traffic, however, was the introduction at this time of a new annona, comprising bread, oil, pork and wine, which also led to new storage and distribution solutions, of which



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the abandonment of Monte Testaccio and the new network of gradus and mensae are symptomatic examples. The inland ports along the northern Campus Martius seem to have become relatively more important, and it is in this area that the new centres for wine and pork were located. The fifth and final moment of change came in the second half of the fifth century, caused by the rapid demographic decline of Rome. This phase was characterized by the abandonment of most of the imperial river infrastructure. Most of the southern harbours, such as the one at Testaccio, went out of use. The northern harbours were less affected, but probably also experienced much less traffic, as the ties between Rome and the Tiber valley were weakened. The specialized codicariae river transports are also not attested after the first decades of the century. Without the resources of the Empire, the supply system seems to have more or less collapsed during the fifth century. When Procopius visited Rome in the 530s, some parts of the system were still kept up, but in much diminished form. Thus, the port infrastructure was both a prerequisite and a reflection of the urban development. It was a prerequisite for the rapid demographic increase Rome experienced from the early second century bce until the second century ce. From the end of the third century, however, the large investments involved could no longer be kept up, and the port began to decline, reflecting a slow decrease of population in the third and fourth centuries, followed by a population collapse in the fifth century. By this time, the urban form of Rome had also changed. The gravity of the urban centre slowly shifted from the hills and the Forum to previously peripheral areas, many of them clustered along the Tiber in the Campus Martius, Vatican and Transtiberim areas. The activity of the ports – all hustle and bustle with ships coming and going, hectic construction work and a raucous commercial life – attracted teeming crowds of Romans, provincials and foreigners looking for jobs and other opportunities, and was part of the process that altered the urban form of Rome, from a city of hills around the Forum to a city of plains along the Tiber.

17

Monuments and Images of the Moving City Anne-Marie Leander Touati

Introduction The direction of movement in art is never fortuitous. This chapter studies such movement within the famous state-celebrating reliefs of imperial Rome in relation to the ancient viewers and passers-by around them. It will be argued that the choice to depict movement or static postures in these media was not just a stylistic preference or a means to build a pictorial narrative, but was also an actual invitation or guidance to the passer-by. The original intention may not necessarily have been to make all spectators follow a certain path, but rather to underline the importance of certain paths and to create an atmosphere of consensual attitude to the monuments and their meaning. In return, the relation between the surrounding topography and the movement depicted within the imagery may help to explain the location chosen for the image-carrying monument within the cityscape. In all cases, topographical context is significant, and the chapter will consider monuments still standing in their original locations as well as others dismantled but still possible to relate to an original position. In the final discussion on the dismantled Great Trajanic Frieze (Fig. 17.8), whose original location in Rome is unknown, the results gained from the previous scrutiny of other monuments will be used as a new approach to the riddle of its original setting.

Meeting the viewer: The two historiated columns The aim to shape the imagery with respect to the viewer’s position is obvious even in highly complex monuments such as the Columns of Trajan and Marcus Aurelius. Concerning Trajan’s Column, the best preserved and most studied of the two, it has repeatedly been pointed out that the layout of the helical frieze is organized in such a way that it offers vertical readings from which different symbolic content can be gained. What kind of content depends on which of four (or eight) suggested viewing axes the monument is approached from.1 For instance, the most prestigious of the verticals, the Victoria line, so called because it presents the feat-inscribing Victoria at mid-height and at its centre, may be read by a viewer approaching from the presumed temple area,

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northwest of the column court. Whether this line of images addressed a divine or an ordinary human viewer alike, is an argument that must be pursued elsewhere.2 The purpose of the present study turns instead interest to the parts of the helical frieze that assuredly addressed ordinary viewers, that is, the parts of maximum visibility. New ways to perceive the ruined topography have been opened in recent years by virtual reconstructions offered by the ameliorated techniques in building threedimensional digital visualizations. In older research the column’s relation to its mostly ruined architectural surrounding – the Basilica Ulpia, the two adjoining libraries and the porticoes in front of them – was generally limited to a discussion (mostly negatively concluded) on the possibilities for the ordinary viewer to follow the narrative line of the helical relief towards the top of the monument. Today, it seems more natural to place oneself on the ground and follow the path of the ancient viewer in virtual reality and enter the column court from the Basilica Ulpia – too little is known about the other entrance to give more than hypothetical suggestions about how the monument was perceived by someone approaching from the Campus Martius side. The two doorways of the basilica did not open directly onto the column. They opened laterally into the porticoes, which flanked the column court, in front of the façades of the libraries. Apart from the roofs of the porticoes, there were further limits to visibility: the size of the column and its impressive quadrangular base within the relatively narrow court. Ancient viewers cannot have had more than a very restricted view of the reliefs. Because of the off-axis position of the entrances, the first scenes offered to view were not part of the central, southeast viewing line (the doorway line of vertical reading, thus named because it is centred on the doorway that gives access to the column’s internal staircase and funerary chamber). Best first exposure was instead held by the scenes presented on the diagonal viewing lines, from south and east, immediately above the sculpted eagles perched in the manner of acroteria in front of the corners of the column’s base. Thus, it should not come as a surprise that the lowest figured scenes belonging to these diagonal viewing lines were given particular elaboration and narrative importance. Entering the courtyard on the right-hand side, by the basilica’s east doorway, the visitor was presented with the scene in which Trajan appears for the first time on the helical relief. Directly targeted by the diagonal viewing line, the emperor is shown amidst his generals. He leads the war council that sets the plans for the First Dacian War (Fig. 17.1). This scene, appropriately eye-catching, leans on a very narrow strip of the first winding. The relief band is borne to the left of the council scene’s vertical axis. The point of departure of the spiral relief is centred on the doorway of the column base. Beneath the council scene it has not yet gained much height and has no figured representation. Instead it presents a narrow strip of Danubian river landscape, which tends to underline the imperial presence above rather than to rival its visual impact. Entering the courtyard by the left or south doorway of the basilica, the visitor’s first view of the column’s imagery focused on the other protagonist of the narrative, the army. The men proceed in an ordered line of marching as they emerge out of a doorway (Fig. 17.2), much like the real-life visitor, albeit walking in the opposite direction. The doorway in the relief is a city gate. The soldiers’ advance leads them immediately onto the boat bridge that will take them to the other side of the Danube (Histar). The river god is benevolently contemplating the marching soldiers out from the space where



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Fig. 17.1  Trajan’s Column, east axis, scene 6. Photo: Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 91.150.

Fig. 17.2  Trajan’s Column, south axis, scene 4. Photo: Anger, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 91.148.

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the first winding has reached full height. The city gate and the city that it delimits are placed above the head of the river god, in the absolute upper register of the spiral. From this position a progressively sloping boat bridge brings the line of soldiers down to the base line of the spiral relief. This compositional device makes the line of soldiers descend towards the viewer. It is a massive procession headed by horn blowers and standard-bearers who hoist up banners that float in the wind. Advancing in the head of the march, the officers turn their heads to gaze at the men following them and at the viewers. The impact is impressive. The march reaches the absolute baseline of the imagery just above the doorway of the column’s base, where cavalrymen are shown to bring their horses onto firm land and thereupon start the ascent into enemy territory – and to engage the second winding of the spiral relief.3 At this very point, the imagery is artistically inferior to the march targeted by the diagonal viewing line. It could well be that the nicely designed iconography of the march, even as it tells a tale about confidently departing for glorious feats, communicates a promise of happy return. This conscious play of interaction between images and viewers entering the column court from the Basilica Ulpia becomes even more evident when compared to the corresponding imagery of the Column of Marcus Aurelius. The location of this column next to the Via Flaminia was very different from that of Trajan’s Column within its enclosure of buildings and porticoes.4 Although much of the imagery of the Aurelian Column repeats that of its predecessor, a different solution has been implemented for the birth of its helical frieze. Along the obvious front side towards the Via Flaminia, the base line of the imagery is kept horizontal (Fig. 17.3). The first peopled windings stand as though on a stage consisting of, respectively, a boat bridge and a compressed description of wooden architecture, apparently an enemy community. There is also a much stronger emphasis on the vertical reading that presents itself in frontal view from the Via Flaminia. The most important scenes of the imagery – Roman troops crossing the Danube and arriving in enemy territory, the encounter at a fork in a stream, the Rain Miracle, the devastation of an enemy village (including taking and executing prisoners), and, further above, as on Trajan’s Column, a Victoria between two trophies, writing on a shield – are positioned one above the other in such a way that they are in full visibility,5 and enclosed within the perspective offered to a viewer approaching from the Via Flaminia. The conscious attempt to address the passer-by is evident. The soldiers march towards the north, as would the army departing for warfare along the Via Flaminia.

Direction, movement and arrest: The arches of Rome and the Ara Pacis The Arch of Titus presents a most eloquent address of direction to the spectator. On each side of the passage-way, the two relief panels, moving from the Coliseum valley towards the Roman Forum, simulate the triumphal march that took place in 71 ce to celebrate the fall of Jerusalem. Much has been written about the famous spoil relief as a culminating creation of ancient mimetic art, about its potential to create



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Fig. 17.3  Column of Marcus Aurelius, view from the Via Flaminia (east axis). Photo: Henrik Boman. illusion of space and movement at the same time as it claims the ambition of detailed historical documentary. However, the event celebrated is not just the triumphal pageant but more importantly the apotheosis of its protagonist, the emperor Titus, struck by premature death in 81 ce.6 The monument itself was erected after this tragic event, probably by his brother and co-emperor Domitian. It may well be

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understood both as an entrance to the sacred space of the Forum and to the Palatine, where the works of the imperial palace, the Domus Flavia, were completed in 92 ce. The position and elaboration of the spoil frieze, on the west side (that is the Palatine side) of the arch’s passageway, may well be apprehended as a means to underline the importance of the new palace and its master. The movement represented within the relief picture and its illusionist space, by which the pageant appears to advance, first aside and then away from the viewer (progressively receding into the background) in order to pass a monumental arch rendered in three-quarter view and partly engulfed in the relief ground,7 makes the march look like it turned towards the Palatine. The arch within the imagery has sculptural representations on its summit: two quadrigae, a person on horseback and probably a personification on foot. This arch and the spoils exclude the intent to describe a procession meant for the Palatine. Just as the triumphal cart rendered on the second relief, on the opposite side of the passageway, the pageant with the spoil litters must be understood as heading down the Via Sacra towards the Capitoline hill. All the same, both the Arch of Titus itself and its spoil relief could be understood as pointers towards the palace. The reliefs of the Ara Pacis Augustae8 integrate the viewer in a similar fashion as those of the Arch of Titus, although the famous procession friezes of the south and north faces of the enclosure are more concerned with describing direction than movement. Moving feet are rarely depicted. In fact, most figures are shown as though having come to a standstill, whether they belong to the emperor’s entourage of lictors, priests and family (south frieze), or to the less easily identified line of spectators who watch the emperor’s act of piety from farther away (north frieze). The direction in which they are all engaged is linear, leading the viewer’s attention from one end of the monument, the Via Flaminia front, to the other, and beyond to the piazza of the horologium and further off still to the imperial mausoleum. This spectacular monument undoubtedly attracted the attention of all kinds of passers-by. Since the 1970s and the fortunate discovery of the letters indicating the meridian of the horologium engraved in the pavement close to the original location of the altar,9 discussions on the topographical location have often focused on the overall coordination of the piazza, featuring the huge sun dial, the imperial mausoleum and the altar, and somewhat hidden the importance of the monument’s front towards the Via Flaminia. Admittedly, the altar turned its back to the busy street, but this back was anything but anonymous. The two large relief panels presenting symbolic personifications in seated, stately arrest – Tellus (or Italia) with the twins on the southernmost side, and on the other side the much fragmented representation of Dea Roma seated on a pile of arms – bid the passer-by to halt and reflect. Both personifications are turned towards the opening of the precinct, following a classical scheme to endow visual integrity to the design by stressing its centre. The centre in this case was the opening that permitted the view of the altar inside the precinct (when open, that is – coin images suggest that the openings in the precinct wall had double doors).10 An equally straightforward device of composition is that of the procession directed as though proceeding from one side of the enclosure to the other. Even though there is little movement, the



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impression of movement is obtained through the variation between three-quarter and frontal profiles and through many of the figures turning around as though trying to communicate with the people behind them – including, it seems, the viewers, whether contemporaries or tourists of a much later date. It is obvious that there is a strong desire to involve the viewer embedded in this imagery. A late echo of some of the functional content of the Ara Pacis may be found in the so-called Arch of the Argentarii. Although the two monuments are stylistically far apart, there are links in how they address the passer-by and use movement and perhaps also in how their imageries function. Because of its use of frontal rendering, scholars have often regarded this monument merely as a milestone en route to lateantique artistic decadence.11 It is the merit of Jaś Elsner to have brought it back into the discussions on how narrative technique can create reciprocity between work of art and viewer.12 The monument is not an arch properly speaking: its piers carry an architrave, and the ceiling is flat not vaulted. It is richly decorated with figured panels and ornamental designs on three sides of the piers, whereas the rear, northern side is left without decoration and lacks other finish than the mouldings of the pedestals. The figured decoration is organized in a system of three panels per elevation, a large central one and, beneath and above, two lesser ones. Static, frontal presentation characterizes the one well-preserved central panel of the monument’s main frontal elevation (face of southwest pier) and the famous inside panels – representing Septimius Severus on one side and, on the other side, Caracalla. The frontal immobility of these figures finds a contrast in the movement of Roman soldiers depicted in the act of escorting barbarian prisoners on the main panel of the monument’s west flank (Fig. 17.4) (the east flank is hidden, embedded in the masonry of San Giorgio in Velabro). If related to the topographical location, the depicted movement could well be understood as taking its protagonists along a road leading from the Forum Boarium with the intent to make a left turn in front of the Arch of the Argentarii on their way towards the Forum.13 Theme and movement fit the context. The Velabrum may well have served a traditional processional route, and perhaps even the regular path of pre-Flavian triumphs.14 The unfinished north sides of the piers (facing towards the Forum Boarium) signal that the Arch of the Argentarii had some other function than that of passage. A more plausible explanation is that it was conceived as a closed structure. The mouldings of the bases, carved alike on all four sides, and the plastic layout of the side faces of the corner capitals (although only preparations for the sculpted form) indicate that it was not abutted by another structure.15 It seems safe to suggest that it had a thin rear wall, which makes it into a shallow shrine, or aedicula, rather than a passageway. The purpose of an aedicula such as hypothesized above is not at odds with the location. Roman provincial archaeology furnishes some structurally related parallels that deserve to be mentioned, not least because they underline the link between small aediculae and processional roads. A structure of the kind at Munigua (Municipium Flavium Muniguensium in Hispania Baetica) was situated on the sacred route opposite the Forum.16 It lodged an altar, though the name of the divinity is lost, and

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Fig. 17.4  Arch of the Argentarii. Exterior view of west side of west pylon with relief panels showing escort of captive (main panel) and herdsman with cattle (lower panel). Giovanni Pietro Bellori, Veteres Arcus Augustorum Triumphis Insignes (Rome, 1690), pl. 7. Source: http://digital.library.villanova.edu/Item/vudl:38641.



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like the Arch of the Argentarii it was consecrated by a private citizen, not by the state administration. Another example is found in Lambaesis in Numidia. The road leading to its Temple of Aesculapius was bordered with small aediculae, tentatively identified as the premises of military collegia.17 There may well be more examples of such ‘private’ monuments integrating the public sphere, as the link between collegia and the imperial cult was closely knit. It has been suggested that the men depicted on the main panels (only the westernmost is preserved but heavily worn) of the Arch of the Argentarii’s façade could be identified as the patroni of the guild. Elsner prefers to be less speculative and labels them ‘men in office’.18 The totally frontal representation may have a functional explanation, apart from signalling late style. Similar frontal representations were used in funerary reliefs put up along the main arteries centuries earlier. Their call for passers-by to halt and reflect were familiar to travellers going to and from Rome; in a way, the seated personifications of the Via Flaminia front of the Ara Pacis may have a similar function and impact. A similar intent to catch the attention of the passer-by may perhaps also be ascribed to the lower frieze of the Arch of the Argentarii’s façade, but the stratagem differs. On each side of the opening, the same detail of a sacrificial procession – a bull, a poppa and a victimarius – is turned as though approaching the entrance. Obviously, the mirror-reversed action was a ‘directional injunction’, to use Elsner’s phrase,19 meant to move the spectator’s attention towards the centre and into the monument. The scheme is similar to that of the rear façade of the Ara Pacis, but it was perhaps a more straightforward injunction because it was performed by an imagery of less importance in its own right, thus offering less distraction. Inside the monument, both lower panels show the completion of the procession: the slaying of the sacrificial bull. On the monument’s exterior short side, both direction and theme of this narrative change. Fragmented but still quite easily deciphered, the relief shows not a generic sacrificial scene but a unique representation of a man herding cattle (Fig. 17.4). His movement is opposed not only to that of the sacrificial procession on the next side of the pier but also to the movement displayed above on the same side, that of the Roman soldiers and their prisoners. Whereas the latter appear to move towards the Velabrum road and the Forum, the herdsman pushes his animals towards the Forum Boarium. The choice of theme and direction may well allude to how, where and by whom the supply of sacrificial animals was secured. The inscription of the monument ascribes two branches of trade to the dedicators: money changers (argentarii) and cattle dealers (negotiantes boarii). Both trades were traditionally linked either to the streets behind the Forum or to the Forum Boarium. As stated above, direction in art is never fortuitous, and the movement in all the monuments reviewed up to now was planned to interact with and inform the viewer, to stop passers-by and lead their movement in front of or in parallel with the sculpted friezes. Still another scheme is presented by the Arch of Septimius Severus in the Roman Forum. This arch has three bays and eight monumental columns designed so as to give the impression that they carry the attic above the column’s passageway. The columns stand on high, engaged pedestals with three sculpted sides. All display largescale representations of Roman soldiers escorting Parthian prisoners (Fig. 17.5).

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Fig. 17.5  Severan Arch in the Forum, panel reliefs of column base. Photo: Ron Reznick. The direction of the path is the same on two sides of the pedestals, as though parallel processions were meant to turn around the piers to enter each of the arch’s three passageways, with preference, of course, for the central bay, approached from two sides. In signalling the importance of the main passageway, it uses the same directional injunction as just described for the Arch of the Argentarii. Surprisingly, however, the advance depicted on the third side is not directed towards the opening, but heads away from it, apparently contrary to what is shown on the two other sides of the pedestals. Only the corner separates the captives from meeting nose to nose. Richard Brilliant, the foremost interpreter of the Severan Arch, saw this design, repeated on each pedestal, as a means to create the impression of a continuous central march being ‘replenished’ by further lines from the sides.20 Still, it is difficult to understand the movement as ‘carrying through the idea of the triumphal parade, as the line of march proceeds away from the monument’.21 It cannot be understood as a linear path proceeding through the arch from the Forum towards the Capitoline hill. Instead, the same kind of movement, leading away from the arch, is depicted similarly in front of both façades. More precisely, the Roman soldiers and their captives are shown as though emerging out of the bays on both sides, as though the arch itself generated this procession of victims. It may safely be concluded that the movement set by the imagery of the pedestal panels did not invite the observer to participate in a pageant, but called for standstill and spectatorship. In the context given by topography, we may suspect that the reason for this theatrical move resides in the arch’s proximity to the Mamertine Prison rather than in a desire to mark the continuation of the triumphal route up the Capitoline hill.22 That this part of the Forum was a traditional place for putting prisoners on



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public display was manifested in sculptural programmes since the Augustan restoration of the Basilica Aemilia, which furnished its interior with Parthian caryatides. A century later, sculptures of Dacian prisoners, impressive both in number and in size, were part of the overwhelming military display of the Forum of Trajan, also close to the Mamertine Prison. Obviously, all the imagery reviewed up to now was consciously designed to interact with its spectators and their expectations. In the case of the Severan Arch, the pedestal reliefs had special importance because they were the only part of the imagery that was accessible to normal beholders. Contrary to the host of intricate events and small-scale figures presented in the famous narrative friezes above the lateral passageways, the motifs of the pedestal reliefs were presented to viewers close to ground floor level and through an iconography characterized by high simplicity. The impact of a work of art may be measured by its echo in later monuments. The earliest repetition of the escort theme is the side panel of the Arch of the Argentarii, dedicated in 204 ce, only a year after the Severan Arch itself. The successive use of this theme, in contexts of the same size and importance as the Severan Arch, is witnessed by a pedestal, today in the Giardino Boboli, that presumably belonged to the dismantled Arch of Diocletian on the Via Lata,23 and of course by the Arch of Constantine. The Arch of Constantine uses the same structural concept as the Severan Arch. It has the same build with a central and two lateral passageways and the same arrangement of monumental columns leaning on high, engaged pedestals, supporting the attic and its monumental inscription. Regarding decoration, its scheme is far more eloquent and complete, in the sense that it encompasses most of the available surface offered. It is only in the case of the pedestal reliefs that we may talk about close correspondence. Even so, the similarity resides only in thematic choice, not in the desire to depict movement. Like the Severan pedestals, their Constantinian counterparts have sculpted panels on three sides. The iconography of the panels turning towards the passageways shows Roman soldiers escorting captives, or standard bearers, signiferi. But the use of a different motif for the front sides and the frontal rendering of the figures create a static impression instead of directed movement (Fig. 17.6). Victoria, the goddess of victory, is represented on all eight front panels.24 Six of them show her in a frontal pose, floating in the air in front of a trophy; the latter is hinted rather than fully rendered, with pinioned captives sitting at its foot. The remaining two panels, belonging to the eastern, Coliseum side of the arch, show Victoria in profile while writing on a shield. Obviously, these two panels frame the central passageway and help give it special importance. To take this play of the iconography as an invitation to enter the central bay would, however, be a mistake. A more reliable statement about where to enter this arch is given by the markedly directional narrative scenes of the large frieze that adorn the inside walls of its central passageway (Figs 17.6–7). Obviously, the framing victoriae are devised to direct the viewers’ gazes rather than their movement. As in the case of the Severan pedestal reliefs, prime interest is given to the exit out of the arch. In the Arch of Constantine, however, the movement is linear. It is easy to imagine the decennalia pageant of 315/16 ce as it proceeded from the Circus Maximus, passed through the arch and emerged between

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Fig. 17.6  Arch of Constantine, view towards the Coliseum through the central passageway with Trajanic relief (adventus) and pedestal reliefs showing Barbarian captives, floating Victoria and signiferi. Photo: Fototeca dell’Unione Internazionale – American Academy in Rome. the two heraldically rendered feat documenting victoriae, before continuing its course in front of a large audience waiting on the other side of the monument and presumably proceeding from there into the Coliseum, gathering one of the largest audiences possible in Rome.25 Once more, the movement chosen within the imagery seems decisively governed by topography. The location of the monument was decided by the movement of the pageant for which it was conceived. Vice-versa, this movement derived its meaning from the surrounding cityscape. The imagery informed the viewers on the monument’s meaning and on how to direct their gaze and step. Also noteworthy is these monuments’ repeated interest in creating scenography that emphasizes movement emerging out of monumental doorways, both in real life and in the reliefs (including those on the two columns and the Severan and Constantinian arches). If our review of reciprocity between movement in the aforementioned works of art and the expected reactions of their viewers allows us to make general observations, the cases could be used to hypothesize action performed. If we return to the Via Flaminia front of the Ara Pacis, the heraldic imagery of its relief



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Fig. 17.7  Great Trajanic Frieze, panels showing the emperor charging enemies in reuse on the Arch of Constantine, north wall of the central passageway. Photo: Ron Reznick.

panels could function as described above in a quotidian scenario, when its doorway would be closed. But twice a year, when the ritual was performed at the altar,26 it would work differently. On these days, the imagery could function as screens centring on a procession emerging from the precinct, engaging its withdrawal from the scene after

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the conclusion of the sacrifice. The Via Flaminia front of the Ara Pacis was not a rear side, as it may be experienced in its modern museum display. When still a living part of the moving city standing in its original location, this monument had two prime façades, one serving as an entrance and the other as an exit.

The Great Trajanic Frieze Among surviving Roman imperial state-celebrating friezes, the imagery of the Great Trajanic Frieze makes the most puzzling use of movement (Fig. 17.8). It combines scenes of static, frontal representation with motifs of violent forward thrust, directed in both ways in the pictorial field. Transition from stately arrest to full movement is operated abruptly. Or as noted by Jocelyn Toynbee, when confronting it with the linear storytelling of Trajan’s Column, ‘it ebbs and flows alternatively to left and right and the scenes are grouped together with a total disregard of spatial and temporal logic’.27 The following will show how respect of the viewer’s perspective may help explain the apparently contradictory composition of this work of art and to furnish new arguments to the old, hypothetical discussions concerning the reconstruction and original display of the dismantled monument. It is obvious that a linear reading was never intended for this imagery.28 Nor can it have been intended to promote inclusive paths or experiences in the manner of the triumphal pageant of the Arch of Titus or the procession friezes of the Ara Pacis. Still, this is how it was made to function when reused in the middle passageway of the Arch of Constantine. What it took to obtain a directory injunction from so much contradictory movement was to cut the continuous frieze into panel reliefs. Two such panels

Fig. 17.8  Great Trajanic Frieze, simplified sketch of the eight relief panels reused on the Arch of Constantine, drawn by Marika Leander.



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(consisting of two relief slabs each) were inserted into the masonry on either side of the main passageway of the arch, two more on the short sides of its attic. If counted in their original sequence when constituting a continuous frieze, slabs one and two (numbered from left to right) were inserted into the southern wall of the passageway and slabs five to six in the corresponding northern wall. Movement was no longer conflicting, but concurrent. On both sides of the passageway, the main course of the pristine route through the arch from east to west, from the Circus Maximus area towards the Coliseum, was underlined by the imagery (Figs 17.6–7). The choice of panels made for the passageway also helped turn the emperor, as depicted on the relief, into the main director of the route under the arch. On the north side he is shown as the heroic rider leading his troops in a charge against crumbling enemies (Fig. 17.7). The Constantinian designer accompanied this scene with an explanatory dedicatory inscription: LIBERATORI VRBIS (‘to the liberator of the City’). Texts such as this are rare additions to Roman public reliefs. It may have been needed to help the Constantinian audience reinterpret the Trajanic imagery. The relief on the south side of the arch’s central passageway displays an incomplete adventus scene (Figs. 17.6, 17.8, 17.10) – the motif continued on the left, as shown by overlapping details of features and figures, which mainly belonged to a lost neighbouring slab.29 The emperor is presented frontally, but with his head turned in three-quarter view towards the right, that is, towards the left side of the relief and the exit on the Coliseum side of the arch. In the upper-left corner, the city gate is rendered in low relief. An entourage of officers, soldiers and personifications of Honos and Virtus stands beside and behind the emperor. Although in static standstill, the position of their feet – or, in the case of the foreground figures, the ponderation of their pose, placing their weight on the right leg – indicates that they should be

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understood as heading towards the gate. In the background plane, two figures already seem to enter. A floating, palm-carrying Victoria holds a wreath above the emperor’s head. She is partly overlapped by two cavalrymen whose horses somewhat surprisingly burst out of her drapery in the opposite direction into the neighbouring relief slab, where they are shown as the main actors fighting down barbarian opponents. The choice made to use this assemblage of motifs instead of the other possibility, to continue the adventus over one more slab, shows that the change of direction within the panel did not present a problem to the creator of the new, Constantinian context of the imagery. In his study on profectio and adventus representations in Roman art, Gerhard Koeppel pointed out that the battle of the Great Trajanic Frieze may be understood as occupying the place normally ascribed to Mars in more ordinary (i.e. shorter) adventus representations.30 The frieze’s battle could thus be apprehended as an elaboration on the theme that made up the essence of the god of war, as a signal that the adventus implied celebrating a return to Rome from war. Consequently, the change of direction need not be seen as a disturbance to the directive injunction of the reused panel at all. The Constantinian dedication above this panel reads FVNDATORI QVIETIS (‘to the founder of calm’). Still, it is difficult to accept that the intent of such a lengthy battle representation was to function as an emblematic explanation to the adventus only. It covers seven of the eight relief slabs reused on the Arch of Constantine (Fig. 17.8). Simple logic of quantity promotes it into a main theme, and this is assuredly how it is experienced by any visitor to the Museo della Civiltà Romana, where copies of the slabs from the Arch of Constantine have been reassembled as a continuous frieze for the benefit of modern viewers. The nature of warfare is at the heart both of its narrative intent and content, next to, of course, the emperor’s important part in its accomplishment and outcome. It is obvious that the narrative of the Great Trajanic Frieze should be taken in not during a walk from one end to the other of the relief band, but when standing in front of it. A viewer standing at some distance is best armed to disentangle this imagery, built by means of a series of compressed, abbreviated and thematically more or less selfcontained topics presenting a field of stereotypes associated with victorious warfare. That these abbreviated scenes merge into each other without regard to spatial coherence creates an impression of tumult and thronging but also assures the coverage of a good number of topics, such as orderly attacks, imperial leadership, vanquished foes (some depicted as severed heads, others as captives) and the overpowering of all resistance. Search for parallels to this way of presenting a pictorial narrative takes us back to the historiated columns.31 On Trajan’s Column some passages are constructed similarly, but the best examples belong to the Column of Marcus Aurelius. Felix Pirson has brought attention especially to the narrative formula used in scene 20, the devastation of an enemy village, situated just above the famous Rain Miracle (Fig. 17.4), and pointed out that it is best described as a design constituted by abbreviated episodes with contextual interrelation but without respect of the chronological sequence.32 As with the Great Trajanic Frieze, a number of iconic motifs are juxtaposed within a common frame but lack immediate causal links with each other. The frame is spatial (the village), and the theme is retaliatory victory. The depicted episodes cover the Romans eliminating resistance, burning huts and taking captives, with the emperor



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standing in the midst contemplating a Roman soldier in the act of beheading a captive. All of it can be experienced in one glance by someone approaching from the Via Flaminia. The obvious gain made by using abbreviated episodes instead of fully elaborated scenes is to provide visibility to a complex content. Similarly, the large size of the pictorial field of the Great Trajanic Frieze and its actors (the standing figures measure 2.25  m) require reduced lateral development of the motifs to make a single, overall view possible. In both cases, the primordial factor, decisive for the choice to use abbreviated scenes, must be ascribed the spatial requests of the monument that is to be adorned. In the case of the Aurelian Column, the site chosen for the iconic narrative was one part of its rounded surface, the extent of which was decided by the field of view; in the case of the Great Trajanic Frieze, the answer similarly must be sought in the site where its imagery was meant to be experienced. Although the original place of display of the Great Trajanic Frieze cannot be proven, some setting within the large complex of the Forum of Trajan is generally suggested. Because of the lack of standing structures to corroborate such suggestions, however, the statements are generally hypothetical and brief in argumentation.33 The most penetrating discussions have been advanced by Sandro Stucchi and Martin Galinier, who both prefer to locate the frieze in the column court.34 Galinier bases his discussion mainly on measurements provided by James Packer’s thorough publication of the remains. Because the relief panels are too high to fit any of the known architraves within the complex, Galinier opts to follow Stucchi’s earlier suggestion and place the frieze on the exterior wall of the Basilica Ulpia, perhaps returning over the library porticoes.35 Stucchi took his point of departure in the imagery itself, in an attempted reconstruction of the Great Trajanic Frieze in its full extent (understood as equal to the extent of the column court, i.e. 25 m), also integrating the fragments into the discussion. In the following, arguments proceed in the path set by Stucchi, albeit correcting his most flagrant errors. It is evident that Stucchi did not adequately consider the stonework of the three most important fragments when making his reconstruction. Even though the originals are difficult to access, inserted at a high position in the entrance portico of the Villa Borghese Pinciana, enough can be gained from the plaster casts made of them for the Museo della Civiltà Romana to state that they cannot, as suggested by Stucchi, have belonged to two contiguous relief slabs. All three are border fragments, but the actual border sides that they present imply that a further, now-lost relief slab must be inserted in between the two larger fragments.36 The position of the Borghese fragments is important to the discussion because they introduce a second instance of standstill in the imagery. Like in the adventus, the scene presents solemn, static frontal figures with attention turned towards the emperor. In the adventus he is presented as though turning away from the strong movement of the neighbouring battle. When represented anew on the largest of the Borghese fragments (Fig. 17.9), his attitude could be the same: placed in the outskirts of a larger, static scene, with his back turned. The most plausible suggestion of reconstruction would place the Borghese fragments on the opposite side of the frieze in respect of the adventus.

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Fig. 17.9  Great Trajanic Frieze, fragment with emperor in the Villa Borghese Pinciana. Photo: Faraglia, Neg. D-DAI-Rom 8436.



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Fig. 17.10  Hypothetical reconstruction of the Great Trajanic Frieze. Sketches of the slabs reused on the Arch of Constantine by Marika Leander, Borghese fragments by Gudrun Anselm, Medici fragment by Jesper Blid.

The reconstruction that ensues is that of one long relief band full of movement but ending on each side with a static representation of considerable length (Fig. 17.10). If, in accordance with the Borghese fragments, we allow the adventus to cover three slabs as well, we obtain two heraldic, framing scenes, which both include representations of the emperor. Let us also accept the context of the column court as the architectural setting. Now, if we accept the idea that the imagery should be designed to communicate directory injunction, it may be worthwhile to realize that the width of three slabs of the Great Trajanic Frieze (hypothesized for both adventus and celebration in military camp) corresponds to the width of the porticoes in front of the libraries, around 7 m (Fig. 17.11).37 It could be that the two static scenes on each side of the representation were conceived to signal entrance, as well as a recommended route through the porticoes, towards the doorways of the Basilica Ulpia and further on. The position of the emperor in the two framing scenes, turned away from the rest of the narrative, may be understood as a complementary pictorial device to lead the passer-by towards the intended entrances into the column court. According to such reconstruction, the imagery would indicate a route from the Campus Martius towards the Forum of Trajan.

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Fig. 17.11  Column Court, stone plan with scaled reconstruction of the Great Trajanic Frieze. Map adapted from Packer, Forum of Trajan, vol. 2, fol. 0. The walls of the libraries and the location of the columns belonging to their porticoes are highlighted. Adaptations by Lars Karlsson, Jesper Blid and Anne-Marie Leander Touati. Obviously, the north exterior wall of the Basilica Ulpia is not the optimal place for displaying the frieze if reconstructed in this manner. It would have to be placed above the porticoes of the libraries, and in that case the guidance of the static iconography would make no sense, because it would be largely hidden from view by the portico roofs – even if the roofs were flat. The directional injunction of the static scenes would hardly have been noticed by passers-by, who would have walked inside the porticoes. In fact, a more attractive hypothesis would be to put the frieze on the Campus Martius side of the gate to the column court. Apart from the magnitude of its columns, little is known about the appearance of this gate, but two openings, positioned on the axis of those of the Basilica Ulpia, seem compulsory.38 For such a location of the Great Trajanic Frieze, the most fitting reconstruction among the suggested conjectures presented in the scholarly literature is, of course, the one that imagines a propylon by the width of the column court in front of the northern precinct.39 If given this setting, the panel that presents the captives gains importance as the middle of the entire representation (Fig. 17.8, slab VII). As the only panel presenting frontal figures in standstill among the seven relief slabs of the battle representation, it would function as another eye-catcher, albeit less imperative than the larger framing scenes. The pinioned Dacian of noble appearance (Fig. 17.8, nr. 73) in the middle of this relief slab would function as a discrete point zero from which reading could be



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followed as desired, towards the left or the right. It would also make the two cavalrymen depicted on the contiguous slab to the right of that of the pinioned Dacian into actors in a second battle theme, presumably the subject of the lost part of the frieze. A gradually increasing emphasis on the landscape setting characterizes the two rightmost slabs of the battle representation (the presentation of prisoners and cavalrymen) and gives some credence to the hypothesis that the lost part of the frieze depicted another side of warfare and perhaps pacification of enemy country and province to be. Low-relief huts, recalling those of scene 20 of the Aurelian Column, appear in the central slab of the pinioned Dacian captive and in the following one representing Roman cavalry in pursuit of their enemies.40 On this latter slab the setting is brought into the foreground plane by means of the rocky outcrop that separates the two Roman cavalrymen. Behind their horses a rural setting is alluded to, more emphatically still, by means of a fig tree raised to the full height of the panel. A bucket is hung on a cut branch to collect the sap of the tree.41 We may suspect that the lost part of the imagery contained another representation of figures in strong movement, perhaps a divine intervention,42 to balance the imperial charge of the preserved part of this long battle representation and to maintain the visual integrity of the monument by stressing the centre. Be that as it may, it is outside the scope of the present chapter to validate all parts in the chain of hypothetical constructs presented above, and much may certainly be added and criticized. Nevertheless, this hypothetical tour in the ruined remains of the court of Trajan’s Column is perfectly in line with this volume’s theme of the moving city. It sheds light on a fact that is often overlooked when trying to reconstruct the northern part of the complex pertaining to Trajan’s Forum, namely that this part was an entrance. As long as the as-yet unlocated Temple of Trajan was not built in this area,43 the column court would have served as an opening between the Campus Martius and the official and sacred city centre. It seems to the present author that the famous two last lines of the inscription on the column’s base – AD DECLARANDAM QVANTAE ALTITVDINIS MONS ET LOCVS TANTIBVS SIT EGESTIS (‘to demonstrate of what great height the hill [was] and place [that] was removed for such great works’) – celebrates the removal of impediment to movement. This important achievement made way for a prestigious new route into the heart of the moving city, well worthy of all kinds of directive injunctions, both ideological and physical. What the creation of a new route like this one meant to the inhabitants of Rome is another issue of conjecture. We don’t know how this route was used. Were the doorways of the Basilica Ulpia open to all kinds of passers-by, and were they open daily or just on special occasions (as was the Via Flaminia front of the Ara Pacis)? The imagery of the column that addressed the viewer arriving from the Basilica Ulpia with important, eye-catching scenes speaks in favour of daily use and open access. This did not, of course, prevent the Campus Martius front of the column court from being well-suited for exceptional performances, in the manner of what we hypothesized took place in front of the bays of the Severan Arch in the Forum when triumphal pageants halted there. The stages set by the public monuments could assuredly be both used and approached in different ways depending on the day’s purpose. It is sure that the inhabitants of Rome were used to procession and spectacle, and that the meaning of

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their public monuments and imageries was settled in a reciprocal relation in which movement was a vital component that the sculptors used and the commissioners explored.

Acknowledgements I am in gratitude to many friends for help with my images and especially so to Dr Jesper Blid for helping me with graphic design and his interest in the reconstructions of the Great Trajanic Frieze and its hypothetical original setting.

18

Mithraic Movement: Negotiating Topography and Space in Late Antique Rome Jonas Bjørnebye

The religious topography of Rome in late antiquity can provide valuable insights into the distribution of religious sites, and into the implications of this distribution for the demographics and the movement patterns of religious groups. In the present chapter, the religion in question is the cult of Mithras, and the time is the period from the late second/early third century to the early fifth century ce. When attempting to establish a Mithraic topography of Rome, we are totally dependent on the application of interpretative models, ranging in complexity from connecting dots on a map to full-blown spatial syntax analyses.1 Topographical models remain essential for establishing what Luke Lavan calls a ‘human spatial narrative’,2 which in the context of this chapter means teasing out Mithraic movement patterns from points on a map (see Fig. 18.1) and using them as keys to understanding the relationship between religious communities and the urban spaces that they inhabited and moved through. The human spatial narrative in this context, then, is meant to provide a better understanding of the interaction between people and their ‘structural context’, which, applied to the history of the cult of Mithras in Rome, would carry great benefits for analysing groups of Mithraists in relation to their mithraea, and these mithraea in relation to their immediate architectural, topographical and social contexts. Thus, a study of how, where and when the initiates of the Mithraic communities moved to, from and in between their gathering places might illuminate previously obscure aspects of the life of the cult in Rome. Any study of movement patterns and topography in the cult of Mithras must begin with the sacred spaces of Mithraic communities, the mithraea.3 There are several reasons why these Mithraic cult rooms have been so important in modern Mithraic scholarship. I suspect this is largely because the structural evidence of a mithraeum, with its programmatic and recognizable ground plan, is easily identifiable in archaeological excavations, leading to a collection of concrete data – hard evidence much appreciated by archaeologists and historians alike. As a rule, mithraea are easy to identify structurally because of the typical ground plan of a rectangular room with flanking podia, and in most cases the objects found within such a structure can, on the basis of association, be treated almost uncritically as Mithraic artefacts. Having said that, Rome is perhaps the place in the Roman

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Fig. 18.1  Map of the topographical distribution of mithraea in use in late antique Rome. Map by Margaret M. Andrews.   1: Phrygianum / S. Pietro (Regio XIV)   2: S. Lorenzo in Damaso (Regio IX)   3: Crypta Balbi (Regio IX)   4: Piazza di S. Silvestro (Regio VII)   5: Palazzo Barberini (Regio VI)   6: Casa di Numii Albini / Via XX Settembre (Regio VI)   7: Castra Praetoria (Regio VI)   8: Foro di Nerva / Tempio di Minerva (Regio VIII)

  9: Via Giovanni Lanza, 128 (Regio III) 10: Terme di Tito (Regio III) 11: S. Clemente (Regio III) 12: Ospedale S. Giovanni (Regio V) 13: Castra Peregrinorum / S. Stefano Rotondo (Regio V) 14: Circo Massimo / Foro Boario (Regio XI) 15: S. Prisca (Regio XIII) 16: Terme di Caracalla (Regio XII)

Empire with the largest amount of Mithraic material found outside of the context of extant mithraea, and this consequently makes it harder to establish lines of provenance, chronology and genealogy. Fortunately, with the aid of Rome’s port city of Ostia, the outlook is not so bleak when it comes to studying the topography of Mithraism in Rome.4 Furthermore, as we shall see, the Mithraic topography of Ostia provides important clues to understanding the movement patterns associated with urban mithraea – essentially reflecting complementary patterns of localized



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neighbourhood movements and more publicly accessible larger mithraea as nodes for intra-city or long-range movement.

The Roman mithraea The mithraea are typically the most obvious remains of Mithraism in Rome, but more importantly, they are first and foremost enterable physical spaces in which the modern viewer, like the ancient initiates, can experience the atmosphere of the sacred space in an entirely different way than what the viewing of Mithraic remains in museums or photographs allows for. This additional dimension, which was of course also available for the Mithraic initiates, must not be understated. All this makes the inside of the mithraeum the scene for most studies of the cult. The outside of mithraea on the other hand is hardly ever studied, and their topographical context, both on the micro level (the neighbourhood) and on the macro level (city-wide or provincial), have only rarely been included in studies and reports, and then only if the immediate surroundings can help in assigning an early dating to the structure, or if the structure can somehow be related to imperial property.5 In addition to providing an archaeological context for Mithraic finds, the mithraea remain important in several additional respects as well. In the context of this chapter, they are especially important because they provide the data for Mithraic topography and demographics in Rome, which gives the primary evidence for establishing both quantitative and qualitative models for the membership of the Mithraic communities. More than four hundred mithraea have come to light so far throughout the Mediterranean world, and new ones are constantly being added to the list, even recently in the city of Rome itself, which implies the real possibility of new and potentially groundbreaking discoveries.6 However, most of these new mithraea are usually discovered in rural areas far from Rome, like for instance the recent discovery of a new fourth-century mithraeum near the Syrian village of Hawarti (or Huarte).7 The mithraea are helpful in several respects for gaining a deeper understanding of Roman Mithraism. First, their general architectural uniformity, spanning three centuries and most of the Roman world, testifies to the stability and continuity of some of the core elements of Mithraic cult life, like the remarkably stable iconography.8 Second, the mithraea themselves are useful for establishing a Mithraic presence in a given location and present us with the opportunity for statistical extrapolation of membership data, such as geographical preferences and in some cases the demographic makeup of the membership groups.9 Further, they serve to establish parameters for suggesting the size of these communities, as well as giving pointers concerning the social location or social catchments of the different Mithraic communities, mainly through the quality and extent of the decorations and the quality and scale of the votives and main cult icon. Not least, their location can furnish important clues as to the accessibility of the cult room, its visibility in the local community and movement patterns associated with going to and from the mithraeum at different times of day. This last point is of course the topic of the present argument.

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As noted above, the Mithraic cult rooms are easily identifiable because of their programmatic layout. Almost all mithraea seem to more or less follow the same general architectural plan, though practical considerations, such as for example structural changes in the buildings housing mithraea, can change the proportions of the cult rooms somewhat. The mithraeum of the Castra Peregrinorum, to take an example from Rome, assumed a much squarer shape rather than the traditional rectangular shape after a late third-century enlargement nearly doubled the size of the room.10 Whether this enlargement was directly connected to an increase in the covert activities of the frumentarii quartered there is hard to say with any kind of certainty, but since this chapter is about Mithraic movements, I would still like to briefly mention the increased importance of Mithraic cult practices among one of the professions in the Roman Empire which travelled and moved about the most.11 Returning to the mithraeum as a structure for a moment, I would like to stress that, in general, the main cult room was usually quite small, with most known mithraea being less than 10 metres in any direction. Most mithraea in Rome and Ostia are indeed quite small, but a phenomenon peculiar to Rome is a group of large, seemingly ‘semi-public’ mithraea.12 The largest documented mithraeum so far in Rome, that of the Crypta Balbi near Largo Argentina,13 is unusually large in being 31.5 metres long and approximately 12 metres wide,14 but the mithraeum at the Terme di Caracalla is only slightly smaller, and the one at the Castra Peregrinorum is also above average in size, particularly in its late antique phase. Several ante- and side chambers were often attached to the main structure of the mithraeum, but these were all equally small or even smaller than the main cult room, and seem to have had peripheral functions, probably being used as kitchens, changing rooms or for storage. In some cases, however, the space occupied by these rooms makes up quite large complexes. This is the case, for example, at the Santa Prisca mithraeum on the Aventine hill.15 The size of the sanctuaries and their locations also hint at the type of community they served and in some cases also at what kind of activities went on inside. Moreover, and especially pertinent in the context of the present discussion, it seems that size too is in some way related to movement around the mithraeum and to the accessibility of the structure itself. Indeed, when it comes to issues of movement and accessibility, it is immediately apparent from a look at the Mithraic map of Rome that the largest mithraea in the city are most often located near important traffic nodes or crossroads, or in other easily accessible locations. Good examples include the mithraeum in the Terme di Caracalla, with its location on the Via Appia close to the Porta Capena, and the mithraeum at the Castra Peregrinorum on the Caelian hill, which was located on the southeastern side of the intersection of several streets at the Porta Caelimontana. The topographical relationship between mithraeum and city gate areas also merits closer study, but we must save that for another day.16 The mithraeum in the Crypta Balbi complex is also found in a much frequented, highly visible location, though not near any city gates or major traffic nodes. Other mithraea again, usually much smaller in size, are located in the middle of neighbourhoods and further away from traffic nodes. In fact, according to Alan Kaiser, this is one of the defining features of most intra-mural mithraea at Ostia, and contrary to other religious buildings the low visibility of the neighbourhood mithraea presents yet another argument for the



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division of urban mithraea into two distinct categories defined by accessibility and visibility.17 Both are closely linked to movement patterns, of course, and it is interesting at this point to note that while the large, more public mithraea, which seem to have attracted worshippers from outside the immediate area, are located at points which funnel pedestrian traffic to them, the neighbourhood mithraea are often only accessible after threading one’s way through a network of backstreets. Intimacy clearly played an important part in Mithraic cult life, as most of these smaller neighbourhood mithraea must have had trouble accommodating more than forty or so people, and for most of them the average attendance at any one time must have been around 20. This gives us basic numbers for statistical analyses, but it is important to bear in mind that these numbers represent a minimum participation, in the sense that we presuppose that the location was used only by one group and that they all came together at the same time. Although there is no evidence for other models, such as for example that mithraea could be used by different communities on a turn-by-turn basis or by different initiatory grades on different weekdays, the possibility remains that the membership mass connected to these mithraea could have been many times larger than is often supposed. Be that as it may, the structure of the mithraeum itself was constructed according to a traditional scheme of a central aisle, most often ending in an apse but flanked on each side by raised podia, and this structural scheme seems to have remained virtually constant throughout the cult’s three-hundred-year history and throughout the empire. Even more importantly, most mithraea are of the smaller type, fitting between twenty and forty initiates at any one time, while the few that are much larger seemingly break the basic pattern of distribution. At least this is true for mithraea in urban contexts. This observation provides an important clue to movement and to movement patterns in relation to the mithraeum. First, it seems that most mithraea were what we can term neighbourhood spaces, designed to service only a small local area where anyone attending the mithraeum would already know of the existence and location of the place. Indeed, the neighbourhoods of late antique Rome have been described in a recent study as labyrinthine mazes – both physically and as an expression of social formation – that were hard for outsiders to penetrate.18 These mithraea worked on the micro level, providing for example social cohesion within the Mithraic community and linking it closely to the cohesion of the immediate neighbourhood. On the other side of the spectrum were the larger mithraea, seemingly designed for larger and more transient or at least more heterogeneous groups, which in a way advertised their existence by being comparatively easily accessible and located in or close to easy-tofind urban traffic nodes such as main thoroughfares, large-scale public buildings and city gates. These worked instead on a macro level, serving other needs and fulfilling other structural and social roles. The topographical pattern created by the excavated mithraea in Rome, as well as the map of the locations of Mithraic find spots, can reveal important information about Mithraism in Rome, but it is important to bear in mind the vagaries of archaeological discoveries, modern city-planning and other factors. For instance, some parts of Rome are more extensively excavated than others, while other areas have seen comparatively few excavations, at least in modern times, and in some instances, especially with the

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frantic excavations of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, much archaeological material has been overlooked or destroyed. This is especially the case when it comes to the ‘small finds’, of which there are few preserved from Roman mithraea and then mainly from more recent excavations such as the ones at the Crypta Balbi complex. Furthermore, only a handful of mithraea have been excavated with anything resembling a modern stratigraphical analysis, making their dating difficult, especially with regard to the duration of use. The large number of Mithraic objects found outside of mithraea rarely come with a clear archaeological provenance, and it is even rarer that they can be firmly placed in a topographical context. Still, out of the hundreds of Mithraic finds, enough are recorded to give us a rough image of a remarkably even spread throughout the city and its immediate surroundings.19

Mithraea and churches in Rome There are at least 20 mithraea in Rome that can be securely linked to a find spot, but only nine are still extant today. In addition, nearly a hundred Mithraic tauroctony reliefs have been found in the city, and many of the find spots have been recorded, showing us that, in contrast to most other religious practices in ancient Rome, the shrines of the cult of Mithras seem to be distributed evenly in all areas of the city. In my own research, I have settled on sixteen mithraea or Mithraic sites that were in use in late antique Rome; these sites are marked on the accompanying map (Fig. 18.1), giving an impression of the topographical distribution of mithraea in Rome at that time. This impression matches surprisingly well with the map of the distribution of mithraea in nearby Ostia, which shows mithraea spread evenly throughout the city. In fact, the topographical distribution of mithraea is in many ways more reminiscent of the distribution of tituli churches than it is of the temples of other ‘foreign’ cults in the city, with about half of the Mithraic sites in the city found in connection with or in close proximity to churches. Most often, the finds of demolished mithraea beneath or next to churches are interpreted as the wilful and religiously motivated destruction of the physical remains of a vanquished enemy. This is neither the time nor the place, however, to discuss the relationship between Mithraism and Christianity and whether or not there was any destruction of Mithraic sites in Rome, an issue I have discussed at length elsewhere.20 Nonetheless, whether one believes that mithraea were destroyed by Christian mobs or not, a legitimate question at this point is why so many of the mithraea in Rome are located below Christian churches. There can of course be many possible answers to this question; one of them is that most churches from the fourth and fifth centuries were built upon the foundations of older buildings or were simply converted from them, and as mithraea were most often located in basement or ground-floor rooms, they naturally became part of the foundation of any new structure built on the foundations of the old. Much of the archaeological material would seem to support such an interpretation, but there is also the real possibility that this high frequency of churches constructed atop mithraea might have something to do with the fact that the excavations of the foundations of many of Rome’s churches have been conducted with the aim of discovering the



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origins of the church itself, with the often unstated goal of the earliest dating possible. Consequently, when mithraea are found under existing churches, it is often argued that these structures were abandoned at the earliest opportunity, preferably sometime in the third century. Methodical excavations have of course not been carried out underneath all the cellars of modern Rome, and who knows how many mithraea would come to light if this were done. Another small point to bear in mind is the high density of small churches in Rome, leaving good odds that at least some of them may have been built on foundations which contained filled-up, abandoned mithraea. This is especially probable if one accepts a quite high number of mithraea in imperial and late antique Rome – perhaps somewhere in the vicinity of 500 to 700. In spite of all these reservations, we are still able to discern the outline of the topographical distribution, or grid, of Mithraism in Rome, which seems on the whole to mirror the much better documented topographical distribution of mithraea in Ostia.21 But there is an important typological difference between the mithraea used in Rome and those used in Ostia, namely that the huge, semi-public mithraea and the intimate family or house mithraea found in Rome seem to be completely absent from the Ostian material, baring new excavations.22 Just as is the case at Ostia, however, there seems largely to be an even distribution of mithraea throughout the city, though with notable absences in some of the poorer neighbourhoods, as may be expected since the more affluent areas generally yield more archaeological remains, at least of the sort that was considered relevant to excavators prior to the twentieth century.

Categories of mithraea in Rome and Ostia Most of the other mithraea in Rome that we know of are relatively evenly distributed throughout the city. Though there is little evidence either way, we must consider whether a given mithraeum was used only by its local congregation, or whether attendance was in fact open to any Mithraist in passing, an idea that finds some support in the fact that many mithraea were located in, or near, public baths.23 My suggestion is that there were, broadly speaking, two types of mithraea as regards topographical distribution and movement patterns: the neighbourhood mithraeum, which was essentially private and only meant for local use by small permanent groups, and the semi-public, large-scale mithraeum – such as the Terme di Caracalla and the Crypta Balbi, which could be (and arguably were) used primarily by more transient groups. Furthermore, it is my contention that these two types served different functions within the urban religious topography of Rome. The model of an even distribution throughout the urban area within the Aurelian walls, and of limited or controlled accessibility to the majority of cultic spaces (most of which had a roughly similar capacity), fits surprisingly well with the distribution of mithraea in Ostia. Indeed, the topographical distribution of mithraea in Ostia has led to the now generally accepted conclusion that mithraea, at least in Ostia, were mostly meant for the people in the neighbourhood.24 The relatively similar size and even spacing of the mithraea would also seem to suggest this. But Ostia, it seems, also had another type of mithraea which was connected to certain groups regardless of where in the city

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they lived. These are the mithraea at the Casa di Diana and the Terme di Mitra, which seem to have been spaces where the group of adherents was defined by other criteria than residency.25 If some shrines – that is, mithraea – were related to people connected with a certain activity in that particular building, larger fluctuations in capacity would be expected, and at the Terme di Mitra, for instance, this is indeed the case. These fluctuations in capacity make it necessary to consider what the capacity might have been in the first place, especially since several of the mithraea in Rome were much larger than average. In exceptional cases, like the Crypta Balbi and the Terme di Caracalla, the seating capacity was for upwards of a hundred people at one time, implying large active Mithraic communities, but also suggesting that at least some mithraea could have been open to any Mithraic initiate, or a subset of initiates, and not only to those belonging to that specific local community or neighbourhood. This is especially noticeable in relation to the space the mithraeum is located in, as well as the topographical placement of the cult space itself within the urban fabric of the city. If mithraea are located in insulae, thermae or in or near other more public structures (including near important thoroughfares, roads and gates, which are in turn closely related to traffic and patterns of movement in the area), this clearly differentiates them from the ‘regular’ neighbourhood mithraea. The question remains of what this means and what the consequences are for our understanding of urban Mithraism, of the religious topography of the Roman city in general and not least of the movement patterns associated with the mithraea and their congregations.

Membership To begin to answer this question, we must first take a closer look at the membership base of the Mithraic groups in Roma and Ostia. There have been several attempts at assessing the extent of membership in the Mithraic cult in Rome, most of them based on extrapolation of the data from Rome’s port city of Ostia, where some sixteen mithraea have been excavated. Jan Theo Bakker has suggested a statistical model for assessing the maximum number of people involved in Mithraic services, by allocating one Mithraist for each 50 cm of each side podium in each mithraeum, giving an approximate number of Mithraists in attendance at any one time. According to this model, using an average of thirty-five attendees per mithraeum (based on maximum seating capacity), Bakker reaches a number of 576 for the 16 definite mithraea in Ostia.26 This average number only includes those who would fit inside the mithraeum at one time, and does not, as Bakker himself acknowledges, take into account possibilities like for instance the participation of different grades on different days of the week, different groups sharing the same mithraeum by turns or an auxiliary uninitiated membership mass which gathered only for larger communal events like celebrations, processions and feasts. Evidence for such large communal celebrations has recently come to light at Tienen in Belgium, where there is securely datable evidence for a feast with at least a hundred participants outside of the mithraeum proper, but still within its precinct.27



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Returning to Central Italy, the Mithraic demographics of Ostia have also been used to construct models for membership in Rome, by extrapolating from the number of Mithraists calculated as a percentage of the population of Ostia to the situation in Rome.28 I have so far briefly touched upon the placement and visibility of mithraea in Rome, but to get a picture of just how visible the cult must have been, both in the neighbourhood and city-wide, it is necessary to consider the possible size of the Mithraic communities of Rome. If we use Bakker’s model for Ostia but allow for an overall larger size of the mithraea in Rome, we initially arrive at a mean number of Mithraists somewhere in the forty-to-fifty persons per mithraeum range, though this number is of course highly speculative. Using Russell Meiggs’ estimate that Ostia’s population was 1/50 that of Rome,29 a postulated number of 1,000,000 inhabitants for Rome and a postulated number of 40 mithraea in Ostia,30 Filippo Coarelli estimated a total of about 2,000 mithraea in Rome.31 Coarelli, however, recognized that this high number was improbable, and, choosing instead a model based on the topographical distribution of mithraea per hectare in Ostia (approximately two mithraea per hectare) compared to Rome, he modified the estimate of mithraea in Rome to a little less than 700.32 By assuming instead, like Bakker, about 24 mithraea in total for Ostia, which would seem to fit better with the latest archaeological estimates,33 a maximum estimate based on population numbers would be in the vicinity of 500 mithraea for Rome, which would correspond better with Coarelli’s topographical model rather than with his extremely high population-based estimate. Recalling our tentative number of 40 to 50 persons per mithraeum, this would give an approximate number of 20,000 to 25,000 Mithraists in the city of Rome, indicating that the membership mass of Rome’s Mithraic communities constituted around 5 per cent of the total male population, a relatively small but not negligible religious community. If additionally we can assume that only adults were initiated, and if we instead follow a lower total population number which would be likely for third- and fourth-century Rome (the cult’s heyday there), the figure dramatically increases. In a possible scenario where as much as 15–20 per cent of Rome’s adult male population belonged to or at least were associated with one or more of the city’s Mithraic communities, the presence of the cult in the urban fabric becomes much more noticeable. There are of course serious methodological challenges connected with this type of statistical excursion, such as the representativity of the comparison between Ostia and Rome, the problematic estimates of the population of Rome itself throughout this period, the assumption that one person per 50 cm of bench-space is indicative of the number of followers and so forth. Essentially, such extrapolated membership numbers can be no more than educated guesswork. But the figures do highlight an important aspect of the Mithraic topography of Rome and Ostia, namely the correlation between the number of mithraea established by Coarelli’s more modest topographical model (that is, around 700 mithraea in Rome) and the lower number of mithraea reflected by the population-based model after Bakker’s revision of the relevant statistical material (that is, around 500 mithraea in Rome). Bakker’s model, which sets the number of Mithraists in Rome as 50 times that of Ostia, yields a little under 29,000 Roman Mithraists, but if we use Lançon’s estimate of a population of 800,000 for third- to

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fourth-century Rome (when the spread and membership of the cult seems to have been at its maximum) instead of Coarelli’s estimate of 1,000,000, the statistical results add up remarkably well.34 Our tentative number for the Mithraic community of Rome seems at least a little more certain, and offers the opportunity to construct a statistical model specifically for Mithraism in the late imperial period and into late antiquity. According to both Coarelli’s and Bakker’s models, the number of Mithraists in Rome at the peak of the cult from the Severan period to the mid-fourth century would then be approximately 30,000. According to the most conservative of the estimates of Roman mithraea made above, there should statistically have been at least 400–500 mithraea in the city, meaning that we have so far in all likelihood discovered less than 10 per cent of them. We must also consider briefly the question of a Mithraic presence in other religious cult buildings in late antique Rome. Just as many sculptures of other deities have been found in Roman mithraea, there is a possibility that Mithraic shrines could have existed within the perimeters of other religious spaces in the city. The two best known examples of such possible Mithraic shrines or sites are in the Phrygianum on the Vatican hill35 and in the Temple of Jupiter Dolichenus on the Aventine hill.36 Nominally a temple dedicated to Magna Mater, the Phrygianum is no longer extant and its exact location is not known, but a series of inscriptions from the sanctuary have been preserved. These are dedicated to the oriental gods and feature senators carrying multiple religious titles, including Mithraic ones and specifically titles reflecting the highest grades and offices in the cult, such as pater and hieroceryx of Mithras,37 and these inscriptions are in turn considered evidence for the temple.38 It is possible that the Phrygianum contained a small Mithraic shrine, but though this possibility is not only attractive but also quite likely, given the nature of the inscriptions found and the range of divinities seemingly worshipped in the precinct, the evidence remains inconclusive.39 In addition to the shrine in the Phrygianum, there is evidence for Mithraic activity, most likely a permanent shrine, in the Dolichenum on the Aventine hill. Though the material from the excavations of the Temple of Jupiter Dolichenus does not directly confirm the presence of an actual mithraeum, it clearly does represent a site of strong Mithraic presence since remains of Mithraic tauroctony reliefs and Mithraic inscriptions were among the plentiful religious objects found on the site. Though inconclusive, these finds indicate a Mithraic presence in several of the major centres of non-official pagan cult practices in the city, which may be added to the small group of large, semi-public mithraea discussed above. There is no evidence for any monumental public Mithraic buildings, but, as we have noted, some of the sanctuaries seem to have been public in the sense that they could be used by people who were not intimately connected with the owner of the premises. Using accessibility and movement patterns, we can at least surmise that some mithraea in Rome were accessible to more people than have often been presumed. It seems probable though that only those initiated into the cult were allowed access to the mithraeum itself, while more inclusive community activities, and even recruitment, could have taken place in adjoining rooms or in relation to more public Mithraic shrines found in the temples of other deities such as in the Phrygianum or Dolichenum.



Mithraic Movement: Negotiating Topography and Space in Late Antique Rome 235

Movement and the visibility of the Mithraic communities in the urban landscape An important factor in the Mithraic topography of late antique Rome, and one that is especially germane to the topic of this chapter, is the visibility of the Mithraic communities in the urban landscape and the accessibility of the rooms in which they met. To put it in the simplest possible terms: ‘How did you choose the mithraeum to go to, how did you get there, and how did you find the mithraeum itself when you got to the actual area?’ This is where the permeable categories sketched above – of more private, neighbourhood mithraea and more public or at least more visible mithraea – can help us understand movement patterns in relation to the Mithraic cult rooms. The more private neighbourhood mithraea seem to have been hard to find for those who did not know where they were, especially as Rome had no street signs or house numbers – you had to ask around.40 These mithraea are often located on backstreets, far from major thoroughfares, or even within private homes. One might imagine that a prospective new recruit would be taken to the mithraeum by another member of the community – perhaps his sponsor – and that he would then remember where the mithraeum was located, how to get there and how to gain admittance. More publicly accessible and visible cult rooms, like those at the Terme di Caracalla, in the Crypta Balbi or in temples to other gods, such as the Phrygianum or the Dolichenum, would be more easily accessible for outsiders, travellers and so forth, and a description might suffice for the initiate to find the place. For instance, a Mithraist visiting Rome and wanting to attend a Mithraic ceremony might have heard that he should go to the Terme di Caracalla, at a certain hour on a certain day, and ask after a certain person. Such a model gives us essentially two main Mithraic movement patterns. First, there would be localized movement with individuals within the same neighbourhood meeting in a local space, moving perhaps only a few hundred metres, but all at the same time and converging on the same place. Such localized, but regular and predictable movement of a group of perhaps 25 to 40 people would have been a noticeable occurrence in a small community such as a neighbourhood. The second pattern is the one formed around each of the mithraea that for one reason or another should not be classed as neighbourhood mithraea. In these cases, the site itself would most often be highly visible. Traffic moving from or towards a more public location would also be more visible, but the area would also have much more traffic in general, and many more passers-by that were not local to that particular place in the city – at least not on a daily basis. An example could again be the mithraeum in the Terme di Caracalla. The mithraeum was located within a monumental public structure, near one of Rome’s busiest gate areas, on one of the city’s major thoroughfares. The sheer amount of general traffic in the area would certainly render any Mithraists making their way to the mithraeum less conspicuous, and might allow even several hundred people to gather at the site with less notice taken than would be the case when a small group met in their local neighbourhood. Still, we know too little about the frequency of Mithraic ceremonies to model this public attendance well. How much notice was taken depends on many factors, of course, such as what time of day and how often ceremonies and gatherings occurred. It is impossible to say with any

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kind of certainty how visible the cult of Mithras in fact was as a whole in late antique Rome. However, the increase in literary references concurrent with the increase in more publicly visible mithraea, such as the ones at the Crypta Balbi or the Terme di Caracalla, suggests that at the very least its presence was not negligible.41 Since the cult lacked public processions, the most visible, attention-grabbing aspect of the cult would be the movement to and from the mithraea following certain daily or weekly rhythms familiar to the general public. These would be observable on the macro level in connection with monumental structures, gate areas, main traffic nodes and thoroughfares, as well as on the micro level – in the neighbourhood, so to speak.

Notes Introduction   1 William MacDonald, The Architecture of the Roman Empire. Volume II: An Urban Appraisal (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1986).   2 Nicholas Purcell, ‘Town in Country and Country in Town’, in Elisabeth MacDougall (ed.), Ancient Roman Villa Gardens (Washington, DC: Harvard University Press, 1987), pp. 187–203; Paul Zanker, ‘Drei Stadtbilder aus dem Augusteischen Rom’, in Charles Pietri (ed.), L’Urbs: Espace urbain et l’histoire (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1987), pp. 475–89. See also Timothy Peter Wiseman, ‘A Stroll on the Rampart’, in Maddalena Cima and Eugenio La Rocca (eds), Horti Romani (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 1998), pp. 13–22; Simon Malmberg, ‘Navigating the Urban Via Tiburtina’, in Hans Bjur and Barbro Santillo Frizell (eds), Via Tiburtina: Space, Movement and Artefacts in the Urban Landscape (Rome: Svenska Institutet i Rom, 2009), pp. 61–78.   3 Diane Favro, The Urban Image of Augustan Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). See also Paul Zanker, ‘The City as Symbol: Rome and the Creation of an Urban Image’, in Elizabeth Fentress (ed.), Romanisation and the City: Creation, Transformation, and Failures (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2000), pp. 25–41; Lothar Haselberger, Urbem Adornare: Die Stadt Rom und ihre Gestaltumwandlung unter Augustus (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2007).   4 David Larmour and Diana Spencer (eds), The Sites of Rome: Time, Space, Memory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007); Timothy O’Sullivan, Walking in Roman Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). See also Catharine Edwards, Writing Rome: Textual Approaches to the City (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); Damien Nelis and Manuel Royo (eds), Lire la Ville: fragments d’une archéologie littéraire de Rome antique (Bordeaux: Ausonius Éditions, 2014).   5 Paul Zanker, Pompeji: Stadtbilder als Spiegel von Gesellschaft und Herrschaftsform (Mainz: von Zabern, 1988), later translated to Italian and expanded into Pompei: Società, immagini urbane e forme dell’abitare (Turin: Einaudi, 1993), with a further expanded and updated edition in English as Pompeii: Public and Private Life (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998); Ray Laurence, Roman Pompeii: Space and Society (London: Routledge, 1994, rev. 2nd edn 2007).   6 Important works include Ray Laurence, The Roads of Roman Italy: Mobility and Cultural Change (London: Routledge, 1999); Cornelis van Tilburg, Traffic and Congestion in the Roman Empire (London: Routledge, 2007); Dieter Mertens (ed.), Stadtverkehr in der antiken Welt (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2008); Alan Kaiser, Roman Urban Street Networks (London: Routledge, 2011), with references to previous research.   7 Axel Gering, ‘Plätze und Straßensperren an Promenaden: Zum Funktionswandel Ostias in der Spätantike’, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts,

238 Notes

  8

  9

10

11

12

13 14

Römische Abteilung 111 (2004), pp. 299–382; Hanna Stöger, Rethinking Ostia: A Spatial Enquiry into the Urban Society of Rome’s Imperial Port-town (Leiden: Leiden University Press, 2011). More generally, see Eleftheria Paliou, Undine Lieberwirth and Silvia Polla (eds), Spatial Analysis and Social Spaces: Interdisciplinary Approaches to the Interpretation of Prehistoric and Historic Built Environments (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2014). Robert Coates-Stephens, Porta Maggiore: Monument and Landscape (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 2004); Hans Bjur and Barbro Santillo Frizell (eds), Via Tiburtina: Space, Movement and Artefacts in the Urban Landscape (Rome: Svenska Institutet i Rom, 2009). Lothar Haselberger and John Humphrey (eds), Imaging Ancient Rome (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2006). Digital projects include Digital Augustan Rome, the Digital Roman Forum Project, Google Earth Ancient Rome, the Roman Forum App, Rome Reborn, Virtual Rome, Visualisation of the Late Antique City and Visualizing Statues in the Late Antique Roman Forum. For a more traditional approach, see Lothar Haselberger (ed.), Mapping Augustan Rome (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2002). These works include John Baldovin, The Urban Character of Christian Worship: The Origins, Development, and Meaning of Stational Liturgy (Rome: Pontificium Institutum Studiorum Orientalium, 1987); Michelle Salzman, On Roman Time: The Codex-Calendar of 354 and the Rhythms of Urban Life in Late Antiquity (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1990); Geoffrey Sumi, Ceremony and Power: Performing Politics in Rome between Republic and Empire (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2005); Jacob Latham, ‘The Ritual Construction of Rome: Processions, Subjectivities, and the City from the Late Republic to Late Antiquity’ (PhD dissertation, University of California at Santa Barbara, 2007); Jonas Bjørnebye, ‘Hic locus est felix, sanctus, piusque benignus: The Cult of Mithras in Fourth-century Rome’ (PhD dissertation, University of Bergen, 2007); Ida Östenberg, Staging the World: Spoils, Captives, and Representations in the Roman Triumphal Procession (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), with references to previous research. Björn Ewald and Carlos Noreña (eds), The Emperor and Rome: Space, Representation, and Ritual (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010); Felix Mundt (ed.), Kommunikationsräume im kaiserzeitlichen Rom (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012); Therese Fuhrer (ed.), Rom und Mailand in der Spätantike: Repräsentationen städtischer Räume in Literatur, Architektur und Kunst (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012). For a similar approach, see Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, ‘The Streets of Rome as a Representation of Imperial Power’, in Lukas de Blois, Paul Erdkamp, Olivier Hekster, Gerda de Kleijn and Stephan Mols (eds), The Representation and Perception of Roman Imperial Power (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 189–206. Charles Pietri (ed.), L’Urbs: Espace urbain et histoire (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1987); Richard Neudecker and Paul Zanker (eds), Lebenswelten: Bilder und Räume in der römischen Stadt der Kaiserzeit (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2005); Fragmenta: Journal of the Royal Netherlands Institute in Rome 1 (2007); Gregory Smith and Jan Gadeyne (eds), Perspectives on Public Space in Rome, from Antiquity to the Present Day (Farnham: Ashgate, 2013). Ray Laurence and David Newsome (eds), Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). Keith Hopkins, ‘From Violence to Blessing: Symbols and Rituals in Ancient Rome’, in Anthony Molho, Kurt Raaflaub and Julia Emlen (eds), City-States in Classical

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Antiquity and Medieval Italy (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1992), pp. 479–98; Sumi, Ceremony; Karl-Joachim Hölkeskamp, Reconstructing the Roman Republic: An Ancient Political Culture and Modern Research (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2010). 15 E.g. Robert Morstein-Marx, Mass Oratory and Political Power in the Late Roman Republic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004); Catherine Steel and Henriette van der Blom (eds), Community and Communication: Oratory and Politics in Republican Rome (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013). 16 The triumphal and funeral routes have indeed been scrutinized, but as so little confirmative evidence exists, overall arguments about the function and meaning of movement and cityscape must be made with care.

Chapter One   1 Crawford dates the coin to 54 bce, RRC 445, No. 433.1, pl. LII.9.   2 Consuls were attended by lictors wherever they walked in Rome. There can be little doubt, however, that on this image, rife with political meaning, the walk signals public duty.   3 E.g. Robert Morstein-Marx, Mass Oratory and Political Power in the Late Roman Republic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004); Catherine Steel and Henriette van der Blom (eds), Community and Communication: Oratory and Politics in Republican Rome (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013).   4 Hor. Sat. 1.9.9–10: in aurem / dicere nescio quid puero. Timothy O’Sullivan, Walking in Roman Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), pp. 6–7.   5 Hor. Sat. 1.6.110–15: ‘Thus I live more pleasantly than you, illustrious senator, and thousands of others: I walk alone (incedo solus), wherever I want; I ask how much the vegetables and wheat cost; I often wander the deceptive circus and forum in the evening; I stand awhile by the soothsayers; then I go on home to a plate of leeks, chickpeas and pancakes.’ O’Sullivan, Walking, p. 7, discusses this passage in similar terms. He also stresses the importance of status in Roman walking. There would have been a large number of people who walked alone in Rome, but their voices are but little preserved.   6 Similarly, Cicero (Att. 1.18.1) points out that the entourage that accompanies him to work at the Forum does not consist of true friends, hence revealing a glimpse of the (pleasant) burden of leading a life in the public eye.   7 Karl-Joachim Hölkeskamp, ‘Hierarchie und Konsens. Pompae in der Politischen Kultur der Römischen Republik’, in Alexander Arweiler and Bardo Gauly (eds), Machtfragen: Zur Kulturellen Repräsentation und Konstruktion von Macht in Antike, Mittelalter und Neuzeit (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2008), pp. 79–126. For the triumph, see n. 8. Funeral procession: Harriet Flower, Ancestor Masks and Aristocratic Power in Roman Culture (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), pp. 91–127; Egon Flaig, Ritualisierte Politik: Zeichen, Gesten und Herrschaft im Alten Rom (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002), esp. pp. 49–74. The circus procession has attracted less interest, but see Frank Bernstein, Ludi publici. Untersuchungen zur Entstehung und Entwicklung der Öffentlichen Spiele im republikanischen Rom (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1998).   8 Claude Auliard, Victoires et triomphes à Rome: Droit et réalites sous la République (Paris: Presses Universitaires Franc-Comtoises, 2001); Tanja Itgenshorst, Tota

240 Notes illa pompa. Der Triumph in der Römischen Republik (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005); Mary Beard, The Roman Triumph (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2007); Jean-Luc Bastien, Le triomphe et son utilisation politique à Rome aux trois derniers siècles de la République (Rome: École française, 2007); Helmut Krasser, Dennis Pausch and Ivana Petrovic (eds), Triplici invectus triumpho. Der Römische Triumph in Augusteischer Zeit (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2008); Miriam Pelikan Pittenger, Contested Triumphs: Politics, Pageantry, and Performance in Livy’s Republican Rome (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2008); Eugenio La Rocca and Stefano Tortorella (eds), Trionfi Romani (Milan: Electa, 2008); Ida Östenberg, Staging the World: Spoils, Captives, and Representations in the Roman Triumphal Procession (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009).   9 Equus octobris: Cecil Bennett Pascal, ‘October Horse’, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 85 (1981), pp. 261–91, Transvectio equitum: Fernando Rebecchi, ‘Per l’iconografia della transvectio equitum. Altre considerazioni e nuovi documenti’, in Ségolène Demougin, Hubert Devijver and Marie-Thérèse Raepsaet-Charlier (eds), L’ordre équestre: Histoire d’une aristocratie (IIe siècle av. J.-C. – IIIe siècle ap. J.-C.) (Rome: École française, 1995), pp. 191–214. See now also Kristine Iara’s chapter in this volume. Processus consularis: Karl-Joachim Hölkeskamp, ‘The Roman Republic as Theatre of Power: The Consuls as Leading Actors’, in Hans Beck, Antonio Duplá, Martin Jehne and Francisco Pina Polo (eds), Consuls and Res Publica: Holding High Office in the Roman Republic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), pp. 166–9; Francisco Pina Polo, The Consul at Rome: The Civil Functions of the Consuls in the Roman Republic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), pp. 16–20. 10 O’Sullivan, ‘Urban Walkers on Display’, chapter 3 in Walking, pp. 51–76. O’Sullivan’s book appeared after my first presentation of this paper but before I prepared the written version. I have been much helped by his discussion in finalizing this text. 11 O’Sullivan, Walking, also argues that escorted movements should be read with the larger pompae, but stresses that the daily escorted movements ‘were rehearsals for grander occasions’ and that the larger pompae ‘acquired meaning by their contrast to more quotidian forms of procession’. However, the reverse must also be stressed: the grand pompae set the processional standard that the daily movements evoked. Cf. O’Sullivan, p. 53, ‘their prominence [the pompae] in the Roman aristocratic imagination rendered them an ideal standard against which other more routine processions were judged’. 12 Keith Hopkins, ‘From Violence to Blessing: Symbols and Rituals in Ancient Rome’, in Anthony Molho, Kurt Raaflaub and Julia Emlen (eds), City-states in Classical Antiquity and Medieval Italy (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1991), pp. 479–98; Andrew Feldherr, Spectacle and Society in Livy’s History (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1998); Bettina Bergmann and Christine Kondoleon (eds), The Art of Ancient Spectacle (Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 1999); Flaig, Ritualisierte Politik; Geoffrey Sumi, Ceremony and Power: Performing Politics in Rome between Republic and Empire (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2005). 13 E.g. Hölkeskamp, ‘Hierarchie und Konsens’; Karl-Joachim Hölkeskamp, Reconstructing the Roman Republic: An Ancient Political Culture and Modern Research (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2010), esp. pp. 53–75. 14 For the concept of civilisation du spectacle, see Florence Dupont, L’acteur-roi ou le théâtre dans la Rome Antique (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1985), pp. 19–40. 15 Plin. HN 34.20; Sil. Pun. 6.663–6; Quint. Inst. 1.7.12. For the inscription of the column: Inscr. It. 13:3, 44–9, no. 69.

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16 Inscr. It. 13:3, 20–1, no. 13; Cic. Sen. 13.44; Livy Per. 17; Flor. 1.18.10–11; Val. Max. 3.6.4; Sil. Pun. 6.667-70; Amm. Marc. 26.3.5; De vir. ill. 38. 17 Val. Max. 3.6.4: praeeunte tibicine et fidicine a cena domum reverti solitus est, insignem bellicae rei successum nocturna celebratione testando. Most ancient authors state that Duilius was led by torch bearers and flute players (one or several) only, while Valerius Maximus adds also the lyre player. 18 According to Florus (1.18.10–11), the torches and the flutes provided a daily triumph for Duilius. Livy (Per. 17) points out that Duilius, because of his naval triumph, was given the eternal honour of being led home by the escort: Ob quam causam ei perpetuus quoque honos habitus est, ut revertenti a cena tibicine canente funale praeferretur. 19 For music and sound in the triumph, see Richard Brilliant, ‘“Let the Trumpets Roar!” The Roman Triumph’, in Bergmann and Kondoleon, Ancient Spectacle, pp. 221–9. 20 Ernst Samter, ‘Fasces’, RE 6 (1909), pp. 2213–16; Bernhard Kübler, ‘Lictor’, RE 13 (1926), pp. 507–18; Anthony Marshall, ‘Symbols and Showmanship in Roman Public Life: The Fasces’, Phoenix 38 (1984), pp. 120–41; Thomas Schäfer, Imperii Insignia: Sella Curulis und Fasces. Zur Repräsentation Römischer Magistrate (Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 1989). Vestals had one lictor (Plut. Num. 10; Dio Cass. 47.19.4). 21 Dio Cass. 43.14.3, 43.19.2. 22 Livy 23.23.1, 39.12.2–3, 39.32.10–11; Petron. Sat. 65; Plin. HN 7.112; Mart. 8.66; Juv. 3.128; Plut. Pomp. 22.5; Suet. Iul. 80.3; App. B Civ. 4.134. 23 Polyb. 6.53.8–10. 24 The authorship of this ‘little handbook on electioneering’ has been intensely debated, but whether or not Quintus is the author, the book remains a useful source to late Republican electoral practice; Robert Morstein-Marx, ‘Publicity, Popularity, and Patronage in the Commentariolum petitionis’, Classical Antiquity 17 (1998), pp. 259–88 (for the authorship, esp. pp. 260–1). 25 Cicero Comment. pet. 34. On the political importance of adsectatores, see Claude Nicolet, The World of the Citizen in Republican Rome (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1980), pp. 356–61; Morstein-Marx, ‘Publicity, Popularity, and Patronage’, pp. 270–4; Alexander Yacobson, Elections and Electioneering in Rome: A Study in the Political System of the Late Republic (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1999), pp. 71–8; O’Sullivan, Walking, pp. 59–64. 26 Cicero Comment. pet. 37–8. 27 Ibid., 34–8. Morstein-Marx, ‘Publicity, Popularity, and Patronage’, pp. 270–1; O’Sullivan, Walking, 59–61. 28 Cicero Comment. pet. 34–8; 37–8: valde ego te volo et ad rem pertinere arbitror semper cum multitudine esse. Morstein-Marx, ‘Publicity, Popularity, and Patronage’, pp. 270–1. On the lower status of the adsectatores, see also Cic. Mur. 70–1. As concerns the individual attendants, the Commentariolum stresses the particular importance of including those earlier defended in court. 29 Cic. Mur. 68–71. 30 For the importance of the number of followers, see also, e.g. Plut. Pomp. 15.1, 16.3–4, 23.3. 31 Cicero Comment. pet. 36. 32 Cic. Att. 8.9.2. 33 Suet. Cal. 4: praetorianas cohortes universas prodisse obviam, quamvis pronuntiatum esse, ut duae tantum modo exirent, populi autem Romani sexum, aetatem, ordinem omnem usque ad vicesimum lapidem effudisse se.

242 Notes 34 Aug. RG 12; Plut. Pomp. 43.3, Ant. 11. At times, the route back to Rome was packed with welcoming committees also in the various cities along the way (e.g. Cic. Pis. 51, where Cicero claims that at all the cities that he passed between Brundisium to Rome, crowds poured out to meet him, as also fathers of families with their wives and children). From a local point of view, such welcoming escorts had their own symbolic meanings of hierarchic and inclusive display. In the Roman story, they reflect the involvement of Italy in central affairs, and also form a foreplay to the final climactic entry into the city of cities, the Urbs itself. 35 Livy 38.50.10: Nec alius antea quisquam nec ille ipse Scipio consul censorve maiore omnis generis hominum frequentia quam reus illo die forum est deductus, ‘No one before, not even Scipio himself as consul or censor, was ever escorted into the Forum by a larger number of people of all kinds than he was as a defender on that day’. 36 Livy 38.51.12–14. After the stop at the Capitol, Scipio continued around the temples of the city, escorted by the people. O’Sullivan argues that in Scipio’s case, the importance of the presence of all Rome was to mark that the event was not a secessio, Walking, 63–4. 37 Cic. Pis. 52. Similarly, in a letter written to Brutus in April 43 bce (Ad Brut. 1.3.3), Cicero is proud to have been escorted (deductus) from his house via the Capitol to the rostra by all orders of the people (consensus omnium ordinem). 38 Cic. Pis. 52: ipsa Roma prope convolsa sedibus suis ad complectendum conservatorum suum progredi visa est. 39 App. B Civ. 2.118. 40 For the ambulatio, see O’Sullivan, Walking; Elizabeth Macaulay-Lewis, ‘The City in Motion: Walking for Transport and Leisure in the City of Rome’, in Ray Laurence and David Newsome (eds), Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), pp. 262–89. 41 Cicero expresses this contrast at Att. 1.18.1. 42 Livy 22.1.6. 43 Varro Ling. 7.37; Livy 31.14.1, 38.48.13–16, 42.49, 45.39.11–13. For departures and returns, see Sumi, Ceremony and Power. The consul’s inauguration on the first day of the year started in his house, from where he was escorted to the Capitol, and later back again. Sacrifices were held both at his house and at the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline hill (Livy 21.63.7–11; Ov. Fast. 1.79-88, Pont. 4.4.23–50). Hölkeskamp, ‘Theatre of Power’, pp. 166–7. 44 Livy 22.1.6, 42.49.2, 44.22.17, 45.39.11. Neglecting bad omens at this escorted departure could lead to defeat (Livy 21.63.7–15; Plut. Crass. 16). 45 For the triumphal route, see Ida Östenberg, ‘Circum metas fertur: An Alternative Reading of the Triumphal Route’, Historia: Zeitschrift für alte Geschichte 59 (2010), pp. 303–20, with references to earlier interpretations. 46 The commander who returned to the city asked not to hold a triumph in general terms, but specifically to be allowed to enter the city in triumph, triumphanti sibi urbem inire (invehi) liceret (Livy 26.21.2–3, 28.9.7, 31.20.2–3, 31.47.7, 36.39.5, 38.44.10–11). This repetitive standard formula suggests the importance of entry into the civic sphere, domi, from that of war, militiae. For Augustus’ returns, triumphal and non-triumphal, see Lange in this volume. 47 As is evident from Josephus’ description of the triumph of Vespasian and Titus (BJ 7.123–57), the procession still ended on the Capitoline hill. 48 Cic. Leg. 2.42; Plut. Cic. 31.6. 49 Cic. Dom. 76. The gate was the Porta Capena (Att. 4.1.5). 50 Sumi, Ceremony and Power, pp. 39–41.

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51 Cicero’s house was destroyed during his exile in 58 bce, and rebuilt upon his return. 52 See now Fabian Goldbeck, Salutationes. Die Morgenbegrüßungen in Rom in der Republik und der Frühen Kaiserzeit (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 2010). The salutatores were at times described as togati (Juv. 1.96, 7.142; Mart. 3.46). The dressing up in the white toga underlines the ceremonial aspect of the salutatio. It furthers the idea of inclusion and participation in the morning visit, as in the following deductio. 53 Cic. Mur. 69; Aug. RG 14. Fanny Dolansky, ‘Togam virilem sumere: Coming of Age in the Roman World’, in Jonathan Edmondson and Alison Keith (eds), Roman Dress and the Fabrics of Roman Culture (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2008), pp. 47–70; O’Sullivan, Walking, pp. 54–9. 54 Ov. Fast. 3.787-8; App. B Civ. 4.30; Serv. ad Ecl. 4.49. Dolansky, ‘Coming of Age’, pp. 48–52. 55 Flower, Ancestor Masks, pp. 91–127; Flaig, Ritualisierte Politik, pp. 51–68; Sumi, Ceremony and Power, pp. 41–6. 56 The locus classicus for the Roman elite funeral is Polyb. 6.53–4. Flower, Ancestor Masks, pp. 91–127. 57 Flower, Ancestor Masks, pp. 185–222. 58 Polyb. 6.53–4. 59 Ibid., 6.53.8–10. 60 Cic. Pis. 52: etiam moenia ipsa viderentur et tecta urbis ac templa laetari. 61 Cic. Mur. 70–1. 62 Goldbeck, Salutationes, pp. 117–18. Unfortunately, ancient descriptions of deductiones are rare. 63 Hölkeskamp, Reconstructing the Roman Republic, pp. 98–106; cf. Sumi, Ceremony and Power, pp. 16–46. 64 Census: Hopkins, ‘From Violence to Blessing’; theatre: Kathleen Coleman, ‘Public Entertainments’, in Michael Peachin (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Social Relations in the Roman World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), pp. 338–42. 65 Östenberg, Staging the World, pp. 262–6. 66 Dio Cass. 51.21.9. 67 Polyb. 6.53–4. 68 Flaig, Ritualisierte Politik, p. 53. 69 BAlex 52.3; Cic. Div. 1.59, Verr. 2.5.142, Q.Fr. 1.7.21; Sall. Iug. 12.3; Livy 24.44.10; Val. Max. 1.7.5, 2.2.4a; Tac. Hist. 3.80.11; CIL 6.1883, 6.1884. 70 The sequence of lictors and magistrate marked alternation of power too. According to Suetonius, Caesar reintroduced an ancient custom of having the lictors walking ahead of the consul in charge, while his colleague had his lictors follow (Suet. Iul. 20.3, cf. Cic. Rep. 2.54; Livy 3.33.8, 8.12.33). 71 Cic. Rep. 2.54; Plin. Pan. 23. 72 Sen. Controv. 1.2.3, 6.8; Plut. Num. 10.3; Fest. 154 M. 73 Sen. Ep. 64.10, cf. Dio Cass. 36.52.3; Plut. Fab. 24. 74 Cic. Brut. 22; Plut. Pomp. 19. 75 Nic. Dam. 22. 76 Hor. Ep. 1.5.31; Sen. Ben. 6.34.3–4; Mart. 3.38.11, 9.100.2; Plin. HN 15.38; Dio Cass. 76.5. 77 As noted above, the Commentariolum petitionis distinguished between salutatores and deductores. Still, it is likely that the groups overlapped somewhat. 78 Suet. Iul. 84.1–2. 79 For late Republican street violence, see Hammar in this volume, with references.

244 Notes

Chapter Two   1 These figures derive from word searches conducted with the CD-ROM version of the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae.   2 David W. Packard, A Concordance to Livy, 4 vols (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1968), pp. 38–43, 45–53 (legati), and 43–5 (legationes).   3 See in particular, Claude Eilers, ‘Introduction’, in Claude Eilers (ed.), Diplomats and Diplomacy in the Roman World (Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill, 2009), p. 2; Andrew Gillett, Envoys and Political Communication in the Late Antique West, 411–533 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), pp. 17–26, esp. p. 18.   4 Filippo Canali de Rossi, Le ambascerie dal mondo greco a Roma in età repubblicana (Rome: Istituto italiano per la storia antica, 1997).   5 E.g. Livy 45.20.4.   6 Canali de Rossi, Le ambascerie, nos 205–11, 384–406, 644–6, 770, to which must be added the non-Greek embassies of Ariovistus and Gades.   7 For Sparta, see Canali de Rossi, Le ambascerie, no. 209. For Byzantium, see Plin. Ep. 10.43–4.   8 Pseudo-Asconius on Cic. Verr. 2.1.90, pp. 244.14–15; Theodor Mommsen, Römisches Staatsrecht, 3 vols (Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 18873–83), p. 3.1156; Marianne BonnefondCoudry, ‘La loi Gabinia sur les ambassades’, in Claude Nicolet (ed.), Des ordres à Rome (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1984), pp. 61–100.   9 Polyb. 6.13.6–9. 10 For instances of storms, pirates and ill-health, see respectively Joseph. Vit. 3.14–16; Polyb. 21.26.8–17; Livy 43.7.7. 11 Dio Cass. 39.13.1. 12 Diod. Sic. 40 fr. 1.1. 13 Cic. Flac. 43. 14 Polyb. 28.1; Diod. Sic. 30.2. 15 Polyb. 29.6.3–4. 16 E.g., Zeuxis, on which see John Briscoe, A Commentary on Livy, Books XXXIV– XXXVII (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1981), p. 384. 17 Plut. Cat. Mai. 22.1–7; Gell. NA 6.14.8–10, 17.21.48; Plin. HN 7.30.112; W. Martin Bloomer, The School of Rome: Latin Studies and the Origins of Liberal Education (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2011), pp. 26–7, cf. pp. 203–4 n. 5; Martin Jehne, ‘Diplomacy in Italy in the Second Century bc’, in Eilers, Diplomats and Diplomacy, pp. 143–70, here p. 161, n. 87. 18 18 Philo, Leg. 45.349–46.372; Joseph. AJ 18.8.1; Plut. Dem. 2.2; cf. Eus. HE 2.18.8; Christopher P. Jones, Plutarch and Rome (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), pp. 20–1. 19 Cf. Plin. Ep. 10.43–4. 20 Cic. Flac. 43. 21 This holds true even at the personal level, as illustrated by the behaviour of Popilius Laenas on the so-called day of Eleusis. For his memorable drawing of a circle in the sand about Antiochus IV Epiphanes, see Polyb. 29.27.1–10; Diod. Sic. 31.2; Cic. Phil. 8.23; Livy 45.12.3–8; Just. Epit. 34.3.1–4; Vell. Pat. 1.10.1; Val. Max. 6.4.3; Plin. HN 34.24; Plut. Mor. 202F; App. Syr. 66; Porphyry, FGrHist 260 F 50. 22 For the ceremonial of epiphany and adventus, see Sabine G. MacCormack, Art and Ceremony in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981); cf. Michael McCormick, Eternal Victory: Triumphal Rulership in Late Antiquity,

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Byzantium and the Early Medieval West (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986). 23 Val. Max. 5.1.1F. 24 It is instructive to compare this with the triumphant re-entry of Cicero in 57 bce or the reception accorded to the dead Germanicus in 19/20 ce. 25 J. Le Gall, Le Tibre fleuve de Rome dans l’Antiquité (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1953); Geoffrey S. Aldrete, Floods of the Tiber in Ancient Rome (Baltimore, NJ: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2007); Malmberg, in this volume. The misguided effort to render the city an imitation of nineteenth-century Paris has caused the river to recede from memory, but for those rare occasions when nature becomes assertive and threatens to flood the city anew. 26 A. Viscogliosi, ‘Bellona, Aedes in Circo’, LTUR 1 (1993), pp. 190–2. 27 Filippo Coarelli, ‘Navalia’, LTUR 3 (1996), pp. 339–40; Lawrence Richardson, Jr, A New Topographical Dictionary of Ancient Rome (Baltimore, NJ: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992), p. 266. Attested only between 192 and 57 bce, during the acquisition of empire, the navalia may well have occupied 0.6 km or more of the left bank of the Tiber. 28 Filippo Coarelli, ‘Murus Servii Tullii: Porta Carmentalis’, LTUR 3 (1996), pp. 324–5. 29 Vell. Pat. 2.45.5; Val. Max. 8.15.10; Plut. Cat. Min. 39.1–2. For departure, by contrast, Demetrius apparently used the Tiber to escape from Rome (Polyb. 31.14.7, 11). 30 Cf. Jean-Louis Ferrary, ‘Les ambassadeurs grecs au Sénat romain’, in J.-P. Caillet and M. Sot (eds), L’audience. Rituels et cadres spatiaux dans l’Antiquité et le haut Moyen Âge (Paris: Picard, 2007), pp. 113–22, here pp. 118–19. 31 To be compared is the case of the mistreatment of ambassadors from Apollonia in 269 bce; see Canali de Rossi, Le ambascerie, p. 3, no. 1. 32 Val. Max. 5.1.1F. 33 Polyb. 33.11.1–5, discussed below. 34 Cic. Att. 13.2A.2. 35 Cic. Att. 15.15.3. 36 Cic. Rab. Post. 3.6. 37 Cic. Cael. 24. 38 Cic. Cael. 51–5. 39 Hom. Od. 4.483; cited by Polyb. 34 fr. 14; Strab. 17.1.12 C797. 40 Canali de Rossi, Le ambascerie, no. 139, lines 19–27. 41 Linderski, ‘Ambassadors Go to Rome’, 474–6. 42 Livy 42.14.7. 43 CID (= Corpus des inscriptions de Delphes) 4.106.ll.23–31; Jean-Louis Ferrary, ‘After the Embassy to Rome: Publication and Implementation’, in Eilers, Diplomats and Diplomacy, pp. 127–42, at 130. 44 Mommsen, Römisches Staatsrecht, 3.1170. 45 Sall. Iug. 28.1. 46 Cic. Rab. Post. 3.6 (translation from Mary Siani-Davies, Cicero’s Speech Pro Rabirio Postumo (Oxford: Clarendon, 2001)). 47 Cf. claims of bribery that involved the house of Pompey the Great in the Campus Martius. 48 Marianne Coudry, ‘Contrôle et traitement des ambassadeurs étrangers sous la République romaine’, in Claudio Moatti (ed.), La mobilité des personnes en Méditerranée de l’Antiquité à l’époque moderne: procédures de contrôle et documents d’identifications (Rome: Ecole française de Rome, 2003), pp. 529–65, at 555–60.

246 Notes 49 Cic. Cael. 10.23. 50 On self-help, see Corbeill in this volume. 51 Livy 43.6.6. 52 Cf. Coudry, ‘Contrôle et traitement’, p. 541. 53 Gell. NA 6.14.8–10. 54 It is worth observing that Domitian’s banishment of philosophers does seem to draw inspiration from Cato the Elder. Indeed, the constant flow of numerous exponents of Hellenic culture was likely the cause for the creation of the Mouseion. 55 Just. Epit. 43.5.10. 56 Joseph. AJ 210. 57 Tac. Ann. 13.54.3–6; J. P. V. D. Balsdon, Life and Leisure in Ancient Rome (London: Bodley Head, 1969), p. 260. 58 Cic. Verr. 2.1.90. 59 Werner Huß, Ägypten in hellenistischer Zeit, 332–30 v. Chr. (Munich: C. H. Beck, 2001), pp. 676–83; cf. Sall. Hist. 4.69.12: pretio in dies bellum prolatans. 60 Cic. Planc. 14.33. 61 Joseph. AJ 14.210. 62 E.g. Gaius Pomptinus for his activities in Gaul: see T. Corey Brennan, The Praetorship in the Roman Republic, 2 vols (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), pp. 578–80, 593, 596. 63 Kathryn E. Welch, ‘A New View of the Origins of the Basilica: The Atrium Regium, the Graecostasis, and Roman diplomacy’, Journal of Roman Archaeology 16 (2003), pp. 5–34. 64 Varro, Ling. 5.155–6; Filippo Coarelli, Roma (Rome: Laterza, 19953), pp. 62–4; Filippo Coarelli, ‘Graecostasis’, LTUR 2 (1995), p. 373; Welch, ‘A New View’, p. 27 n. 88. 65 Welch, ‘A New View’, p. 6, Fig. 1, p. 19, Fig. 5. 66 Cf. Lily Ross Taylor and R.T. Scott, ‘Seating Space in the Roman Senate and the senatores pedarii’, Transactions of the American Philological Association 100 (1969), pp. 529–82, here p. 548, for an estimate of 450–500; Richard Talbert, The Senate of Imperial Rome (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984), p. 150; see also Marie Bonnefond-Coudry, Le Sénat de la République romaine de la guerre d’Hannibal à Auguste (Rome: Ecole Française de Rome, 1989), pp. 59–60. 67 This may be tantamount to as many as 25 embassies, if one thinks of ambassadors without their entourage. Cf. the figures assembled at D. Mosley, ‘The Size of Embassies in Ancient Greek Diplomacy’, Transactions of the American Philological Association 96 (1965), 255–66. 68 Polyb. 21.22.2; Livy 37.54.2. 69 Livy 45.20.5. 70 Cf. Sheila Ager, ‘Roman Perspectives on Greek Diplomacy’, in Eilers, Diplomats and Diplomacy, pp. 15–43, at 36; V. Gabrielsen, ‘Rhodes and Rome after the Third Macedonian War’, in P. Bilde et al. (eds), Centre and Periphery in the Hellenistic World (Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1993), pp. 132–61, at 134–5; E. S. Gruen, ‘Rome and Rhodes in the Second Century bc: A Historiographical Inquiry’, Classical Quarterly 25 (1975): 58–81, at 59. 71 Polyb. 33.11.1–5. This episode calls to mind the infamous use that Marcus Servilius made of his body in order to secure a triumph for Lucius Aemilius Paulus (Plut. Aem. 31.8). 72 Livy 43.8.8. 73 Cf. Catherine E. W. Steel, Cicero, Rhetoric and Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 46–7, 54–8, 62–6, 92–8, 158.

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74 Mommsen, Römisches Staatsrecht, p. 1.253. 75 Polyb. 21.24.3; cf. Livy 37.55.3. 76 It may be worth comparing the role of gods and people as witnesses within the communal ritual of the Roman wedding ceremony, on which see Susan M. Treggiari, Roman Marriage. Iusti Coniuges from the Time of Cicero to the Time of Ulpian (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991), pp. 164–5. 77 Cic. Verr. 2.4.64; cf. Livy 43.6.6, attulisse. 78 Cf. Ida Östenberg, Staging the World: Spoils, Captives, and Representations in the Roman Triumphal Procession (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), pp. 119–23, with Figs 11–12 (pp. 120–1), for fercula. 79 CIL 12.725; 6.372; ILLRP 174; IGUR 1.5; OGIS 551. For detailed discussion of these inscriptions, see Ronald Mellor, ‘The Dedications on the Capitoline Hill’, Chiron 8 (1978), pp. 319–30; Andrew Lintott, ‘The Capitoline Dedications to Jupiter and the Roman People’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 30 (1978), pp. 137–44; Canali de Rossi, Le ambascerie, p. 235, no. 276; cf. p. 300, no. 345. The content of this inscription points towards a date of 167 bce, whereas the letter forms are decidedly mid-first century bce. The discrepancy is to be explained by reference to the necessity of restoring many of the monuments upon the Capitoline in the wake of the Sullan fire. 80 Polyb. 30.21.2. 81 Plut. Quaest. Rom. 43, 275 B–C. 82 For these lands, see Strab. 5.3.8 C236; App. B Civ. 1.105.500; Sil. Pun. 13.659; Serv. ad Verg. Aen. 9.272. 83 Livy 43.8.8. 84 1 Macc. 12:4.4; Joseph. AJ 13.233, 13.247–55, 13.263, 13.266; Coudry, ‘Contrôle et traitement’, p. 564, nos 7–10. 85 Livy 42.14.10. 86 MRR (= Magistrates of the Roman Republic) 1.358. 87 Polyb. 33.11.1–5. 88 Richard Westall, ‘Date of the Testament of Ptolemy XII’, Ricerche di egittologia e di antichità copte 11 (2009), pp. 79–94; Richard Westall, ‘The Loan to Ptolemy XII, 59–48 bce’, Ricerche di egittologia e di antichità copte 12 (2010), pp. 23–41. 89 Perhaps the most striking instance of epigraphic record is the dossier concerning Diodoros Pasparos. For the texts composing this dossier, see now A. S. Chanowski, ‘La procédure législative à Pergame au Ier siècle av. J.-C.: à propos de la chronologie relative des décrets en l’honneur de Diodoros Pasparos’, Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 122 (1998), pp. 159–99. As regards the date of this dossier, see Christopher P. Jones, ‘Diodoros Pasparos and the Nikephoria of Pergamon’, Chiron 4 (1974), pp. 183–205; Christopher P. Jones, ‘Diodoros Pasparos Revisited’, Chiron 30 (2000), pp. 1–14. 90 T. Corey Brennan, ‘Embassies Gone Wrong: Roman Diplomacy in the Constantinian Excerpta de Legationibus’, in Eilers, Diplomats and Diplomacy, pp. 171–91, at 173.

Chapter Three   1 Östenberg, in this volume; Timothy O’Sullivan, Walking in Roman Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); Karl-Joachim Hölkeskamp,

248 Notes Reconstructing the Roman Republic: An Ancient Political Culture and Modern Research (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2010), pp. 53–75.   2 Hammar, in this volume.   3 Livia did however follow Augustus on a trip to the eastern provinces in 22–19 bce, performing movement such as the adventus, participating in public banquets and creating ties to the local elites throughout the eastern part of the empire (Dio Cass. 54.7.2, 64.6–10; see also Tac. Ann. 3.34.6). For the honours bestowed upon Livia during this travel, see Rolf Winkes, ‘Leben und Ehrungen der Livia: ein Beitrag zur Entwicklung des römischen Herrscherkultes von der Zeit des Triumvirats bis Claudius’, Archeologia 36 (1985), pp. 55–68.   4 For this development, see Kristina Milnor, Gender, Domesticity, and the Age of Augustus: Inventing Private Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005); Beth Severy, Augustus and the Family at the Birth of the Roman Empire (New York: Routledge, 2003).   5 Dio Cass. 55.1.5; Tac. Ann. 3.5.2.   6 When Drusus died, Livia received honours such as the ius trium liberorum and the grant of public sculptures (Dio Cass. 55.5–6). No existing statue of Livia can be linked to the event of 9 bce. This is the first recorded public honour given to Livia in Rome since 35 bce, when she and her sister in-law, Octavia, received the sacrosanctity of the tribunes of the people, commemorating statues and the removal of tutela mulierum (i.e. they could engage in financial actions). Dio Cass. (55.2.5) reports that if Drusus had triumphed in 9 bce, Livia and Antonia, Drusus’ wife, would have thrown a banquet. Tiberius did however celebrate an ovatio shortly after his brother’s death and held a banquet for the men of the city in that connection. Livia, together with Julia, did likewise for the women.   7 Suet. Tib. 7. Suetonius further reports how Drusus’ dead body was carried to Rome ‘by the leading men of the free towns and colonies’ (Claud. 1).   8 The ancient name of the poem is unknown. It is today mostly called Consolatio ad Liviam, but Schoonhoven, for instance, calls it Ad Liviam de morte Drusi; see Hank Schoonhoven, The Pseudo-Ovidian Ad Liviam de morte Drusi (Groningen: Egbert Forsten, 1992). Scholars have proposed various dates for its composition: 12–37 ce (Richmond); the Augustan, or possibly Tiberian, age (Purcell); the age of Tiberius (Jenkins); and 54 ce, following the death of Claudius (Schoonhoven). Jenkins adds that ‘while the exact date of the Consolatio is unknown, its primary ideological tensions are thoroughly “Augustan” in that the poem juggles multiple, and often mutually conflicting, representations of proper female imperial behaviour’. See John A. Richmond, ‘Doubtful Works Ascribed to Ovid’, Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt 2.31.4 (1981), pp. 2773–82; Nicholas Purcell, ‘Livia and the Womanhood of Rome’, Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 212 (1986), p. 98, n. 2; Thomas E. Jenkins, ‘Livia the Princeps: Gender and Ideology in the Consolatio Ad Liviam’, Helios 36 (2009), p. 2; Schoonhoven, Pseudo-Ovidian, pp. 37–8.   9 For Seneca’s consolatory writings, see Marcus Wilson, ‘Seneca the Consoler? A New Reading of His Consolatory Writings’, in Hans Baltussen (ed.), Greek and Roman Consolations: Eight Studies of a Tradition and Its Afterlife (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2012). 10 Cons. ad Liv. 33: Obvia progrediar felixque per oppida dicar (‘I shall go forth to meet him, and through the cities I shall be called fortunate’). The Consolatio ad Liviam is the only ancient text in which Livia speaks in her own persona.

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11 Cons. ad Liv. 27. 12 Sen. Cons. ad Marc. 3.1–2. 13 A parallel can be drawn to Agrippina’s journey to Rome with the ashes of Germanicus, who died at Antioch in 19 ce (Tac. Ann. 3.1–3). 14 Irene Peirano, The Rhetoric of the Roman Fake (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), pp. 236–41. The Consolatio ad Liviam is the only surviving poetic example of the genre of consolation, which is otherwise found in prose. For Augustus’ account of Drusus’ life, see Suet. Claud. 1.5. 15 Peirano, Roman Fake, p. 205. 16 Cf. Cons. ad Liv. 356; see also Jenkins, ‘Livia the Princeps’, p. 6. 17 Cons. ad Liv. 27; Sen. Cons. ad Marc. 3.2. For gait and gender, see O’Sullivan, Walking, pp. 16–28. 18 Cons. ad Liv. 199; see also Sen. Cons. ad Marc. 3.1. For fast movement in the city of Rome, see Hellström in this volume. 19 Cons. ad Liv. 41–50. 20 Dio Cass. 55.2.4. 21 See Marleen B. Flory, ‘The Integration of Women into the Roman Triumph’, Historia 47 (1998), pp. 489–94, at 489, with references. 22 Suet. Tib. 6.4. 23 Female prisoners of war walked in the parade or were represented by effigies or paintings. See Plut. Aem. 33, Pomp. 45.4; App. Mith. 12.117; Dio Cass. 15.21.8; Ida Östenberg, Staging the World: Spoils, Captives, and Representations in the Roman Triumphal Procession (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), pp. 135–44. A relief from Nicopolis depicts Octiavian’s triumph in 29 bce and shows two children, a boy and a girl, in his triumphal chariot. However, controversy still surrounds their identification. See Constantine L. Zachos, ‘The Tropaeum of the Sea-Battle of Actium at Nikopolis: Interim Report’, Journal of Roman Archaeology 16 (2003), pp. 65–92. 24 Ov. Pont. 3.4.95. Currus can signify both a triumph and a triumphal chariot (OLD: currus). For Ovid I follow the Loeb translations and commentaries by Wheeler and Goold, and for the Consolatio ad Liviam I follow Schoonhoven. See also Ov. Tr. 4.2.47. 25 Cons. ad Liv. 26–7. 26 Suet. Aug. 94.6. 27 Flory, ‘Integration of Women’. 28 Dio Cass. 48.52; Plin. HN 15.137; Suet. Galb. 1. 29 Ov. Tr. 4.2.1–16, translation from Severy, Augustus and the Family, pp. 215–16. Note that the triumph was never actually held. 30 Severy, Augustus and the Family, pp. 79–95. 31 In return the imperial family was celebrated in ceremonies and at camp shrines. Two artefacts found in connection to military camps – an embossed bronze scabbard showing Livia flanked by Tiberius and Drusus (Rheinisches Landesmuseum no. 4320), and a terracotta drinking cup from Veteran in present-day Germany with busts of Livia and Augustus (Rheinisches Landesmuseum no. 22534a) – bear witness to the close ties between the legions and the imperial family. 32 Tac. Ann. 2.41.4; Dio Cass. 60.22.2. 33 See Anne Bielman, ‘Female Patronage in the Greek Hellenistic and Roman Republican Period’, in Sharon L. James and Sheila Dillon (eds), A Companion to Women in the Ancient World (Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2012), pp. 238–49, with references.

250 Notes 34 RG 12.2. 35 Elizabeth Bartman, Portraits of Livia: Imaging the Imperial Woman in Augustan Rome (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 88; Susan Wood, Imperial Women: A Study in Public Images, 40 bc–ad 68 (Leiden: Brill, 2000), p. 100; Severy, Augustus and the Family, pp. 104–12. 36 The year of Livia’s birth is not explicitly to be found in the ancient sources, and must be calculated back from the year of her death; for an extended discussion, see Anthony A. Barrett, ‘The Year of Livia’s Birth’, Classical Quarterly 49 (1999), pp. 630–2. Although Barrett argues that we cannot be sure that Livia was born in 58 bce (rather than 59 bce), it seems to me that he has not calculated inclusively as was the Roman standard. If one does, it is clear that Livia did turn 50 on 30 January 9 bce. 37 RG 12.2: ‘When I returned to Rome from Spain and Gaul, having settled affairs successfully in these provinces, in the consulship of Tiberius Nero and Publius Quinctilius, the senate decreed that an altar of Augustan Peace should be consecrated in thanks for my return on the Field of Mars, and ordered magistrates and priests and Vestal Virgins to perform an annual sacrifice there.’ Translation from Alison Cooley, Res Gestae Divi Augusti: Text, Translation and Commentary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). See also Ov. Fast. 1.719–22. 38 RG 10; Ov. Fast. 3.419–20. 39 Dio Cass. 54.27.3; Ov. Fast. 4.949–54. 40 Ov. Met. 15.864. 41 Hor. Carm. 3.14.5–6. The fact that Livia is called simply mulier and not by her name could be a sign of Horace’s ambivalence about mentioning her in his poetry. 42 Fortuna Muliebris: CIL 6.883. Bona Dea: Ov. Fast. 5.147–58. Concordia: Ov. Fast. 637–8. 43 Hjort Lange, in this volume. 44 Bartman, Portraits of Livia, p. 93. 45 A veste and ad vestem: CIL 6.3985, 4041, 4042, 4043, 4251. Ornatrices: CIL 6.3993, 3994, 8944, 8958; CIL 8800 is uncertain. Ab ornamentis sacerdotalibus: CIL 6.8955, and perhaps CIL 3992. It is not possible to know how many of them worked at the same time. For the household of Livia, see Kinuko Hasegawa, The Familia Urbana During the Early Empire: A Study of Columbaria Inscriptions (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2005); Susan Treggiari, ‘Jobs in the Household of Livia’, Papers of the British School at Rome 43 (1975), pp. 48–77. 46 In his will, Augustus adopted Livia, formally bestowed her with the title Augusta and transferred the auctoritas of the Julian family to her. She inherited one-third of Augustus’ assets, to add to her already vast fortune, as well as a large amount of his slaves and freedmen. Dio Cass. 56.32; Suet. Aug. 100; Tac. Ann. 1.8. 47 I use the term ‘power walk’ in reference to Östenberg’s chapter in this volume. 48 Dio Cass. 56.46. Tacitus (Ann. 1.14.2) claims that Tiberius refused his mother this right. The statement of Tacitus may however be seen in light of him using Livia to discredit Tiberius. Agrippina would later be given the same privilege as the priestess of Claudius. See Tac. Ann. 13.2.3. 49 Dio Cass. 47.19.4. 50 Plin. HN 9.114; Sen. Controv. 1.2.3. Vesta of chaste matrons: Ov. Pont. 4.13.29. 51 No litter-bearers are attested in the epigraphical material from the columbarium of Livia, but one of the inscriptions commemorates a strator of hers, possibly in charge of the horses and mules that drew the carpentum and other vehicles (CIL 6.4033). 52 Tac. Ann. 3.64.3.

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53 Dio Cassius (60.22.2) reports that Messalina received the right to sit with the Vestals and was at the same time given the right to travel in the carpentum. 54 RIC 12 97 nos 50–1, pl. 12. They can be dated to 22–3 ce by a reference to Tiberius’ twenty-fourth tribunician year. Coins with references to Livia had been minted outside Rome already during Augustus’ lifetime (e.g. RPC 1 nos 1105, 1346, 1348, 1563, 1708, 1823, 2338, 2359, 2449–50, 2496, 2576, 2580–3, 2594, 2662–4, 2466–7, 2469, 2647–8, 3132, 3143, 4016, 5006, 5008, 5027, 5042–3, 5053, 5055). 55 RIC2 47. For similar provincial coins, see RPC 1154, 1567–8, 1779 and 2840. See also EJ 137 and Tracene Harvey, The Visual Representation of Livia on the Coins of the Roman Empire (PhD dissertation, University of Alberta, 2011), pp. 240, 335–7. 56 For the identification of Livia on the coin, see Wood, Imperial Women, pp. 109–10. This connection is confirmed by a dupondius from the age of Tiberius, minted in the colony Emerita Augusta in modern-day Spain (RPC 1 no. 39; Harvey, Visual Representation of Livia, p. 336). The obverse shows Livia’s portrait and the legend Salus Augusta, while the reverse presents a seated Livia, this time with the legend Julia Augusta. 57 Verg. Aen. 8.665–6. 58 Liv. 5.25.9. Stephen J. Harrison, ‘The Survival and Supremacy of Rome: The Unity of the Shield of Aeneas’, Journal of Roman Studies 87 (1997): 70–6. 59 Liv. 34.3. Loeb translation by Evan T. Sage. 60 See also Purcell, ‘Womanhood of Rome’, p. 83. 61 Cons. ad Liv. 49. 62 The most recent scholarship on the women in the Forum is Mary T. Boatwright, ‘Women and Gender in the Forum Romanum’, Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 141 (2011): 105–41. 63 Liv. 22.55.6, 22.60.2, 34.3.6–7. 64 Dio Cass. 59.7.1; Suet. Calig. 21. 65 Boatwright, ‘Women and Gender’, pp. 125–6. The venue for the official banquets organized by Livia and Julia is not stated in the sources. 66 BM Coins Rom. Emp. Ant. P. 352 no. 2064. The cult statue from Rome has not survived, but it is likely that a colossal enthroned statue of Livia in a dynastic group from the headquarters of the Augustales of Rusellae is a copy. A colossal enthroned statue of Augustus was discovered together with that of Livia, and resembles the numismatic reproduction of his cult statue from the same temple in Rome. Charles Brian Rose, Dynastic Commemoration and Imperial Portraiture in the Julio-Claudian Period (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1997), p. 40, cat. 41, cat. 45; Bartman, Portraits of Livia, cat. 29. The Temple of Divus Augustus was built somewhere between the Palatine and Capitoline hills, behind the Basilica Julia, although its exact location is unknown. See Amanda Claridge, Rome: An Oxford Archaeological Guide (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), p. 93. 67 Dio Cass. 60.5.2; CIL 6.2032, 4222. AFA 55.19 comments on the worship given to Livia and Augustus in the Temple of Divus Augustus. 68 Dio Cass. 58.2.3. 69 Claudius commemorated the deification on dupondii issued in Rome (RIC 12 no. 101; Harvey, Visual Representation of Livia, 2.A1.9). They present Livia in the guise of Ceres, seated on a throne with ears of grains in her right hand and a torch in the left, with the legend Diva Augusta. The obverse features a head of Augustus radiate with the matching legend Divus Augustus. 70 Suet. Claud. 11.

252 Notes 71 As shown when Tiberius forbad the Senate to deify Livia at her death (Tac. Ann. 5.2.1). 72 In general, the ashes of divi were buried, as were those of other humans. Their mortal remains were never placed in their temples, but in their mausoleums, with Caesar as the only exception. The difference between divi and mortal men was that the spirits of the divi were never worshipped at their tombs, where funeral sacrifices otherwise took place, but at their temples. Apparently, the spirits of the divi were not considered to live on in the grave, as did those of humans. Instead, they were divine and had thus ascended to heaven. The case of Livia, with her mortal remains already buried in the mausoleum of Augustus, should therefore not have been an awkward problem, since a particular kind of funeral was not a prerequisite for deification. 73 Ittai Gradel, Emperor Worship and Roman Religion (Oxford: Clarendon, 2002), pp. 165–86. 74 For the problems of interpretation, see John Pollini, From Republic to Empire: Rhetoric, Religion, and Power in the Visual Culture of Ancient Rome (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 2012), pp. 309–68, with references. 75 Dio Cass. 60.8.7. Gradel, Emperor Worship, pp. 178–88.

Chapter Four   1 See Ida Östenberg, in this volume; Timothy O’Sullivan, Walking in Roman Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). This chapter can be viewed as a continuation of these two works.   2 See O’Sullivan, Walking, pp. 17–18. The ‘running slave’ was a stereotype employed by Plautus, e.g. Poen. 522–3.   3 See Anthony Corbeill in this volume on the concrete power of company in a society that lacks a police force. Strict codes of conduct were essential in order to keep the streets from erupting in violence between rival gentes.   4 Translations are my own. For Dio’s biography, see Fergus Millar, A Study of Cassius Dio (Oxford: Clarendon, 1964), pp. 8–27; Meyer Reinhold, From Republic to Principate: An Historical Commentary on Cassius Dio’s Roman History, VI: Books 49–52 (36–29 bc) (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press, 1988), esp. introduction by John W. Humphrey. For Herodian, see esp. C. R. Whittaker, ‘Introduction’, in Herodian, History of the Roman Empire, transl. C. R. Whittaker (Cambridge, MA: Loeb, 1969–70), pp. ix–xxxiii, and Geza Alfōldy, ‘Herodians Person’, in Geza Alfōldy (ed.), Der Krise des Römischen Reiches: Geschichte, Geschichtsschreibung und Geschichtsbetrachtung (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1989), pp. 255–69. Suggestions on his status vary from freedman to knight, but all agree that his opinions are elite. See also Lukas de Blois, ‘The Perception of Roman Imperial Authority in Herodian’s Work’, in Lukas de Blois et al. (eds), The Representation and Perception of Roman Imperial Power (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 148–56; Timothy Barnes, ‘The Composition of Cassius Dio’s Roman History’, Phoenix 38 (1984): 240–55; Frank Kolb, Literarische Beziehungen zwischen Cassius Dio, Herodian und der Historia Augusta (Bonn: Habelt, 1972); Harry Sidebottom, ‘Herodian’s Historical Methods and Understanding of History’, Aufstieg und Niedergang der Römischen Welt 2.34.4 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1998), pp. 2775–836; Harry Sidebottom, ‘Severan Historiography: Evidence, Patterns, and Arguments’, in Simon Swain, Stephen Harrison and Jas Elsner (eds), Severan Culture

Notes

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  6

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10 11

12 13 14

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(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 52–82; Martin Zimmerman, ‘Herodians Konstruktion der Geschichte und sein Blick auf das stadtrömische Volk’, in M. Zimmerman (ed.), Geschichtsschreibung und politischer Wandel im 3. Jh. n. Chr. (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1999), pp. 119–44. On careless production see, e.g. Whittaker, ‘Introduction’, pp. xli–xlviii; on false claims on autopsy, see Sidebottom, ‘Severan Historiography’, pp. 78–9. Herodian’s reliance on Dio is a subject of debate, but apart from Kolb (complete) and Barnes (none), most agree on a middle road: e.g. Whittaker, ‘Introduction’, pp. lxv–lxvii; Sidebottom, ‘Herodian’s Historical Methods’, p. 2781. On his techniques, de Blois, ‘Perception of Roman Imperial Authority’, pp. 149–50; Sidebottom, ‘Herodian’s Historical Methods’, pp. 2818–19; Whittaker, ‘Introduction’, pp. lii–lxi; Zimmerman, Geschichtsschreibung, p. 124. E.g. Millar, Cassius Dio, p. 28: ‘Dio’s History is, to say the least, not a literary work of the first rank.’ On conscious omissions for the sake of style, see Millar, Cassius Dio, pp. 43–4, and Reinhold, From Republic to Principate, p. 5, who calls it ‘a selective pastiche’. Reinhold, p. 14, describes Dio as a ‘self-appointed spokesman of the senatorial order of the third century’. On his homo novus traditionalism, see Sidebottom, ‘Severan Historiography’, p. 76. Although Herodian uses the term δῆμος to signify the population at large, not a specific social group, the role he ascribes to it has sparked a debate on the political significance of the Roman plebs; see Egon Flaig, Den Kaiser herausfordern: Die Usurpation im Römischen Reich (Frankfurt am Main: Campus, 1992), and Julia Sünskes Thompson, Aufstānde und Protestaktionen im Imperium Romanum: Die severischen Kaiser im Spannungsfeld innenpolitischer Konflikte (Bonn: Habelt, 1990), esp. 95–134; Zimmerman against, Geschichtsschreibung, pp. 128–35. Commodus’ body was smuggled out (as laundry, Hdn. 2.1.1–2), Caracalla’s was smuggled in (Dio Cass. 79.9.1); on the reburial of the wrongly condemned by Pertinax, see Dio Cass. 74.5. The vocabulary is split between δῆμος, usually positive, and ὄχλος or πλῆθος (‘throng’ or ‘crowd’), always negative. The hostile Dio more often refers to ‘the crowd’. Herodian endorses ‘the people’ except in a key scene (the elevation of Gordian III) when they become a raving mob (7.7.1–4, often quoted). The usually reviled pretorians here play the part of victims, and the episode represents, I believe, a reversal of the natural order. Elagabalus’ procession, Hdn. 5.6.6-10; Commodus’ plans, Dio Cass. 73.22.2. Described as a source of shame to the δῆμος, which is also frequently harmed. On the antics of Commodus see, e.g. Dio Cass. 73.10.2–3, 73.18–21, and Hdn. 1.15.1–7; of Elagabalus, see Dio Cass. 80.13–16 and Hdn. 5.5.9–10. On harm to the δῆμος, see Hdn. 1.12.6–8; Dio Cass. 73.20.2. On similar treatment of Caracalla see, e.g. Dio Cass. 78.7–11. Dio Cass. 73.16.1. The midday appearance is a reference to the hour of epiphanies in Greek poetry. Cf. Juv. 1.19–20 on a youth racing at breakneck speed to impress his rich mistress. See Dio Cass. 80.15.1–2 and 16.2–6 on the charioteer Hierocles and, still more excessively, on Zoticus, brought from Athens and escorted to the palace as if an Asian king. Hdn. 1.7.2–4, using αἰφνιδίως twice to describe how Commodus with ‘youthful vigour’ betakes himself to Rome. The Romans lost all restraint and ran to meet him.

254 Notes 15 Hdn. 2.6.6. On Julianus’ ‘easy living’ as procrastination, see Whittaker, ‘Introduction’, pp. xli, lvii–7lviii; Sidebottom, ‘Herodian’s Historical Methods’, p. 2808. 16 Dio Cass. 74.11–12. See O’Sullivan, Walking, p. 68, on how only the devious move about at night. 17 Hdn. 2.6–13. 18 Hdn. 2.1.5–9; also 2.3.1 describing Pertinax as disliking the suddenness (αἰφνίδιον) of his accession and trying to make up for it. 19 Hdn. 2.2.2, 2.2.10, 2.3.2. That he followed an account that described the event as nightly, νύκτωρ, is clear from the ensuing recap (2.3.1). On Herodian’s poor revision, see Sidebottom, ‘Herodian’s Historical Methods’, p. 2812. 20 Hdn. 2.2.1–2.3.11. Cf. Tac. Agr. 40.3–4: Agricola showed that he harboured no ambition by refusing to be met by the people at the gate. Östenberg, in this volume, quotes Suetonius and Cicero on participation of all social layers as validation of a regime. The idea survives in the sixth-century laetania septiformis treated by Margaret Andrews, in this volume. 21 Dio Cass. 74.1.2–4. See Whittaker, ‘Introduction’, p. xlviii. 22 Tac. Hist. 1.4–49. Sidebottom, ‘Severan Historiography’, p. 76, calls Dio ‘Tacitus-lite’; see also Millar, Cassius Dio, p. 34, and Whittaker, ‘Introduction’, p. lvi. 23 Tac. Hist. 1.27. 24 Ibid., 1.32–3. Gell. NA 16.14, quoting the elder Cato and Verrius Flacchus, describes properare as applying oneself and getting results and festinare as a counterproductive waste of energy. 25 Dio Cass. 74.9.3; Hdn. 2.5.2. Herodian insists that the deed defies belief, παραδόξῳ. 26 Hdn. 2.5.1–2.6.1. The deed occurred on the soldiers’ day off; it was an impulse, not an order. 27 Dio Cass. 78.2.2–6; Hdn. 4.4.3–4.5.1; the murder scene itself is lost. Herodian (4.4.7) displays Caracalla’s unbridled nature by having him order the stunned soldiers to immediately seize all temple treasuries, then proceed to waste in one day what had taken years to collect ‘from the misfortunes of others’ (inserting a slur on Septimius Severus). Caracalla also sends soldiers to attack the δῆμος (4.6.4–5). Dio Cass. 78.3.3, while emphasizing speed, shows that the arrival at the Senate actually happened during the next day. 28 Elagabalus: Hdn. 5.8.8; Dio Cass. 80.20.1–2. Didius Julianus: Hdn. 2.12.7; Dio Cass. 74.17.4. 29 Hdn. 5.8.5–6; Dio Cass. 80.19.2–20.1 mentions visits but not the refusal to move. 30 A contrast is provided by the lack of movement or change of expression by Piso when Galba appointed him his successor, which showed him to be ‘one who had the power rather than the wish to rule’. Tac. Hist. 1.17. 31 Trajan enters the city on foot among adoring crowds drawing near (Plin. Pan. 22.4); his retinue is calm, quiet and waits for others (76.9); his wife walks on foot (quam civilis concessu!, 83.7). 32 Explosive speed, expended in the field (Plin. Pan. 14.3, tanta velocitas erat), at the hunt (81.1–4). The armies however conquer through discipline, as when withstanding the temptation to cross the Danube (12.4–5, 16.2–3). 33 Dio Cass. 77.4.1. Herodian (3.11–12) uses the words ἠπείγετο, ἐπιθυμία, αἰφνιδίως. The episode contains most familiar elements of a coup by a wicked pretender. 34 Whittaker, ‘Introduction’, p. xliii, calls Dio a sycophant; Dio Cass. 75.1.3–5. Cf. the contribution of Carsten Hjort Lange in this volume on entering on foot, not in arms: Severus is presented as a returning triumphator.

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35 Hdn. 2.11–13. He also makes much of Severus’ stratagems, sending in units of undercover soldiers at night with hidden weapons (2.12.1). 36 E.g., Hdn. 2.9.2: [ἀνὴρ] ἐς δὲ πραγμάτων διοίκησιν γενναῖος ἅμα καὶ θυμοειδής, σκληρῷ τε βίῳ καὶ τραχεῖ ἐνειθισμένος, πόνοις τε ἀντέχων ῥᾷστα, νοῆσαί τε ὀξὺς καὶ τὸ νοηθὲν ἐπιτελέσαι ταχὐς (‘[A man] passionate and skilled at management, accustomed to a rough, rugged life who took on hardships with ease, quick to decide and fast to execute his decisions’). 37 Dio Cass. 74.15.1. His portrait of Severus post mortem is ambiguous, blaming the emperor among other things for militarism and threats to the Senate. Reinhold, From Republic to Principate, pp. 14–15. 38 On Agathocles’ unusual beauty and strength already in childhood, see Diod. Sic. 19.1.6; on his physical and mental superiority see, e.g. 19.3.2 and 19.4.3. The description is borrowed from Timaeus, who hated Agathocles bitterly. For the author’s view of extraordinary men, see the opening passage of the book, Diod. Sic. 19.1.1: Παλαιός τις παραδέδοται λόγος ὅτι τὰς δημοκρατίας οὐχ οἱ τυχόντες τῶν ἀνθρώπων, ἀλλ᾽ οἱ ταῖς ὑπεροχαῖς προέχοντες καταλύουσι (‘An old saying has been handed down that it is not the mediocre men who destroy democracies, but those who excel in prominence’). See also 19.1.4, quoting Solon: ἀνδρῶν ἐκ μεγάλων πόλις ὄλλυνται (‘A city is destroyed by great men’). The ultimate model for the formidable villain is likely (swift-footed) Achilles. 39 Dio Cass. 72.34.2, also 72.36.2–3. Pliny portrays Trajan as aged in contrast to the beautiful villain Domitian. Plin. Pan. 2.6, 3.4, 5.7. 40 Dio Cass., e.g. 73.10.3, 73.17-20. Hdn. 1.7.5: ‘Besides being at the prime of his youth, Commodus was of the most striking appearance, balanced in body and with a handsome, manly face. His eyes burned and flashed, his hair was fair and curly by nature and gleamed like fire when he stepped into the sun, so that some believed it had been sprinkled with gold dust, others that it was divine, claiming that a heavenly halo had formed around his head.’ 41 According to the Historia Augusta, Elagabalus drove stags, lions and tigers while dressed as various divinities (SHA Heliogab. 28.1), arranged a dinner with each course served at a different house (30.4–5), left Rome with at least 60 wagons in tow filled with harlots and catamites (31.4) and visited every prostitute in Rome in one day disguised as muleteer (32.9). 42 SHA Did. Iul. 2.3–3.6 (and passim on his ruling style), Pert. 11, Sev. 5–7. His adventus is described as an ominous affair amid arms and abuse, but actual movement is not narrated, nor is attention paid to the urban topography. See also M. Ant. 2.4 on Caracalla. 43 Whittaker, ‘Introduction’, pp. xxxvi–xxxvii. 44 Eutr. 10.2.3 (Romam advolavit e Lucania) preserves some of the theme of the pretender in having the retired Maximian fly to Rome in hopes of resuming power. 45 Amm. Marc. 14.6.16–17, 28.4.31. The sarcasm owes a lot to Juvenal; see above n. 12. 46 Ibid., 15.7.3. Another example are the friends of Lampadius, who saved his house from the crowd by dashing to the scene (27.3.8). 47 Ibid., 27.3.4, 27.3.16–17. 48 Doryphorianus: Amm. Marc. 28.1.54. His crimes include a sudden, nightly arrest of a nobleman, which however is narrated without attention to movement. Maximinus: 28.1.13. 49 Pan. Lat. 3.29.1–3. 50 Amm. Marc. 15.10.1–12.

256 Notes 51 Ibid., 26.6.12–20. The general Terentius ‘walked humbly’ (demisse ambulans, 30.1.2), but was in fact a fomenter of dissension. The remark suggests evildoers still walked assertively. 52 Hdn. 2.8.6–7, 2.8.9, 5.2.3, 5.4.11–12, 7.6.2; Dio Cass. 79.39. 53 E.g. baths in Trastevere or Ostiense (Septimius Severus), outside the Porta Capena (Caracalla) and on the Aventine (Decius). Elagabalus and Gallienus built on the Esquiline, and Aurelian in the Sallustian gardens and along the Via Lata. He also built the ultimate peripheral structure, the wall. For a summary of third-century imperial construction in Rome, see Anne Daguet-Gagey, Les Opera Publica à Rome: 180–305 ap. J.-C. (Paris: Institut d’Etudes Augustinienne, 1997). 54 Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, ‘The Streets of Rome as a Representation of Imperial Power’, in Lukas de Blois et al., Representation and Perception, 189–206, esp. pp. 191–4. The theme is discussed by Ray Lawrence and Timothy O’Sullivan, in this volume. 55 See above n. 45. 56 SHA Gord. Tres 33.6–8, Gall. 18.5, mentioned together with Gallienus’ hubristic (and I suspect fictional) plan to erect a colossus of himself on the Esquiline. 57 Eutr., e.g. Probus, Diocletian, Constantine and sons, Aurelius Victor, 12.2. 58 Amm. Marc. 27.6.14; SHA Alex. Sev. 4.4, Comm. 13.1–2, 17.1. 59 Amm. Marc. 28.4.4, 28.1.28. 60 Pan. Lat. 3.6.4–7.3. 61 Lucian Hist. conscr. 7. 62 Pan. Lat 10.5.1-4 (Maximian), 12.12.9.5 (Constantine). Pan. Lat. 11.2–43.5, 4.1–4, 8.1–10.5 and Pan. Lat. 12.9.5, 22.1–2, 26.1 describe their speed in cosmic terms, as autokinesis, an exponent of their divine natures. Notable is the emphasis on beauty, esp. in Pan. Lat. 8 to Constantine and Pan. Lat. 2 to Theodosius. 63 Pan. Lat. 11.11.1–5, 12.19.1–4. The buildings move and bow to the emperor. 64 Pan. Lat. 12.14.3–5: ‘The stupid, worthless creature never dared to go outside his walls… . For shame, and the Emperor inside the protection of his walls! He would not approach the Campus Martius, would not practice in arms, would not tolerate the dust, not he … . He strode on a promenade within that palace of marbled walls … . He wished to appear not unwarlike but blest, not idle but carefree.’ Translation from Charles E. V. Nixon and Barbara Saylor Rodgers (eds), In Praise of Later Roman Emperors: The Panegyrici Latini (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1994), p. 315. 65 Pan. Lat. 3.29.5; Amm. Marc. 22.7.1, one of few occasions when he disapproved of his hero. Alan Cameron, Claudian: Poetry and Propaganda at the Court of Honorius (Oxford: Clarendon, 1970), p. 388, claims the scorn was due to misplacement and that such respect was only required at Rome. 66 Pan. Lat. 2.47.3–4, with notes in Nixon and Saylor Rodgers, The Panegyrici Latini, p. 515 n. 168. 67 Claud. VI Cons. Hon. 543–59. Cameron, Claudian, p. 351, notes similarities between Ammianus and Claudian, stating that it was impossible for a writer of the period not to be affected by rhetoric. 68 Nixon and Saylor Rodgers, The Panegyrici Latini, pp. 335–8, suggest that the author Nazarius was resident at Rome. 69 To quote Don Fowler, ‘Laocoon’s Point of View: Walking the Roman Way’, in S. J. Heyworth, P. G. Fowler and S. J. Harrison (eds), Classical Constructions: Papers in Memory of Don Fowler, Classicist and Epicurean (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), p. 11: ‘A society of psychotic walking statues is not a successful one.’

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70 Hdn. 5.2.3. 71 See above n. 25. On the passage from a kingdom of gold to one of rust and iron, see Dio Cass. 72.36.4.

Chapter Five   1 Jer. Ep. 22.26: Foris vagentur virgines stultae, tu intrinsecus esto cum Sponso; quia si ostium clauseris, et secundum Evangelii praeceptum in occulto oraveris Patrem tuum, veniet, et pulsabit. Unless otherwise is stated, all translations are from Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, second series (NPNF2).   2 Kim Bowes, ‘Personal Devotion and Private Chapels’, in Virginia Burrus (ed.), Late Ancient Christianity (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2005), pp. 188–210.   3 Cf. Michele Renee Salzman, ‘Competing Claims to “Nobilitas” in the Western Empire of the Fourth and Fifth Centuries’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 9 (2001), pp. 359–85.   4 Harry O. Maier, ‘The Topography of Heresy and Dissent in Late-Fourth-Century Rome’, Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 44 (1995), pp. 232–49; Charles Pietri, Roma Christiana I: Recherches sur l’Eglise de Rome, son organisation, sa politique, son idéologie de Miltiade à Sixte III (311–440) (Rome: École Française de Rome Palais Farnèse, 1976); Richard Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000 (orig. 1980)). See also Lønstrup Dal Santo, in this volume.   5 Peter Brown, The Body and Society: Men, Women and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christianity (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), p. 359; Sissel Undheim, ‘Christus virgo. Representations of Christ as a Virgin in Early Christianity and Late Antiquity’, Bulletin for the Study of Religion 41 (2012), pp. 23–4. It must be stressed however that not all Christians in Rome necessarily adhered to the ascetic ideals preached by Ambrose and Jerome. Cf. Michele Renee Salzman, The Making of a Christian Aristocracy: Social and Religious Change in the Western Roman Empire (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002), pp. 167–9; David G. Hunter, Marriage, Celibacy, and Heresy in Ancient Christianity: The Jovinianist Controversy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007).   6 Rebecca Langlands, Sexual Morality in Ancient Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), pp. 69–77. On the importance of display in late Republican society, see Östenberg, in this volume.   7 Teresa M. Shaw, ‘Askesis and the Appearance of Holiness’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 6 (1998), pp. 485–99, at 494.   8 This view is most explicitly expressed by Augustine in De civ. D. 1.18: An vero si aliqua femina, mente corrupta violatoque proposito quod Deo voverat, pergat vitianda ad deceptorem suum, ad hoc eam pergentem sanctam vel corpore dicimus, ea sanctitate animi per quamcorpus sanctificabatur amissa atque destructa? Cf. Jer. Adv. Helvid. 20: Virginis definitio, sanctam esse corpore et spiritu; quia nihil prosit carnem habere virginem, si mente quis nupserit. Spiritual and physical virginity in late antique sources is discussed more fully in Sissel Undheim, ‘Sanctae virginitates. Sacred and Consecrated Virginities in Late Roman Antiquity’ (PhD dissertation, University of Bergen, 2011), pp. 265–80 and passim.   9 E.g. Peter Brown, Body and Society, p. 263; cf. Gillian Cloke, This Female Man of God: Women and Spiritual Power in the Patristic Age, ad 350–450 (London: Routledge, 1995), pp. 61–9.

258 Notes 10 Elizabeth A. Clark, ‘The Lady Vanishes: Dilemmas of a Feminist Historian after the “Linguistic Turn”’, Church History 67 (1998), pp. 1–31; John Curran, Pagan City and Christian Capital: Rome in the Fourth Century (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2000), pp. 280–98; Andrew Cain, ‘Rethinking Jerome’s Portraits of Holy Women’, in Andrew Cain and Josef Lössl (eds), Jerome of Stidon: His Life, Writings and Legacy (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), pp. 47–57. 11 Jer. Ep. 46.12(11): Est quidem ibi sancta Ecclesia, sunt trophea Apostolorum, et Martyrum; et Christi vera confessio; est ab Apostolo praedicata fides, et gentilitate calcata, in sublime se quotidie erigens vocabulum Christianum: sed ipsa ambitio, potentia, magnitudo urbis, videri et videre, salutari et salutare, laudare et detrahere, vel audire vel proloqui, et tantam frequentiam hominum saltem invitum videre, a proposito Monachorum et quiete aliena sunt. 12 This was done in an adapted version that the late antique aristocracy probably understood as mos maiorum, and with obvious parallels to late Republican practice; cf. Östenberg, in this volume. 13 Jer. Ep. 22.29: Eas autem virgines et viduas, quae otiosae et curiosae domos circumeunt matronarum, quae rubore frontis attrito, parasitos vincunt mimorum, quasi quasdam pestes abice. ‘Corrumpunt mores bonos confabulationes pessimae’. 14 See J. N. D. Kelly, Jerome: His Life, Writings, and Controversies (London: Duckworth, 1975), pp. 110–15; Andrew Cain, The Letters of Jerome: Asceticism, Biblical Exegesis, and the Construction of Christian Authority in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). 15 Jer. Ep. 107.13. 16 Ibid., 130.19: Ante annos circiter triginta, de Virginitate servanda edidi librum. 17 Ibid., 22.16 (translation from NPNF2, slightly changed): Nolo habeas consortia matronarum: nolo ad nobilium domos accedas. 18 Ibid., 22.16. 19 Ibid., 127.4: Raro procedebat ad publicum, et maxime nobilium matronarum vitabat domos, ne cogeretur videre quod contempserat. 20 Ibid., 22.17: Rarus sit egressus in publicum. Martyres tibi quaerantur in cubiculo tuo. Nunquam causa deerit procedendi, si semper quando necesse est, processura sis. 21 Ibid., 46.8: Et Martyrum ubique sepulchra veneramur, et sanctam favillam oculis apponentes, si liceat etiam ore contingimus. 22 Ibid., 24.4 (my translation): ita se semper moderate habuit, et intra cubiculi sui secreta custodivit, ut nunquam pedem proferret in publicum, nunquam viri nosset alloquium. 23 Ibid., 24.4 (my translation): Ad Martyrum limina pene invisa properabat. Et cum gauderet proposito suo, in eo vehementius exultabat, quod se nullus cognosceret. 24 Ibid., 127.4: Apostolorum et Martyrum basilicas secretis celebrans orationibus, et quae populorum frequentiam declinarent. 25 Ibid., 107.9: Nunquam absque te procedat in publicum. Basilicas Martyrum et Ecclesias sine matre non adeat. The matre that is referred to here is according to NPNF2 the spiritual mother, i.e. the religious leader of a female convent. 26 Ibid., 130. 19 (translation from NPNF2, slightly changed): Morbidae oves suum relinquunt gregem, et luporum faucibus. Scio ego sanctas virgines, quae diebus festis propter frequentiam populorum, pedem domi cohibent; nec tunc egrediuntur, quando maior est adhibenda custodia, et publicum penitus devitandum. 27 Ibid., 128.3a: Nec liberius procedat ad publicum, nec simper ecclesiarum quareat celebritatem. In cubiculo suo totas delicias habeat.

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28 With reference to the Song of Songs, cf. Ambr. Exhort. virg. 58. 29 Jer. Ep. 22.25: Cave ne domum exeas, et velis videre filias regionis alienae, quamvis fratres habeas Patriarchas, et Israel parente laeteris: Dina egressa corrumpitur. 30 Ibid., 22.25: Zelotypus est Jesus, non vult ab aliis videri faciem tuam. 31 Undheim, ‘Sanctae virginitates’, pp. 42–62, 262–80. 32 Cf. Kelly Olson, Dress and the Roman Woman: Self-presentation and Society (London: Routledge, 2008), p. 54: ‘A similar type of veil or headgear was the mafortium, mentioned by Nonius: “the ricinium, which now we call the mafortium, is a short palliola worn by women” (869L).’ 33 Jer. Ep. 22.13: Hae sunt, quae per publicum notabiliter incedunt, et furtivis oculorum nutibus, adolescentium greges post se trahunt… Purpura tantum in veste tenuis, et laxius, ut crines decidant, ligatum caput, soccus vilior, et super humeros hyacinthina laena Maforte volitans: succinctae manichae brachiis adhaerentes, et solutis genubus factus incessus. Haec est apud illas tota virginitas. Habeant istiusmodi laudatores suos, ut sub virginali nomine lucrosius pereant. Cf. Timothy M. O’Sullivan, Walking in Roman Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), p. 26. 34 Ambr. De virg. 1.15, Ep.18. 11–12; cf. a slightly different approach to the Vestals in Jer. Adv. Iovianian. 1.41. See also Rita Lizzi, ‘Vergini di Dio – vergini di Vesta: Il sesso negato e la sacralità’, in Salvatore Pricoco (ed.), L’eros difficile: Amore e sessualità nell’antico cristianesimo (Rome: Rubbettino, 1998), pp. 89–132. 35 Prudent. C. Symm. 2.1088–90 (Loeb translation by H. J. Thomson): fertur per medias ut publica pompa plateas/ pilento residiens molli, seque ore retecto/ imputat attonitae virgo spectabilis urbi. Inde ad consessum caveae pudor almus et expers sanguinis it pietas hominum visura cruentos/ congressus mortesque et vulnera vendita pastu/ spectatura sacris oculis. 36 Ibid., 2.1055–9 (Loeb translation by H. J. Thomson): Sunt et virginibus pulcherrima praemia nostris: et pudor et sancto tectus velamine vultus, et privatus honos nec nota et publica forma, et rarae tenusque epulae et mens sobria semper, lexque pudicitia vitae cum fine peracta. A similar rhetorical effect is found in Jerome’s description of the consul Praetextatus (Ep. 23.3), who is met by the people of Rome ‘like a general celebrating triumph’, which is contrasted to the humble Lea, a widow leading a community of sacred virgins. Now, Jerome writes, the consul is stuck as ‘a prisoner in the foulest darkness’ while Lea, ‘who was always shut up in her one closet … now follows Christ and sings’. In the afterlife, the roles are completely changed, and Lea’s self-imposed immobility in life is rewarded with limitless space and with the eternal following in the footsteps of the Lamb. 37 Jer. Ep. 130.19: Nonnullae separata et absque arbitris quaerunt hospitia, ut vivant licentius: utantur balneis, faciantque quod volunt, et devitent conscientias plurimarum. Haec videmus et patimur, et si aureus nummus affulserit, inter bona opera deputamus. 38 Cf. Kim Bowes, ‘Personal Devotion’, pp. 207–8. 39 Ambr. Ep. 5.12, 5.16. 40 Jer. Ep. 130.18: Illa tibi sit pulchra, illa amabilis, illa habenda inter socias quae se nescit esse pulchram; quae negligit formae bonum, et procedens ad publicum, non pectus et colla denudat, nec pallio revoluto cervicem aperit; sed quae celat faciem, et vix uno oculo, qui viae necessarius est, patente ingreditur. 41 Tert., De orat. 22; see also Tert. De virg. vel. and Cypr. De hab. virg. 42 For the velatio, see Peter Brown, Body and Society, p. 356. 43 Cf. Jer. Ep. 22.13, cited above, n. 33.

260 Notes 44 Ibid., 22.27: Vestis nec satis munda, nec sordida, et nulla diversitate notabilis; ne ad te obviam praetereuntium turba consistat, et digito monstreris. For a further discussion of Christian sacred virgins’ clothing, see Undheim, ‘Sanctae virginitates’, pp. 155–62. 45 Jer. Ep. 39.1: Humilitas vestium non (ut in plerisque solet) tumentes animos arguebat: sed cum interiori se mente deiecerat, inter ancillarum virginum cultum dominamque nihil medium, nisi quod in eo facilius dignoscebatur, quod neglectius incedebat. Vacillabant aegrotatione gressus, et pallentem ac trementem faciem, vix collum tenue sustinebat. See also Neil Adkin, Jerome on Virginity: A Commentary on the Libellus de virginitate servanda (Letter 22) (Cambridge: Francis Cairns, 2003), pp. 268–9. 46 O’Sullivan, Walking, pp. 11–33, points out the importance of gait, and how gait was seen as an indicator and marker of not only morals and social status but also gender roles and gendered conventions. 47 Jer. Ep. 39.1; cf. Undheim, ‘Sanctae virginitates’, p. 283. 48 Jer. Ep. 22.16: quae maritorum inflantur honoribus, quas eunuchochorum greges sepiunt. 49 Ibid., 22.16: Praecedit caveas Basternarum ordo semivirorum: et rubentibus buccis, cutis farta distenditur, ut eas putes maritos non amisisse, sed quaerere. Plena adulatoribus domus, plena conviviis. Cf. above (p. XX[8]) 50 Ibid., 22.32. 51 Ibid., 130.13: Eunuchorum quoque tibi, et puellarum ac servulorum mores magis eligantur quam vultuum elegantia, quia in omni sexu et aetate, et truncatorum corporum violenta pudicitia, animi considerandi sunt, qui amputari, nisi Christi timore non possunt. See also Daniel F. Caner, ‘The Practice and Prohibition of Self-castration in Early Christianity’, Vigiliae Christianae 51 (1997), pp. 396–415, esp. 412; Brown, Body and Society, p. 268. 52 For the ‘sham Christians’ of Jerome, see John Curran, ‘Jerome and the Sham Christians of Rome’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 48 (1997), pp. 213–29; and Curran, Pagan City and Christian Capital, pp. 280–98. For some of the aesthetic allusions entangled in the ‘band of virgins’, see Undheim, ‘Sanctae virginitates’, p. 104. 53 Jer. Ep. 130.19 (translation from NPNF2, slightly changed): Digna res risu, imo planctu, incedentibus dominis, ancilla virgo procedit ornatior, ut pro nimia consuetudine quam incomptam videris, dominam suspiceris. 54 Cypr. De hab. virg. 5 (translation from Ante-Nicene Fathers, slightly changed): Virgo non esse tantum sed et intelligi debet et credi. Nemo cum virginem viderit, dubitet an virgo sit. 55 Peter Brown, Body and Society, p. 356. 56 Ambr. De virg. 3.1. For another veiling ceremony that had taken place in St Peter’s, see Jer. Ep. 147.6. 57 Ambr. De virg. 1.5. For the chronology, see Neil B. McLynn, Ambrose of Milan: Church and Court in a Christian Capital (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1994), pp. 60–4. 58 Alexander Joseph Denomy, The Old French Lives of Saint Agnes and Other Vernacular Versions of the Middle Ages (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1938). 59 Prudent. Perist. 14; Ambr. De virg. 1.5–9, 1.19; Jer. Ep. 130.5: Si te virorum exempla non provocant, hortetur faciatque securam beata martyr Agnes quae et aetatem vicit, et tyrannum, et titulum castitatis martyrio consecravit. See also Damasi Carmina 29; cf. Denomy, Vernacular Versions. 60 E.g. S. Pudentiana, S. Prassede, S. Anastasia, S. Agata dei Goti, S. Cecilia, S. Prisca, S. Balbina, S. Bibiana and S. Susanna. Cf. Krautheimer’s map, Profile of a City, p. 32.

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61 Maurice Testard, ‘Les dames de l’Aventin, disciples de saint Jerome’, Bulletin de la société nationale des Antiquaires de France (1996), pp. 39–63. Cf. Jonas Bjørnebye, in this volume, on neighbourhood mithrea. 62 For the Tractus Urbanus of the Via Appia and the Aventine in the first centuries, see Peter Lampe, Christians at Rome in the First Two Centuries: From Paul to Valentinus (London: Continuum, 2003), pp. 20–1, 56–61, who also refers to the traditional cults of the area. 63 Lampe, Christians at Rome, p. 41; cf. David Newsome, ‘Introduction: Making Movement Meaningful’, in Ray Laurence and David Newsome (eds), Rome, Ostia and Pompeii: Movement and Space (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), pp. 1–51, esp. 26–30, on the flow of traffic and people on the move in this area. 64 Jer. Ep. 107.13. 65 Indicia: Ambr. Ep. 5. Ambrosia: Ambr. De. inst. virg. and Ep. 55.1. 66 Ambr. De virg. 1.57, 1.59; McLynn, Ambrose of Milan, pp. 66–8; Rita Lizzi, ‘Ascetismo e monacheismo nell’Italia tardoantica’, Codex aquilarensis 5 (1991), pp. 55–76, esp. 69–70. 67 See Timothy M. O’Sullivan, in this volume, on how Ovid’s poems move to and within Rome, while the poet himself, exiled at Ponto, cannot. A similar point about texts describing the lives of the desert fathers was made by Samuel Rubenson in his paper on the Vita Antonii delivered at the conference The Power of Ancient Prose: Novelistic, Apologetic and Biographic. Tomas Hägg (1938–2011) in memoriam, at the Norwegian University of Science and Technology, 2–3 May 2013.

Chapter Six   1 This chapter has benefited from the generous comments by Anthony Corbeill and Dustin W. Dixon in addition to the valuable discussions at the Moving City conferences.   2 For violence as cause of decline, see, e.g. Sal. Iug. 41–2; Vell. Pat. 2.3.3; Plut. Ti. Gracch. 19; App. B Civ. 1.17; see also Cic. Rep. 1.31. For modern views, see, e.g. Andrew Lintott, Violence in Republican Rome (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968, p. 181; Mary Beard and Michael Crawford, Rome in the Late Republic (London: Duckworth, 1985), pp. 2, 6–11; Michael Crawford, The Roman Republic (London: Fontana, 1992 (1978)), p. 2; Christopher. S. Mackay, Ancient Rome: A Military and Political History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 106. Cf. Harriet I. Flower, Roman Republics (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2010), p. 81.   3 This escalation is particularly striking in App. B Civ. 1.60: from rivalry to murder and from murder to full-scale war.   4 That is not to say, of course, that violence stopped in Roman history even if Caesar’s murder seems perhaps to have been the beginning of the end to the typical ‘Republican violence’ found in the general narrative above. See Peter A. Brunt, Social Conflicts in the Roman Republic (London: Chatto and Windus, 1971), p. 3; P. J. J. Vanderbroeck, Popular Leadership and Collective Behavior in the Late Republic (ca. 80–50 bc) (Amsterdam: J. C. Gieben, 1987), p. 196. For the beginning of a state monopoly on violence during the Principate, see Andrew M. Riggsby, Crime and Community in Ciceronian Rome (Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 1999), pp. 112–19.   5 See, e.g., Paul Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, vol. 1 (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1984), pp. 3, 91; Jörn Rüsen, History: Narration, Interpretation, Orientation (New York: Berghahn, 2006), p. 11. Standard works on narrative theory include

262 Notes Mieke Bal, Narratology: Introduction to Theory of Narrative (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1997 (1985)); David Carr, Time, Narrative and History (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1991); Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, vols 1–3; Hayden White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-century Europe (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1975). For a discussion on narrative in Roman history, see Victoria Emma Pagán, Conspiracy Narratives in Roman History (Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 2004), pp. 14–24.   6 Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, pp. 1.92, 1.175; Pagán, Conspiracy Narratives, p. 23.   7 For the purpose of this chapter, a narrative of moving violence is defined by the beginning and the end of that particular violent motion.   8 See Peter A. Brunt, ‘The Roman Mob’, Past and Present 35 (1966), pp. 3–27; Brunt, Social Conflicts; Lintott, Violence in Republican Rome; Riggsby, Crime and Community; Vanderbroeck, Popular Leadership and Collective Behavior; Wilfried Nippel, Public Order in Ancient Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995); Christopher J. Fuhrmann, Policing the Roman Empire: Soldiers, Administration, and Public Order (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). See also J. W. Heaton, Mob Violence in the Late Roman Republic, 133–49 bc (Urbana, IL: The University of Illinois Press, 1939); A. N. Sherwin-White, ‘Violence in Roman Politics’, Journal of Roman Studies 46 (1956), pp. 1–9; Barbara Levick, ‘Morals, Politics, and the Fall of the Roman Republic’, Greece & Rome 29 (1982), pp. 53–62; K. R. Bradley, Slavery and Rebellion in the Roman World: 140 bc–70 bc (Bloomington, IN and London: Indiana University Press and B. T. Batsford, 1989); Fergus Millar, The Crowd in Rome in the Late Republic (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1998). For popular justice, see Corbeill in this volume.   9 See Lintott, Violence in Republican Rome, p. 176, for the violence of 133 bce as ‘not so much a new and virulent disease in the body politic as the imitation of precedents’. 10 According to at least one version of Roman history, Romulus killed his brother Remus over a dispute and was later himself torn apart by conspiring senators. See Livy, 1.16; Flor. 1.1.17. 11 Nippel, Public Order, p. 47. This is usually ascribed in part to the growth of popular politics and the political culture of the contio. 12 Lintott, Violence in Republican Rome, p. 196. 13 Vell. Pat. 2.3.3. 14 Brunt, ‘The Roman Mob’, p. 18. 15 We find narratives concerning the killing of Tiberius Gracchus in Livy (Per. 58), Velleius (2.3), Plutarch (Ti. Gracch. 19–20), Florus (2.2) and Appian (B Civ. 1.16–17). Because the descriptions of the particular episodes vary in length and emphasis on movement, the selection of sources for each narrative is based on the prominence of moving violence. 16 Livy Per. 58; Vell. 2.2; Plut. Ti. Gracch. 16–19; App. B Civ. 1.10–13. 17 Cf. Plut. Ti. Gracch. 19, where the consul refuses to be the first one to commit any violence, prompting Nasica’s action. 18 Cf. Flor. 2.2; Val. Max. 3.2.17. 19 Vell. Pat. 2.3.2. 20 Vell. Pat. 2.3.4: et ubi semel recto deerratum est, in praeceps pervenitur. 21 Cf. Cic. Cat. 1.3–4; Dom. 91; Mil. 82–3; Phil. 8.13–14. 22 App. B Civ. 1.15. 23 Ibid., 1.17. 24 Plut. Ti. Gracch. 19.

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25 Narratives of the death of Gaius Gracchus include Livy (Per. 61), Velleius (2.6.4), Plutarch (C. Gracch. 1.17), Florus (2.3), Appian (B Civ. 1.26) and Orosius (5.12). 26 App. B Civ. 1.25. 27 Livy Per. 61; Vell. Pat. 2.6.4. 28 Cf. Plut. Ti. Gracch. 19, where the misunderstanding of a gesture is the cause of the senator’s violent reaction. 29 This is a recurring theme in Appian, cf. B Civ. 1.60, 65. When the slaves do take up the call, the consequences are, of course, dire (App. B Civ. 1.74). 30 For this, see also Hellström, in this volume. 31 For the consequences, see Oros. 5.12; Plut. C. Gracch. 18.1. 32 Cf. Flor. 2.3.5; Plut. C. Gracch. 17. 33 App. B Civ. 1.26. 34 Plut. C. Gracch. 17.6. 35 Besides Florus (2.4), the episode of Saturninus’ death is related in Livy (Per. 69), Velleius (2.12), Plutarch (Mar. 30), Appian (B Civ. 1.28–32) and Orosius (5.7). 36 Flor. 2.4.16. 37 Cf. App. B Civ. 1.32; Oros. 5.17. Both Appian and Orosius accentuate Saturninus’ use of armed mobs during the period. 38 Flor. 3.16: Ibi eum facta inruptione populus fustibus saxisque opertum in ipsa quoque morte laceravit. 39 Livy Per. 69. Cf. Plut. Mar. 30. 40 Vell. Pat. 2.12. 41 Oros. 5.17: orta subito seditione. 42 Ibid. 43 Dio Cass. 40.48.1. Dio Cassius is the main source for the popular violence of this period; see, e.g. Dio Cass. 36.24, 36.39, 39.32–4, 40.45–8. 44 The most famous example is of course Pro Milone, where the supporters of Clodius supposedly caused Cicero to deliver an inferior speech; see Asc. Mil. 41C. Cf. Cic. Clu. 96, 103. For another example, see also Dio Cass. 37.43. 45 Appian for instance complains that every year was now marked by violent acts. App. B Civ. 1.33. 46 App. B Civ. 1.33; Dio Cass. 28.95. 47 Livy Per. 71; Flor. 2.5; Vell. Pat. 2.14; App. B Civ. 1.36. 48 Lintott, Violence in Republican Rome, p. 187. 49 For the Lex Gabinia, see Dio Cass. 36.39. For the Lex Manilia, see Dio Cass. 36.42. 50 Riggsby, Crime and Community, p. 118. 51 Cic. Q Fr. 2.1, 2.3; Att. 4.3, 4.7. 52 Other types of popular violence include that between new and old citizens described by Appian following the Social War (B Civ. 1.56). According to Appian, the elite could also ally themselves with the new and old citizenry, as Cinna and Octavius did (B Civ. 1.64). In other instances, the anger of the populus Romanus, although part of a historical narrative, failed to reach the boiling point. See particularly Sal. Iug. 30, 39, 40. 53 Nippel, Public Order, p. 49, Vanderbroeck, Popular Leadership and Collective Behavior, p. 23. Cf. Millar, The Crowd in Rome, pp. 111–12; Lintott, Violence in Republican Rome, p. 67. See also Cic. Att. 4.1.6. 54 Nippel, Public Order, pp. 78, 80. 55 Asc. Mil. 31C–33C. For the death of Clodius, see also Livy Per. 107; Vell. Pat. 47.4; Plut. Cic. 35; App. B Civ. 2.21; Dio Cass. 40.48–50; cf. Cic. Mil 27–30. For this

264 Notes episode, see especially Robert Morstein-Marx, Mass Oratory and Political Power in the Late Roman Republic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 1–4. 56 Dio Cassius (40.48) simply states that Milo first wounded Clodius and then killed him. 57 Asc. Mil. 33C. For Clodius’ funeral, see Geoffrey S. Sumi, ‘Power and Ritual: The Crowd at Clodius’ Funeral’, Historia 46 (1997), pp. 80–102. 58 Dio Cass. 40.49. 59 App. B Civ. 2.21. 60 Asc. Mil. 33C. 61 App. B Civ. 2.21; Dio Cass. 40.49. 62 Lintott, Violence in Republican Rome, p. 21. 63 App. B Civ. 2.22. 64 Dio Cass. 40.49. 65 Cic. De orat. 1.202; cf. De orat. 2.35. 66 Verg. Aen. 1.148-54. Translation by H. R. Fairclough. 67 For a moral interpretation of elite and popular violence, see Sal. Iug. 41. 68 Rhet. Her. 4.68: Id fieri poterit si quae ante et post et in ipsa re facta erunt conprehendemus aut a rebus consequentibus aut circum instantibus non recedemus.

Chapter Seven   1 Book-length studies include Andrew Lintott, Violence in Republican Rome (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968); Wilfried Nippel, Public Order in Ancient Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995); Christopher Fuhrmann, Policing the Roman Empire: Soldiers, Administration, and Public Order (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012). It would be worth making a comparison between the legally sanctioned street violence that I describe here and the extralegal type analysed by Hammar in this volume.   2 For legal background, see Anton Leeman, Harm Pinkster and Edwin Rabbie (eds), M. Tullius Cicero: De Oratore Libri III, vol. 3 (Heidelberg: Winter Verlag, 1989), pp. 274–5; Abel H. J. Greenidge, The Legal Procedure of Cicero’s Time (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1901), pp. 278–9.   3 For simplicity’s sake I have plotted on one figure (Fig. 7.1) all of the events that I discuss. The resulting anachronisms (e.g. the Curia Hostilia will have been replaced by the Curia Iulia by the time of Horace’s encounter) do not affect my argument.   4 Cic. Vat. 21, with Schol. Cic. Bob. p. 147, 21–6; modern discussions include Fergus Millar, The Crowd in Rome in the Late Republic (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1998), pp. 128–30; for topography, see Filippo Coarelli, Il Foro Romano, 2 vols (Rome: Quasar, 1983–5), pp. 2.55–6; for gesture, see Anthony Corbeill, ‘Gestures in Early Roman Law. Empty Forms or Essential Formalities?’, in Douglas Cairns (ed.), Body Language in the Greek and Roman Worlds (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2005), pp. 163–6.   5 As it seems from the brief account at Dio Cass. 38.6.6.   6 XII Tab. 1.18: si luci se telo defendit … endoque plorato. I follow the interpretation of Franz Wieacker, ‘Endoplorare: Diebstahlsverfolgung und Gerüft im altrömischen Recht’, in Festschrift für Leopold Wenger (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1944), pp. 1.129–79, who consults among other texts Cic. Tull. 5; see too Lintott, Violence, p. 13.

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  7 Gaius Dig. 9.2.4.1.   8 Hermann Usener, ‘Italische Volksjustiz’, in Kleine Schriften (Leipzig: B. G. Teubner, 1913); for Catullus, see Eduard Fraenkel, ‘Two Poems of Catullus’, Journal of Roman Studies 51 (1961), pp. 46–53.   9 Dig. 47.17 (Marcianus, Ulpianus, Paulus). My discussion of thieving in the baths derives from Garrett Fagan, Bathing in Public in the Roman World (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1999), pp. 36–9. 10 Fagan, Bathing in Public, p. 37 cites evidence from Aquae Sulis (modern Bath). 11 For a parallel, see Bruce Frier, The Rise of the Roman Jurists: Studies in Cicero’s Pro Caecina (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985), pp. 78–92, on Cicero, Pro Caecina: Aebutius and Caecina prearrange an agreement that the former forcefully expel the latter from his farm near Tarquinii as a necessary antecedent to a suit in court. Frier characterizes this as ‘agreed on force’ (vis ex conventu, p. 80). 12 John M. Kelly, Roman Litigation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1966), pp. 1–30, surveys this practice through the end of the Republic. 13 Lex XII Tab. 1.2 (Warmington). 14 Plaut. Curc. 621: PHAED.: … ambula in ius. THER.: non eo. PHAED.: licet antestari? 15 Lex XII Tab. 3.2 (Warmington): si calvitur pedemve struit, manum endo iacito. 16 E.g., Cic. Quinct. 82-5; Lintott, Violence, p. 29, n. 4, citing Max Kaser, Das römische Privatrecht, 2 vols (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1971 (2nd edn)), p. 1.337. 17 Eduard Fraenkel, Horace (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1957), p. 118, endorsed by Robert M. Ogilvie, A Commentary on Livy, Books 1–5 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970), p. 191, with citations, but contrast Livy 1.41.1, clamor … concursusque (popular response to the murder of Tarquinius Priscus) as well as legal contexts such as Lex XII Tab. 1.18 (plorato), Petron. Sat. 9.5 (proclamarem), Apul. Met. 1.14 (proclamares), Ulp. Dig. 29.5.1.28 (plorantem … proclamasset). 18 Cic. Tusc. 3.50; the judicial metaphor continues in the next sentence (actum habiturum, quod egerint, following Thomas Dougan and Robert Henry, M. Tulli Ciceronis Tusculanarum Disputationum Libri Quinque, vol. 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1934), p. 2.62). Other parallels for the gathering of allies include Livy 2.27 (convolo … iactabat/postulabat) and, in contexts of crowds objecting to actions generally, Livy 1.41.1, 1.48.2, Tac. Ann. 14.42 (concursu plebis) and 45 (conglobata multitudine). 19 Paul. Dig. 48.7.4: Legis Iuliae de vi privata crimen committitur cum coetum aliquis et concursum fecisse dicitur quo minus quis in ius produceretur. 20 Bruce Frier, ‘Urban Praetors and Rural Violence’, Transactions of the American Philological Association 113 (1983), p. 223; Leanne Bablitz, Actors and Audience in the Roman Courtroom (New York and London: Routledge, 2007), pp. 14–16. 21 Peregrinus: Cic. Q. Fr. 2.3.6; Bablitz, Actors and Audience, pp. 21–2, attempts to locate the site more accurately; quaestiones: Bablitz, Actors and Audience, p. 28. 22 Greenidge, Legal Procedure, p. 457; Richard J. A. Talbert, The Senate of Imperial Rome (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1984), pp. 209–10. 23 Bablitz, Actors and Audience, pp. 176–82, weighs carefully the (mostly imperial) evidence. The prolific Cassius Severus gives some glimpse of possible activity (ibid., p. 185) – Seneca claims that he limited his engagements to no more than four private cases over a two-day period (Controv. 3 praef. 5). For recommendations here, see Quint. Inst. 11.3.22. 24 Esp. Duncan Cloud, ‘The Pompeian Tablets and Some Literary Texts’, in Paul McKechnie (ed.), Thinking Like a Lawyer: Essays on Legal History and General History

266 Notes for John Crook on His Eightieth Birthday (Leiden: Brill, 2002), pp. 231–46, but see also Ernest Metzger, Litigation in Roman Law (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), pp. 166–71; Ettore Paratore, ‘Ad Hor. Serm. 1.9.35–42 e 74–78’, in Synteleia Vincento Arangio-Ruiz (Naples: Jovene, 1964), pp. 828–48, anticipated their conclusions before discovery of the Pompeian material. 25 Cloud, ‘The Pompeian Tablets’ (text quoted is discussed at 233–4). 26 Prop. 4.2.57–8: te, qui ad vadimonia curris, / non moror. The discussion in the text demonstrates that the phrase is not merely an alternative to ‘appear in court’ as suggested by William A. Camps, Propertius: Elegies. Book IV (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1965), p. 76, and Lawrence Richardson, Jr, Propertius: Elegies I–IV (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1977), p. 428. 27 Quinct. 25: [Naevius] suos necessarios ab atriis Liciniis et a faucibus macelli corrogat ut ad tabulam Sextiam sibi adsint hora secunda postridie. veniunt frequentes. testificatur iste ‘P. Quinctium non stetisse et stetisse se.’ tabulae maxime signis hominum nobilium consignantur. disceditur. postulat a Burrieno praetore Naevius ut ex edicto bona possidere liceat. For the identification of the Basilica Aemilia, and other details, see Thomas E. Kinsey, M. Tulli Ciceronis Pro P. Quinctio Oratio (Sydney: Sydney University Press, 1971), pp. 83–6. 28 The Lex Iulia de vi privata (quoted in an earlier note from Paul. Dig. 48.7.4) prohibits a defendant from amassing a crowd to prevent his being hauled to court. I assume with most authorities that this law is Augustan and therefore post-dates Satirae 1.9 (bibliography in Rolf Rilinger, Humiliores-Honestiores: Zu einer sozialen Dichotomie im Strafrecht der römischen Kaiserzeit (Munich: Oldenbourg, 1988), pp. 232–4). Even were the law Caesarian, however, my main point remains valid since the right of the plaintiff to amass a crowd, as happens in the satire, is not explicitly restricted. 29 Horace says as much (1.9.73–4, fugit improbus ac me / sub cultro linquit). 30 Fuscus’ direction of approach is not simply probable, but indicated both by the fact that the friends must stop their respective journeys to speak (consistimus, 62) and by the types of questions that Fuscus asks (‘unde venis et / quo tendis?’, 62–3). 31 Kelly, Roman Litigation, p. 3; cf. Peter Garnsey, Social Status and Legal Privilege in the Roman Empire (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970), pp. 181–206 and passim. Brunt’s assessment of self-help in rural settings also supports Kelly’s claims (Peter A. Brunt, Italian Manpower (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), appendix 8, pp. 551–7, esp. 555–6). 32 Or, as the later case of Urgulania demonstrates (Tac. Ann. 2.34), a defendant could also hide in the home of a powerful friend to escape legal persecution (Garnsey, Social Status, p. 188). 33 See in particular Emilio Betti, ‘La vindicatio romana primitiva’, Il Filangieri 39 (1915), pp. 321–44; quotation is from Lintott, Violence, p. 30. 34 Lintott, Violence, pp. 30–1 and more generally 22–34 on violence and Roman law. 35 Friedrich Nietzsche, The Birth of Tragedy and the Genealogy of Morals, trans. Francis Golffing (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1956), p. 164; for modern scholarly discussion of this etymology, see Michiel de Vaan, Etymological Dictionary of Latin and the Other Italic Languages (Leiden: Brill, 2008), pp. 73–4. 36 Hor. Sat. 1.9.26–8, with Emily Gowers, Horace, Satires: Book I (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), p. 289. 37 Keith Hopwood, ‘Aspects of Violent Crime in the Roman Empire’, in Paul McKechnie (ed.), Thinking Like a Lawyer: Essays on Legal History and General History for John

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Crook on His Eightieth Birthday (Leiden: Brill, 2002), pp. 63–80, examines various other features of the Leges Iuliae de vi that are designed to protect elite interests. 38 Michael J. McGann, ‘The Three Worlds of Horace’s Satires’, in Charles D. N. Costa (ed.), Horace (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1973), p. 70, cited by Gowers, Horace, Satires: Book I, 301.

Chapter Eight   1 On ‘ethnoscapes’, see Anthony D. Smith, Myths and Memories of the Nation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), pp. 150–2; Claudia Moatti, ‘La construction du patrimoine culturel à Rome aux 1er siècle avant et 1er siècle après J.-C.’, in Mario Citroni (ed.), Memoria e identità: la cultura romana costruisce la sua immagine (Florence: Università degli Studi di Firenze, Dipartamento di Scienze dell’Antichità ‘Giorgio Pasquali’, 2003). See also Marc Augé, Non-Places: Introduction to an Anthropology of Supermodernity, trans. John Howe (London: Verso, 1995), pp. 42–4.   2 Echoing Sigmund Freud, Civilisation and its Discontents, trans. James Strachey (London: W. W. Norton, 1961), p. 69. This chapter has benefitted enormously from the collaborative work undertaken as part of the Moving City project, and also draws on ideas now developed at greater length in Diana Spencer, Varro’s Guide to Being Roman: Citizen Speech and de Lingua Latina (forthcoming). The Moving City organizers are owed an enormous debt of thanks for driving that project forward and developing this volume.   3 For the methodological principle, see Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space, trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 1991); see also Anthony Corbeill, ‘Political Movement: Walking and Ideology in Republican Rome’, in David Fredrick (ed.), The Roman Gaze: Vision, Power and the Body (Baltimore, NJ: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002); Timothy O’Sullivan, Walking in Roman Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); Diana Spencer, ‘Movement and the Linguistic Turn: Reading Varro’s de Lingua Latina’, in Ray Laurence and David Newsome (eds), Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 57–80; and Östenberg, in this volume.   4 O’Sullivan, in this volume, examines the background to texts as moving entities, a topos which Varro tackles with some elegance, as discussed in Spencer, Varro’s Guide. Laurence, in this volume, is especially helpful on how monuments textualize a cityscape, and draws complementary conclusions.   5 On which, see Laurence in this volume.   6 See Cic. Att. 13.12.   7 Varro Ling. 5.2: unius cuiusque verbi naturae sint duae, a qua re et in qua re vocabulum sit impositum. Text: Varro, De lingua latina, ed. Roland G. Kent (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1951 (rev. edn)). Where necessary, alternative editions may be cited.   8 Varro Ling. 5.12: neque unquam tempus quin fuerit motus: eius enim intervallum tempus; neque motus, ubi non locus et corpus, quod alterum est quod movetur, alterum ubi; neque ubi is agitatus, non action ibi. Igitur initiorum quadrigae locus et corpus, tempus et actio.   9 Ibid., 5.13: Sed qua cognatio eius erit verbi quae radices egerit extra fines suas, persequemur. Saepe enim ad limitem arboris radices sub vicini prodierunt segetem.

268 Notes Quare non, cum de locis dicam, si ab agro ad agrarium hominem ad agricolam pervenero, aberraro. 10 E.g. Ray Laurence, ‘Literature and the Spatial Turn’, in Laurence and Newsome, Movement and Space, pp. 81–99. 11 Varro Ling. 8.1, 5. 12 The notion is one played out most famously in Verg. Aen. 8, where Evander switches Rome’s future(s) on for newcomer Aeneas. See Diana Spencer, Roman Landscape: Culture and Identity (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2010), pp. 50–4, and from a different angle, O’Sullivan, in this volume. 13 Henri Lefebvre and Catherine Régulier-Lefebvre, ‘Le projet rhythmanalytique’, Communications 41 (1985), pp. 191–9. 14 Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, trans. Steven F. Rendall (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1984), pp. 97–102, xxii. 15 Narrative theory is especially significant for Hammar, in this volume. 16 Important groundwork on Varro’s urban sections features in Hubert Zehnacker, ‘La description de Rome dans le livre V du De lingua latina de Varron’, in Philippe Fleury and Olivier Desbordes (eds), Roma illustrata: représentations de la ville. Actes du colloque international de Caen, 6–8 octobre 2005 (Caen: Presses Universitaires de Caen, 2008), pp. 421–32; O’Sullivan, in this volume, on the phenomenon and on the role of Varro’s younger contemporary Catullus. 17 When Varro, later in life, turned rustic guide, many issues familiar to readers of De lingua latina would resurface; see Spencer, Roman Landscape, pp. 69–85. On Rome’s iconic seven hills, see Caroline Vout, The Hills of Rome: Signature of an Eternal City (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). 18 This then takes in the Subura, the Esquiline, the Colline and the Palatine – what he terms the four city regions, each also defined by specified hills and valleys. On ‘heritagescape’ in this context, see Mary-Catherine E. Garden, ‘The Heritagescape: Looking at Landscapes of the Past’, International Journal of Heritage Studies 12 (2006), pp. 394–411. 19 The ‘natural’ features of Rome – plains (campi) and hills (colles) – have been tackled by Varro (Ling. 5.36). A campus is the place from which one takes (capere) agricultural produce, while a collis is named for the act of cultivation (colere) – perhaps because it’s not so obvious that one cultivates a hill as against a plain? 20 Implicitly, here, I see a connection to the kind of ritual which surrounds a foundation, and in narrative terms this works: Varro ‘does’ the foundation of towns in the next section (Ling. 5.143). Underpinning the kind of infrastructural synesthesia this section hints at is Paul Rodaway, Sensuous Geographies: Body, Sense, and Place (London: Routledge, 1994), pp. 41–144, which in turn develops J. Douglas Porteous, Landscapes of the Mind: Worlds of Sense and Metaphor (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1990), especially sections on ‘Homescape’ and ‘Escape’. 21 On via, see Varro Ling. 5.8, 22. 22 C. R. Whittaker, ‘Do Theories of the Ancient City Matter?’, in T. J. Cornell and Kathryn Lomas (eds), Urban Society in Roman Italy (London: UCL Press, 1995), is particularly useful on the complex debate surrounding what constitutes vici, and in particular the slippage from rural to urban. For Varro’s vici in context, see Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, Rome’s Cultural Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), pp. 260–75. 23 See Spencer, ‘Movement and the Linguistic Turn’. 24 Varro Ling. 5.21: propter limitare iter maxime teruntur. 25 Garden, ‘The Heritagescape’, p. 399.

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26 The text is problematic; utraque (5.145) comes from Codex B, and gives a more meaningful reading than F’s dextra qui. 27 This sound/entity relationship draws out the idea of ‘universal language’. See Michel Foucault, Les mots et les choses: Une archéologie des sciences humaines (Paris: Gallimard, 1966). Cf. Paul Rodaway, Sensuous Geographies, p. 145: ‘The sensuous reality is determined, therefore, not merely by raw sensations or naive experience but within the context of a complex of a culture’s systems of beliefs and within the confines of its technological prowess … the senses are both medium and message, physically and culturally defined, a structure and information.’ 28 Livy 1.7.4–15; Verg. Aen. 8.190–279; Prop. 4.9.1–20; Ov. Fast. 1.543–86. 29 Ov. Fast. 6.477–8; Plin. HN 34.10 notes the presence of an Aeginetan bronze ox statue there, but doesn’t comment on its antiquity. 30 Varro’s combined etymology and aetiology, here, fits into what Rodaway, Sensuous Geographies, p. 146, characterizes as the first three (of four related) processes whereby societies interrelate and develop key roles for different senses: symbolization, association and abstraction. 31 Discussed by Corbeill in this volume; see also Hammar in this volume. 32 Livy 40.51. Lothar Haselberger et al., Mapping Augustan Rome (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2002), p. 163, set out the evidence for the likely extent, behind the Basilica Aemilia/Paulli and as far as the Argiletum. 33 Varro Ling. 5.146. Varro complicated the issue at this point by taking two further bites at where the term macellum derives from: first, because there was once a garden there (i.e. the Greco-etymological route); second, because a thief whose cognomen was Macellus had a house there, which was demolished by the state, and the ruins or site of this formed the basis for the structure which came thus to be called Macellum (5.147). 34 Östenberg, in this volume. 35 See Diana Spencer, ‘Rome at a Gallop: Livy on Not Gazing, Jumping, or Toppling into the Void’, in David Larmour and Diana Spencer (eds), The Sites of Rome: Time, Space, Memory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), pp. 61–101, on the Lacus Curtius and movement, drawing in the transvectio equitum which links the Forum with the Circus, a stop a little farther down the line on Varro’s tour; Spencer, Varro’s Guide, further examines this site. The mnemonic force of a structured parade with horses is thoroughly unpacked by Lange in this volume. 36 Spencer, Varro’s Guide, deals with the tour in full. 37 Varro Ling. 5.153: quod circum spectaculis aedificatus ubi ludi fiunt, et quod ibi circum metas fertur pompa et equi currunt. We get (basically) the same explanation for the Circus Flaminius, at Ling. 5.154. 38 Readers empower Varro by joining his procession through Rome: drawing on Karl-Joachim Hölkeskamp, ‘The Roman Republic as Theatre of Power: The Consuls as Leading Actors’, in Hans Beck, Antonio Duplá, Martin Jehne and Francisco Pina Polo (eds), Consuls and Res Publica: Holding High Office in the Roman Republic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), pp. 173–4; see also O’Sullivan, Walking, pp. 51–76; Östenberg, in this volume. 39 The text is especially problematic here. Kent’s version makes the rationale that, rather like a wall (murus), the Cells were formerly be-pinnacled and be-turreted. 40 The -ae ending is an emendation from murcim (Fv). This makes sense in terms of Livy 1.33.1–9, at section 5, which gives ‘ad Murciae’. 41 Otto Skutsch, ‘Enniana IV’, Classical Quarterly NS 11 (1961), pp. 254–8, teases it out briskly, and Timothy P. Wiseman, Remus: A Roman Myth (Cambridge: Cambridge

270 Notes University Press, 1995), pp. 7–8, follows him on this. See also Haselberger et al., Mapping Augustan Rome, pp. 62–3. 42 Livy 1.33.5; Livy makes no reference to Venus, or to ‘Murcia’ as an epithet. 43 Livy 1.33.2. 44 We might also recall Varro’s interest in how the hills and walls interact as defining entities for Rome – at 6.24 he comments (on Sevenhills Day): Dies Septimontium nominatus ab his septem montibus, in quis sita urbs est. Here, the hills are the setting rather than the generating feature for the urbs. 45 Note, e.g., Matthew B. Roller, ‘Demolished Houses, Monumentality, and Memory in Roman Culture’, Classical Antiquity 29 (2010), pp. 117–80. 46 Cic. Acad. 1.9. Cf. ideas raised by Tim Ingold, The Perception of the Environment: Essays on Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill (London: Routledge, 2000), p. 22. O’Sullivan, in this volume, explores this kind of reading of Cicero’s Varro for Ovid’s Augustus. 47 Laurence, in this volume, works toward a synthetic model that admirably showcases the shifting qualities of urban space; his concluding table captures the nuances of how scale, change and experience all undermine monologic readings, vigorously resisting tabular neatness in the process.

Chapter Nine   1 See, e.g. Catharine Edwards, Writing Rome: Textual Approaches to the City (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), p. 30 (‘In the republic … the city itself was Rome’s chief historical text’); Diane Favro, The Urban Image of Augustan Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 217–50 (‘Reading the Augustan City’); Michèle Lowrie, Writing, Performance, and Authority in Augustan Rome (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), p. 317 (‘As with texts, buildings acquire their memorializing function by being read’).   2 See, e.g. Alessandro Barchiesi, The Poet and the Prince: Ovid and Augustan Discourse (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1997), p. 69 (‘Augustus rewrites Rome’); Edwards, Writing Rome, p. 81 (Domitian as author of the new Palatine). On the connection between authorship and imperial acts of representation, see Dylan Sailor, Writing and Empire in Tacitus (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), pp. 36–42; Lowrie, Writing, Performance, and Authority, pp. 279–323.   3 Although other, non-textual metaphors are also available, as Freud’s famous comparison between Rome’s temporal layering and the human psyche shows (Sigmund Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents, trans. James Strachey (New York: W. W. Norton, 1961), pp. 17–19). On Rome as palimpsest, see, e.g. Edwards, Writing Rome, p. 73; Jeri Blair Debrohun, Roman Propertius and the Reinvention of Elegy (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2003), pp. 40–51; David Larmour and Diana Spencer, ‘Introduction – Roma, recepta: A Topography of the Imagination’, in David Larmour and Diana Spencer (eds), The Sites of Rome: Time, Space, Memory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), passim.   4 For a notable exception, see Sil. Pun. 12.569. As Spencer shows in this volume, Varro’s ‘tour’ of Rome (Ling. 5.146–59), where he guides the reader through the etymology of Roman toponyms, constitutes another kind of ‘reading’ of the ancient city.   5 See Edwards, Writing Rome.

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  6 For earlier examinations of Roman literary tours, see Ann Kuttner, ‘Culture and History at Pompey’s Museum’, Transactions of the American Philological Association 129 (1999), pp. 343–73; Ulrich Schmitzer, ‘Literarische Stadtführungen: von Homer bis Ammianus Marcellinus und Petrarca’, Gymnasium 108 (2001), pp. 515–37.   7 On the connection between movement and narrative in Greek literature and thought, see especially Alex C. Purves, Space and Time in Ancient Greek Narrative (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010).   8 See, e.g. Jas Elsner, Roman Eyes: Visuality and Subjectivity in Art and Text (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2007); Michael Squire, Image and Text in GraecoRoman Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009); and essays in Jas Elsner (ed.), Art and Text in Roman Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996).   9 On the scale of ancient Rome and its impact on mobility, see Laurence, in this volume. 10 On the impact of the scroll on ancient reading practices, see William A. Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture in the High Roman Empire: A Study of Elite Communities (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), pp. 17–31. 11 On metaliterary movement in Sat. 1.5, see Emily Gowers, ‘Horace, Satires 1.5: An Inconsequential Journey’, in Kirk Freudenburg (ed.), Horace: Satires and Epistles. Oxford Readings in Classical Studies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009). 12 See Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture, pp. 3–31. Cf. A. K. Gavrilov, ‘Techniques of Reading in Classical Antiquity’, Classical Quarterly 47 (1997), pp. 56–73, who uses psychological evidence to argue that silent reading was the norm in classical antiquity. 13 Cf. Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture, p. 25: ‘In the ancient bookroll … very little paralinguistic information is conveyed, and the necessary consequence is that the ancient reader had much more responsibility for interpretation’. 14 Quint. Inst. 10.1.19, translated by William Johnson (slightly altered), in Readers and Reading Culture, p. 30. 15 The distinction between a mimetic mode (such as drama), in which the poet does not act as narrator, and a diegetic mode, in which the poet-narrator reports the words of his characters, goes back to the third book of Plato’s Republic (392d); Aristotle makes a similar distinction in his Poetics (1448a). 16 William M. Short, ‘Thinking Places, Placing Thoughts: Spatial Metaphors of Mental Activity in Roman Culture’, Quaderni del Ramo d’Oro 1 (2008), pp. 106–29. 17 Regina Höschele, ‘The Traveling Reader: Journeys through Ancient Epigram Books’, Transactions of the American Philological Association 137 (2007), pp. 333–69. 18 For explorations of this activity, see Giancarlo Susini, ‘Spelling out along the Road: Anthropology of the Ancient Reader, or Rather, the Roman Reader’, Alma Mater Studiorum: Rivista scientifica dell’Università di Bologna 1 (1988), pp. 117–24; Mireille Corbier, Donner à voir, donner à lire: mémoire et communication dans la Rome ancienne (Paris: CNRS Editions, 2006). 19 See Höschele, ‘The Traveling Reader’, pp. 338–40. On the construction of the reader in Hellenistic poetry, see Peter Bing, The Well-Read Muse: Present and Past in Callimachus and the Hellenistic Poets (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1988), pp. 10–48. 20 See Walter Wimmel, Kallimachos in Rom: die Nachfolge seines apologetischen Dichtens in der Augusteerzeit (Wiesbaden: F. Steiner, 1960), pp. 103–11; Markus Asper, Onomata Allotria: Zur Genese, Struktur und Funktion poetologischer Metaphern bei Kallimachos (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 1997), pp. 21–107.

272 Notes 21 The joke hinges, of course, on the double meaning of pes as physical and metrical foot, ‘one of the most familiar puns in Latin poetry’; see Stephen Hinds, ‘Booking the Return Trip: Ovid and Tristia 1’, Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 211 [NS 31] (1985), p. 17. 22 See Ov. Tr. 1.1.1–2 (with Hinds, ‘Ovid and Tristia 1’, pp. 13–14): ‘Parve – nec invideo – sine me, liber, ibis in urbem: / ei mihi, quod domino non licet ire tuo!’ 23 See, e.g., Cic. Tusc. 1.61, Verr. 2.2.105, 2.2.190. 24 I borrow the term ‘itinerary poem’ from Kuttner, ‘Pompey’s Museum’, p. 350; she demonstrates how these poems respond to the increasingly monarchical appropriation of the Roman cityscape by leaders such as Pompey and Caesar. On the genre of the ‘literary urban tour,’ see also Schmitzer, ‘Literarische Stadtführungen’. 25 The poems are therefore part of the broader Augustan emphasis on urban reform and geography; see Paul Zanker, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1988); Claude Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1991); Favro, Urban Image; Lothar Haselberger, Urbem adornare: die Stadt Rom und ihre Gestaltumwandlung unter Augustus (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2007). 26 See especially Edwards, Writing Rome. 27 See Timothy J. Moore, ‘Palliata Togata: Plautus, Curculio 462–86’, American Journal of Philology 112 (1991): 343–62. 28 See especially Lawrence Richardson, Jr, ‘Two Topographical Notes’, American Journal of Philology 101 (1980): 53–6; and Timothy P. Wiseman, ‘Professor Richardson and the Other Campus’, American Journal of Philology 101 (1980): 483–5. 29 Mart. 5.20.8. 30 The status of the girl’s breasts as an element of the itinerary is reinforced by its verbal echo and similar placement to an earlier stop (in roseis … papillis / in omnibus libellis). 31 Or again Ov. Am. 1.9.41–2 (ipse ego segnis eram discinctaque otia natus; / mollierant animos lectus et umbra meos), where the shady bed is clearly a metonym of his erotic art. 32 Porphyrio ad Serm. 1.5. On Horace’s complex relationship to Lucilius, see Catherine Schlegel, ‘Horace and the Satirist’s Mask: Shadowboxing with Lucilius’, in Gregson Davis (ed.), A Companion to Horace, Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010 (pp. 263–6 on Sat. 1.5 in particular). 33 The point is made by Gowers, ‘Horace, Satires 1.5’, p. 160. For other metaliterary readings of Sat. 1.5, see Andrea Cucchiarelli, La satira e il poeta: Orazio tra Epodi e Sermones (Pisa: Giardini, 2001). 34 On the legal procedures that lie behind the pest’s movement through the Forum, see Corbeill, in this volume. 35 Jennifer L. Ferriss-Hill, ‘A Stroll with Lucilius: Horace, Satires 1.9 Reconsidered’, American Journal of Philology 132 (2011): 429–55. 36 For more general comments on patterns of movement in Horatian satire, see Kirk Freudenburg, Satires of Rome: Threatening Poses from Lucilius to Juvenal (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), pp. 58–71; Emily Gowers, ‘The Restless Companion: Horace, Satires 1 and 2’, in Kirk Freudenburg (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Roman Satire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), p. 54. 37 For fuller examinations of how Sat. 1.9 reacts to the contemporary urban landscape, see Ulrich Schmitzer, ‘Vom Esquilin nach Trastevere: Hor. sat. 1,9 im Kontext

Notes

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40 41

42

43 44 45 46

47 48 49

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zeitgenössischen Verstehens’, in Severin Koster (ed.), Horaz-Studien (Erlangen: Universitätsbund Erlangen-Nürnberg, 1994); Tara S. Welch, ‘Est locus uni cuique suus: City and Status in Horace’s Satires 1.8 and 1.9’, Classical Antiquity 20 (2001): 165–92. For a fuller exploration of urban walks as social performances, see Timothy M. O’Sullivan, Walking in Roman Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), pp. 51–76. On the connections between this tour and other Roman walks, see O’Sullivan, Walking, pp. 150–2; Eric Kondratieff, ‘Future City in the Heroic Past: Rome, Romans and Roman Landscapes in Aeneid 6–8’, in A. Kemezis (ed.), Urban Dreams and Realities in Antiquity: Remains and Representations of the Ancient City (Leiden: Brill, 2015), pp. 165–222. Evander himself uses a similar phrase at 8.356: reliquias veterumque vides monimenta virorum (‘you see the remnants and monuments of ancient men’). See Mary Jaeger, Livy’s Written Rome (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1997), pp. 15–18; Diana Spencer, ‘Movement and the Linguistic Turn: Reading Varro’s De Lingua Latina’, in Ray Laurence and David Newsome (eds), Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), pp. 71–2. The power of memory-laden places to inspire a kind of metaphorical time travel is a common Roman topos: see Edwards, Writing Rome, 27–43. As I argue elsewhere (Walking, pp. 97–115), Romans perceived the act of walking as particularly appropriate for the activation of this kind of metaphorical travel. See O’Sullivan, Walking, pp. 74–6. Numerous scholars have drawn connections between the parade of heroes and the Forum of Augustus; see especially Henry T. Rowell, ‘Vergil and the Forum of Augustus’, American Journal of Philology 62 (1941): 261–76. For a particularly forceful summary of this Augustan paradox, see Andrew WallaceHadrill, Rome’s Cultural Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), p. 239. On Propertius 4 as a reaction to the Aeneid, see Carl Becker, ‘Die Späten Elegien des Properz’, Hermes 99 (1971), pp. 477–80; Elaine Fantham, ‘Images of the City: Propertius’ New-Old Rome’, in Thomas N. Habinek and Alessandro Schiesaro (eds), The Roman Cultural Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997); Debrohun, Roman Propertius, pp. 37–40. For the ways in which Prop. 4 interacts with Augustan Rome, see Fantham, ‘Propertius’ New-Old Rome’; Tara S. Welch, The Elegiac Cityscape: Propertius and the Meaning of Roman Monuments (Columbus, OH: Ohio State University Press, 2005). See Hans-Peter Stahl, Propertius: ‘Love’ and ‘War’: Individual and State under Augustus (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1985), p. 255. Gregory Hutchinson, Propertius: Elegies, Book IV (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), p. 62: ‘1–54 and book 4 as a whole are a huge non-inscribed epigram about Rome’. Moreover, in the pendant poem 4.1B, which many scholars think is a ‘correction’ of sorts to the first half of the poem, with the astrologer Horos playing the role of Apollo in Callimachus’ Aetia preface, the very first sentence is ‘quo ruis?’ (‘Where are you rushing off to?’). The line thus calls attention to the fact that the monuments ‘tour’ of the first half of the poem, however stationary, does involve a kind of movement, if only in a narrative sense. On the personified book roll in Latin literature, see Gareth Williams, ‘Representations of the Book-Roll in Latin Poetry: Ovid Tr. 1,1,3–14 and Related Texts’, Mnemosyne 45 (1992), pp. 178–89.

274 Notes 51 On the elision of book and author in the poem, see Carole Newlands, ‘The Role of the Book in Tristia 3.1’, Ramus 26 (1997): 57–79. 52 See Hinds, ‘Ovid and Tristia 1’. 53 Samuel J. Huskey, ‘Ovid’s (Mis)Guided Tour of Rome: Some Purposeful Omissions in Tr. 3.1’, Classical Journal 102 (2006): 17–39, argues that the poem intentionally ignores a number of prominent topographical features. On the relationship between Ov. Tr. 3.1 and Verg. Aen. 8, see Newlands, ‘The Role of the Book in Tristia 3.1’, pp. 64–7. 54 On the difficult question of Ovid’s political stance, see Gareth Williams, ‘Politics in Ovid’, in W. J. Dominik, J. Garthwaite and P. A. Roche (eds), Writing Politics in Imperial Rome, (Leiden: Brill, 2009). 55 Suet. Aug. 72, 73.1. 56 On the competition between Ovid and Augustus as rival ‘authors’, see Barchiesi, The Poet and the Prince, 69–73. 57 Cf. Lowrie, Writing, Performance, and Authority, 289: ‘The role of the politician with authority is to concretize or sanction (OLD auctor 3): he might not create the reality he sanctions, but he brings it forward in an act of representation.’ 58 See, e.g. John Bodel, ‘Monumental Villas and Villa Monuments’, Journal of Roman Archaeology 10 (1997), pp. 5–35. 59 See Peter White, Promised Verse: Poets in the Society of Augustan Rome (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993), on the circulation of poets through aristocratic houses (pp. 2–6) and through other locations in the city (pp. 54–9). 60 See Newlands, ‘The Role of the Book in Tristia 3.1’, pp. 59–63. 61 The competition between monuments physical and poetic is a particularly important theme in Pindar; see Deborah Steiner, ‘Pindar’s “Oggetti Parlanti”’, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 95 (1993), pp. 159–80. 62 Cf. Newlands, ‘The Role of the Book in Tristia 3.1’, p. 59: ‘Cleverly seen from the perspective of a small book, Rome looms large and ominous as a city of closed doors and closed minds.’ 63 We might even read Ovid’s commentary on restricted movement under the emperor as a commentary on the comprehensive neighbourhood reforms of Augustus. See Lott, J. Bert, The Neighborhoods of Augustan Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 81–127; and Laurence, in this volume. 64 As David Newsome has recently argued, the introduction of imperial fora changed the nature of movement through Rome, since these spaces served primarily as destinations in and of themselves, rather than thoroughfares; see ‘Movement and Fora in Rome (the Late Republic to the First Century ce)’, in R. Laurence and D. Newsome (eds), Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), pp. 290–311. 65 Spencer, ‘Movement and the Linguistic Turn’, p. 64. On the importance of movement through the city for the political elite of Republican Rome, see Östenberg, in this volume. As Hellström shows (in this volume), the relationship between imperial power and movement through Rome continues to change throughout the imperial period, as the city itself continues to transform under the influence of successive monarchs, and as the declining importance of Rome reduces the pressure on elite movement through the city. 66 Strabo certainly thought so: Geog. 5.3.8. 67 On Augustus’ transformation of the triumph into the imperial adventus, see Lange, in this volume.

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Chapter Ten   1 Even inside the walls, research focused either on specific, well-defined areas of the city or on cult buildings belonging to one or other specific deity. A study dealing synoptically with the city’s sacral topography in its entirety, including all areas and all kinds of deities, has still to be made.   2 On the study of movements, see Hans Bjur and Simon Malmberg, ‘Movement and Urban Development at Two City Gates in Rome: The Porta Esquilina and Porta Tiburtina’, in David Newsome and Ray Laurence (eds), Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), pp. 361–85; Ray Laurence, ‘Endpiece: From Movement to Mobility’, in Newsome and Laurence, Rome, Ostia, Pompeii, pp. 368–401; David Newsome, ‘Introduction: Making Movement Meaningful’, in Newsome and Laurence, Rome, Ostia, Pompeii, pp. 1–54; Laurence, in this volume. The two monographs on religious festivals in Rome do not specifically discuss processions within the festivals: see William Warde Fowler, The Roman Festivals of the Period of the Republic: An Introduction to the Study of the Religion of the Romans (London: Macmillan, 1899); and Howard Hayes Scullard, Festivals and Ceremonies of the Roman Republic (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1981). Abraham Jacob Latham’s monographic study ‘The Ritual Construction of Rome: Processions, Subjectivities and the City from the Late Republic to Late Antiquity’ (PhD thesis, University of California, Santa Barbara, 2007) examines diachronically the processions within the ludi and within the festivals of Magna Mater (and Christian processions which will not be dealt with in this chapter). On Christian processions see further Franz Alto Bauer, ‘Urban Space and Ritual: Constantinople in Late Antiquity’, in J. Rasmus Brandt and Olaf Steen (eds), Imperial Art as Christian Art – Christian Art as Imperial Art: Expression and Meaning in Art and Architecture from Constantine to Justinian (Rome: Bardi Editore, 2001), pp. 27–61; Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, pp. 300–7 (‘Christian proto-processions’ in Rome), pp. 321–30; Abraham Jacob Latham, ‘From Literal to Spiritual Soldiers of Christ: Disputed Episcopal Elections and the Advent of Christian Processions in Late Antique Rome’, Church History 81 (2012): 298–327; Lønstrup, in this volume.   3 The socio-political implications, although an important aspect of these religiously motivated movements, will not be addressed in this chapter. See Östenberg in this volume.   4 On the Roman calendar and the festivals, see Attilio Degrassi (ed.), Inscriptiones Italiae, vol. 13.2: Fasti et elogia: Fasti anni Numani et Iuliani (Rome: Libreria dello Stato, 1963); Jörg Rüpke, Kalender und Öffentlichkeit: Die Geschichte der Repräsentation und religiösen Qualifikation der Zeit in Rom (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1995). In Republican times, see Fowler, Roman Festivals; Scullard, Festivals and Ceremonies. In late antiquity, see Michele R. Salzman, On Roman Time: The CodexCalendar of 354 and the Rhythms of Urban Life in Late Antiquity (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1990). The pompae circenses, funebres and triumphales, highly important within civic, religious and political life in Rome, will not be addressed here. On the pompa circensis in particular, with essential bibliography, see Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, pp. 28–187. On pompae triumphales, see Ida Östenberg, ‘Circum metas fertur: An Alternative Reading of the Triumphal Route’, Historia 59 (2010): 303–20, and Östenberg, in this volume, both with essential and recent bibliography.

276 Notes   5 On Rome, the suburbium, the different boundaries in general, the pomerium as a boundary of ritual significance and its shifts over the course of time in particular, see Maddalena Andreussi, ‘Pomerium’, LTUR 4 (1999): 96–105; John R. Patterson, ‘On the Margins of the City of Rome’, in Valerie M. Hope and Eireann Marshall (eds), Death and Disease in the Ancient City (London: Routledge, 2000), pp. 85–103; Rob Witcher, ‘The Extended Metropolis: Urbs, Suburbium and Population’, Journal of Roman Archaeology 18 (2005): 120–38; Penelope Goodman, The Roman City and Its Periphery: From Rome to Gaul (London: Routledge, 2007), passim, in particular pp. 14–18, 42–59; Ortwin Dally, ‘Die Grenzen Roms’, Geographia Antiqua 19 (2010): 123–41. Later on in time, the Aurelian Wall – and in particular its impact as a new physical boundary within Rome’s sacral topography, affecting also the movements in question – influenced the perception of the pomerium, which thus became permanently and continuously visible. The latest extensive study on the wall, and actually the first one which comprehensively takes into consideration its impact on the city, is Hendrik W. Dey, The Aurelian Wall and the Refashioning of Imperial Rome, ad 271–855 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). However, in examining the ‘sacral topography, interrupted’ (pp. 209–35), Dey does not consider the pagan religion, only the Christian. See also Robert Coates-Stephens, ‘The Walls of Aurelian’, in Ralf Behrwald and Christian Witschel (eds), Rom in der Spätantike: Historische Erinnerung im städtischen Raum (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2012), p. 84, observing that the wall created a ‘new manifestation of the administrative and sacred boundary between Urbs and suburbium’, visible and tangible alike.   6 The choice of these three examples has also a practical reason: they are relatively well attested in the literary evidence. Concerning the problem of literary accounts on the sequences of activities within a festival and the methodological implications, see Udo Scholz, ‘Zur Erforschung der römischen Opfer (Beispiel: Die Lupercalia)’, in Olivier Reverdin and Jean Rudhardt (eds), Le sacrifice dans l’antiquité: Huit exposés suivis de discussions (Geneva: Fondation Hardt, 1980), p. 290.   7 The cult of Magna Mater was introduced officially upon a senatorial decision at the behest of the Sibylline books with the intermediation of important religious and political officials. Magna Mater was accompanied by Attis, who, although very present in the archaeological evidence, is not mentioned in the written sources dealing with her arrival in Rome. The evidence for Attis on the Palatine is published and discussed by Pietro Romanelli, ‘Lo scavo al tempio della Magna Mater sul Palatino e nelle sue adiacenze’, Monumenti antichi 46 (1968): 202–330.   8 Her temple was next to the Temple of Victoria. In closest proximity, there were cultic spots related to Rome’s foundation myth, such as Roma Quadrata, the Lupercal and Romulus’ hut. Mater Deum Magna Idaea Palatina – the Great Idaean and Palatinian Mother of the Gods, as was her ‘official’ name, being connected with the legend of Troy – was therefore also an important figure in the mytho-historical accounts on the origins of Rome.   9 On the temple on the Palatine hill, see Patrizio Pensabene, ‘Magna Mater, aedes’, LTUR 3 (1996): 206–8. On her shrine in the circus, see Filippo Coarelli, ‘I monumenti dei culti orientali a Roma: Questioni topografiche e cronologiche’, in Ugo Bianchi and Maarten J. Vermaseren (eds), La soteriologia dei culti orientali nell’impero romano: Atti del colloquio internazionale, Roma 1979 (Leiden: Brill, 1982), pp. 41–5. On the tholos (known only from literary sources), see Coarelli, ‘I monumenti’, pp. 34–9; but see Pensabene, ‘Magna Mater’, pp. 207–8. On the Phrygianum, see Ralf Biering and Henner von Hesberg, ‘Zur Bau- und Kultgeschichte von St Andreas apud S. Petrum:

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Vom Phrygianum zum Kenotaph Theodosius d. Gr.?’, Römische Quartalschrift für christliche Altertumskunde und Kirchengeschichte 82 (1987): 145–82; Neill McLynn, ‘The Fourth-century Taurobolium’, Phoenix 50 (1996): 312–30; Paolo Liverani, La topografia antica del Vaticano (Vatican City: [Tipografia vaticana], 1999); Paolo Liverani, ‘Phrygianum’, LTURS 4 (2006): 201–3. On the Almo river, see Giuseppina Pisani Sartorio, ‘Almo’, LTURS 1 (2001): 45–6; Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, pp. 218–19 (the sacellum is not testified to by archaeological evidence). 10 The Basilica Hilariana is identified for an inscription in situ; its use until the fourth century is attested by archaeological evidence. Carlo Pavolini, ‘Basilica Hilariana’, LTUR 1 (1993): 175–6; Carlo Pavolini, ‘La sommità del Celio in età imperiale: dai culti pagani orientali al culto cristiano’, in Hugo Brandenburg and József Pál (eds), Santo Stefano Rotondo in Roma: Archeologia, storia dell’arte, restauro. Atti del convegno internazionale, Roma 1996 (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2000), pp. 17–27; Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, pp. 203–4. 11 Duncan Fishwick, ‘The Cannophori and the March Festival of Magna Mater’, Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 97 (1966), pp. 193–202; Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, pp. 195–8, with older bibliography. 12 On the Megalensia, see Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, pp. 186–95, 223–48; Jaime Alvar Ezguerra, Romanising Oriental Gods: Myth, Salvation and Ethics in the Cults of Cybele, Isis and Mithras (Leiden: Brill, 2008), pp. 282–4, with older bibliography. 13 For a comprehensive collection of archaeological and literary material related to the two festivals, see Anna Katharina Rieger, Heiligtümer in Ostia (Munich: Pfeil, 2004), p. 154 n. 717; further Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods, esp. pp. 240–61. On these aspects and their meanings within the Roman religion and concepts of ‘Romanness’, see Mary Beard, ‘The Cult of the Great Mother in Imperial Rome: The Roman and the Foreign’, in J. Rasmus Brandt and Jon W. Iddeng (eds), Greek and Roman Festivals: Content, Meaning, and Practice (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), pp. 323–62. 14 Degrassi, Inscriptiones, pp. 423–32. The single days within the festival’s sequence were added subsequently to the Roman festival calendar in imperial times. They appear all together for the first time in the Calendar of 354. This list represents the ‘final point of a long evolution whose details remain obscure’ (Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods, p. 286); for its development in general and the organization of the related collegia in particular, see Fishwick, ‘Cannophori’ (but see Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods, pp. 284–93); Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, pp. 195–223. 15 The earliest epigraphic evidence for the cannophori is from the times of Antoninus Pius. For further details, see Fishwick, ‘Cannophori’; see also Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, pp. 195–8, and Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods, p. 290, both with older bibliography. On the significance of Canna intrat, also in terms of the narratological relation of myth and festival, see Fishwick, ‘Cannophori’. 16 Between the days Canna intrat (15 March) and Arbor intrat (22 March), the devotees were fasting (Castus Matris Deum; see Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, pp. 198–9). 17 The earliest epigraphic evidence for the dendrophori dates from the first century ce, but the collegium seems to be an older institution. See Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods, p. 299; Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, pp. 199–201, with older bibliography. 18 Suet. Otho 8, regarding this day: die quo cultores deum matris lamentari et plangere incipiunt (‘on the day when those who worshipped the Mother of the Gods began to weep and wail’); Fishwick, ‘Cannophori’, pp. 200–1 with n. 26. On the other sources, see Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, pp. 199–207; Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods, pp. 288–90.

278 Notes 19 The entry Arbor sancta in regio II in the regionary catalogues allows the assumption that the pine tree, annually required for the ritual, was grown here or nearby, probably in a pine grove. See Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, pp. 201–3, also on the significance and the possible interpretations of the pine tree. – Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods, p. 293: ‘The institutional expression of that commitment is surely membership in the collegia.’ 20 The devotees processed through the streets, lacerating their bodies; the ritual burial of Attis, that is, the pine tree, in the sanctuary supposedly took place in the evening (Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods, p. 290). 21 On the question of whether Attis’ resurrection occurred or not (as I believe), see Garth Thomas, ‘Magna Mater and Attis’, in Wolfgang Haase (ed.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt 2.17.3 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1984), p. 1518 (with n. 92); Giulia Sfameni Gasparro, Soteriology and Mystic Aspects in the Cult of Cybele and Attis (Leiden: Brill, 1985), p. 59 passim. Fishwick, ‘Cannophori’, points out that the festival, in its earlier stage, would seem to have been of a predominantly funerary nature and that it was only at its final stage, in the third and fourth centuries, that the death and resurrection of Attis would have been celebrated. As Giulia Sfameni Gasparro (‘Misteri e culti orientali: Un problema storico-religioso’, in Jörg Rüpke and Paolo Scarpi (eds), Religions orientales – culti misterici: Neue Perspektiven – nouvelles perspectives – prospettive nuove (Stuttgart: Steiner, 2006), p. 199, see also n. 83) convincingly states, notions of resurrection occur only in late literary Christian texts, by means of an ‘implicita interpretatio cristiana della vicenda del personaggio … piuttosto che un influenza dell’ideologia cristiana della resurrezione sul complesso misterico metroaco’. See also Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods, pp. 291–3. But see Salzman, On Roman Time, pp. 164–7, and especially Patrizio Pensabene, ‘Il culto di Cibele e la topografia sacra di Roma’, in Beatrice Palma Venetucci (ed.), Culti orientali tra scavo e collezionismo (Rome: Artemide, 2008), p. 30, who assumes not only the resurrection of Attis, but even more a hieros gamos. 22 Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, pp. 207–11. 23 About the Requietio nothing beside its name is known: see Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, p. 212; Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods, p. 291 n. 331 (‘evidently merely a bridge to the Lavatio’). 24 Mart. 3.47.1–2; Ov. Fast. 4.339. Fishwick, ‘Cannophori’, p. 201; Pisani Sartorio, ‘Almo’, p. 46; Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, pp. 212–16. There is some reason to assume that the ritual washing of the goddess in earlier times took place in the sanctuary on the Palatine hill, and that indeed it was moved to the Almo in Augustan period (Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods, p. 285, discussing also the archaeological evidence). 25 Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods, pp. 286–90. The quindecimviri had also a prominent role at the arrival of the goddess in Rome; galli and bellonari were also involved. 26 Ibid., p. 287 n. 313, for collected literary evidence. 27 See below, n. 42. 28 As Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, pp. 197, 204–5, 218–19, has shown, the dendrophori (but also the cannophori, although their procession had a different starting point) passed the Temple of Divus Claudius, an emperor who had an important role in establishing elements of this festival in Rome. From here, they continued either right towards the Colosseum onto the Forum and up the Clivus Palatinus to the sanctuary, in which case they passed the tholos of Magna Mater at the intersection of Via Sacra and Clivus Palatinus, or they continued left, passing the Circus Maximus and the shrine of the goddess within, and then up the Clivus Victoriae to the sanctuary.

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29 Thomas, ‘Magna Mater and Attis’, p. 1519, arguing convincingly that the emphasis would have been on the tragedy of Cybele, from which follows that the ceremonies concerning the sacred tree and the ritual bathing, dendrophoría and Lavatio, would have been the major aspects of the festival, while Sanguem, Requietio and Hilaria were of lesser importance; see also Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods, p. 290 n. 324. 30 Thomas, ‘Magna Mater and Attis’, p. 1519. This notion also sheds light on the reasons for the excessive rejoicing on the day of Hilaria. As Pieter Lambrechts, Attis en het feest der Hilariën (Amsterdam: Noord-Hollandsche Uitgevers Maatschappij, 1967; non vidi) points out, the Hilaria was not about the joy of the believers over the resurrection of Attis, but rather about the joy of Cybele (see Sfameni Gasparro, Soteriology, p. 59 and passim). Thomas, ‘Magna Mater and Attis’, p. 1519, continues that, in this festival, ‘Attis has no part beyond the funeral: the festival belongs to Cybele’, who ‘rejoices in her cleansing in the Almo from the miásmata resulting from the funeral episode’. 31 But see Pensabene, ‘Il culto di Cibele’, pp. 21–39. 32 But see ibid., pp. 30–1. The purification would have been needed after the hieros gamos. 33 The Via Appia, the Porta Capena and the confluence of the Almo and the Tiber are always mentioned together in scholarly literature (e.g. Latham, ‘Ritual Construction’, pp. 196–8, 218–20; Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods, pp. 286–7; Pensabene, ‘Il culto di Cibele’, p. 31). Actually, the confluence of the two rivers is near Via Ostiensis, which is also the road leading to Ostia. For a brief discussion, see Danielle Porte, ‘Claudia Quinta et le problème de la lavatio de Cybèle en 204 av. J.-C.’, Klio 66 (1984), pp. 99–100; see also Pensabene, ‘Il culto di Cibele’, p. 28 (‘risalendo il corso di Almone, dopo aver attraversato successivamente l’Ostiense, l’Ardeatina e l’Appia, si arriva …’), and John Scheid, ‘Sive in civitate … sive in agro: Réflexions sur le statut des lieux de culte situés sur le territoire des cités’, in Juliette de la Genière, André Vanchez and Jean Leclant (eds), Les sanctuaires et leur rayonnement dans le monde méditerranéen de l’antiquité à l’époque moderne (Paris: Académie des inscriptions et belles lettres, 2010), pp. 151–2 (Via Ostiensis). 34 Scheid, ‘Sive in civitate’, p. 151. In fact, she and her utensils were bathed τῶν Φρυγῶν νόμῳ (‘according to the Phrygian custom’), with the priest robed in red; see Alvar, Romanising Oriental Gods, p. 287, with evidence. 35 On the transvectio, see Degrassi, Inscriptiones, p. 483; Jörg Rüpke, Domi militiae: Die religiöse Konstruktion des Krieges in Rom (Stuggtart: Steiner, 1990), p. 27. Its longevity is supposedly due also to its connection to the imperial cult (Salzman, On Roman Time, p. 141). On the Dioscuri, their iconography and related monuments, see Leila Nista (ed.), Castores: L’immagine dei Dioscuri a Roma (Rome: De Luca, 1994). 36 Paul Veyne, ‘Iconographie de la “Transvectio equitum” et des Lupercales’, Revue des études anciennes 62 (1960), pp. 100–12; Fernando Rebecchi, ‘Per l’iconografia della transvectio equitum: Altre considerazioni e nuovi documenti’, in L’ordre équestre: Histoire d’une aristocracie (IIe siècle av. J.-C. – IIIe siècle ap. J.-C.): Actes du colloque international 1995 (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1999), pp. 191–214. 37 Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Ant. Rom. 6.13.4) mentions the Temple of Mars; in De vir. ill. (32.3) it is the Temple of Honos and Virtus. In either case, the performance had its starting point at Porta Capena; either way, there is an affinity to the military sphere and to the equites. 38 On the Temple of the Dioscuri, see Inge Nielsen, ‘Castor, aedes, templum’, LTUR 1 (1993), pp. 242–5; Inge Nielsen and Birte Poulsen (eds), The Temple of Castor and Pollux, 1 (Rome: De Luca, 1992).

280 Notes 39 On the Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, see Stefano De Angeli, ‘Iuppiter Optimus Maximus Capitolinus, aedes (fasi tardo-repubblicane e di età imperiale)’, LTUR 3 (1996), pp. 152–3. 40 On the lavishness, splendour and impressions of the transvectio, see Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 6.13.4. 41 Pliny HN 15.19. See also Östenberg in this volume. 42 On the Porta Capena, see Helke Kammerer-Grothaus, ‘Die “Passeggiata Archeologica” zwischen Porta Capena und Aurelianischer Mauer’, Polis 2 (2006), pp. 329–40; with particular regard to its physical end, see Andreas Grüner, ‘Der Lapis Manalis: Zu einem altrömischen Kultmal an der Via Appia’, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung 110 (2003), pp. 345–51. 43 In general on these, see Andreas Alföldi, ‘Ager romanus antiquus’, Hermes 90 (1962), pp. 187–213; John Scheid, ‘Les sanctuaires de confins dans la Rome antique: Réalité et permanence d’une représentation idéale de l’espace romain’, in L’Urbs: espace urbain et histoire. Actes du colloque international, Rome 1985 (Rome, École Française de Rome, 1987), pp. 583–95; Giovanni Colonna, ‘Acqua Acetosa Laurentina, l’ager Romanus e i santuari al I miglio’, Scienze dell’antichità 5 (1991), pp. 209–32; Claudia Lega, ‘Topogafia dei culti delle divinità protettrici dell’agricoltura e del lavoro dei campi nel suburbio di Roma’, in Lorenzo Quilici and Stefania Quilici Gigli (eds), Agricoltura e commerci nell’Italia antica (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 1995), pp. 115–25; Augusto Gianferrari, ‘Robigalia: Un appuntamento per la salvezza del raccolto’, in Quilici and Quilici Gigli, Agricoltura e commerci, pp. 127–40; Scheid, ‘Sive in civitate’. 44 Alföldi, ‘Ager Romanus’; Stefania Quilici Gigli, ‘Considerazioni sui confini del territorio di Roma primitiva’, Mélanges de l’École Française de Rome: Antiquité 90 (1978), pp. 567–75; Colonna, ‘Acqua Acetosa’; Scheid, ‘Sanctuaires de confins’; John Scheid, Romulus et ses frères: Le collège des frères Arvales, modèle du cult public dans la Rome des empereurs (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1990), pp. 100–2; Scheid, ‘Sive civitate’. 45 On the few literary sources mentioning the fratres Arvales, see Eckart Olshausen, ‘“Über die römischen Ackerbrüder”: Geschichte eines Kultes’, in Wolfgang Haase (ed.), Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt 2.16.1 (Berlin, De Gruyter, 1978), p. 821, n. 2; discussed more at length in Scheid, Romulus, pp. 13–40. 46 Her name is known only from the Arval Acta. 47 CIL 6.2017: in luc(o) d(eae) D(iae) via Camp(ana) apud lap(idem) V conv(enerunt) (‘they met in the sanctuary of Dea Dia, by the fifth milestone on the Via Campana’). The main buildings, as preserved from the third century ce, are the round temple of Dea Dia, a tetrastylon that served as dining room for the ritual feasting, a balneum and a circus for chariot races. The indications as given in the Acta and the excavation results coincide. See Scheid, Romulus, pp. 73–7, 102–66; Dorothea Baudy, Römische Umgangsriten: Eine ethologische Untersuchung der Funktion von Wiederholung für religiöses Verhalten (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1998), pp. 159-79; John Scheid, ‘Campana via’, LTURS 2 (2004), pp. 56–8; John Scheid, ‘Deae Diae lucus’, LTURS 2 (2004), pp. 189–91. 48 Therefore, not listed in the calendars and not featuring in the Fasti of Ovid. The date of the festival was announced in January (indictio). See Mary Beard, ‘Writing and Ritual: A Study of Diversity and Expansion in the Arval Acta’, Papers of the British School at Rome 53 (1985) with appendix I; Scheid, Romulus, pp. 451–73. 49 Ida Paladino, Fratres Arvales: Storia di un collegio sacerdotale romano (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 1988), p. 112, points out the rustic and ‘selvaggio’ character of the site (‘in un luogo presumibilmente selvaggio; tutto ciò mette in grande risalto il suo carattere extra-urbano e pertanto estraneo a ciò che è cultura’). However, the lucus

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of Dea Dia contained elements of a very urban character (the balnea, for example), and the fact that the Arvals kept written records of their daily activities, and also inscribed these records in marble at the end of their year, is a sign of sophistication rather than of rusticity and ‘estraneo a ciò che è cultura’. At the most, Paladino’s point could be true for the archaic period. 50 The statue was dressed, perfumed and took place in the ritual meals: Scheid, Romulus, pp. 509, 525–9, 541, 624–5. 51 Beard, ‘Writing and Ritual’; Scheid, Romulus. 52 Nor did any of the other priestly colleges have an official residence in Rome. Jörg Rüpke, ‘Collegia sacerdotum: Religiöse Vereine der Oberschicht’, in Ulrike Egelhaaf-Gaiser and Alfred Schäfer (eds), Religiöse Vereine in der römischen Antike: Untersuchungen zu Organisation, Ritual und Raumordnung (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), pp. 49–51. 53 Scheid, Romulus, pp. 173–82, 460–73; Beard, ‘Writing and Ritual’, pp. 149–56 (appendix I). 54 First day, domi: sacrifice of wine and incense and various other rituals in the morning; feasting, another sacrifice of wine and incense in the afternoon. Second day, in luco: sacrifice of pigs and cow followed by meal; sacrifice of lamb; hymn and tripodatio and various other rituals; circus games; later, again domi, dinner. Third day, domi: sacrifice and dinner. Beard, ‘Writing and Ritual’, pp. 128, 156–8 (appendix II: first day), 158–60 (appendix III: second day); Scheid, Romulus, pp. 506–676. 55 Fratres arvales dicti sunt qui sacra publica faciunt propterea ut fruges ferant arva (‘those who conduct public rites so that the fields (arva) will yield produce are called the Arval Brethren’, Varro Ling. 5.85). See Baudy, Umgangsriten, pp. 160–2. 56 The inclusion of the imperial cult became a main concern within the ritual duties of the Arvals. On the regular and extraordinary rituals carried out by the Arvals pro salute of the imperial house, see Beard, ‘Writing and Ritual’, pp. 116-17; Scheid, Romulus, pp. 384–439. On Augustus’ intervention into the cult, see Beard, ‘Writing and Ritual’, p. 116; Scheid, Romulus, pp. 679–731. 57 Scheid, Romulus, pp. 621–3; Baudy Umgangsriten, pp. 168–70. On the multiplicity of divinities involved in extraordinary ritual activities, such as expiatory sacrifices, see Scheid, Romulus, pp. 138–40. 58 Scheid, Romulus, pp. 616–23 (for bibliography on the hymn itself, see pp. 644–6). 59 Regarding the discussion on whether the ambarvalia were carried out by the Arvals, on whether they were somehow related to Dea Dia and also on the location Φῆστοι mentioned by Strabo (5.3.2), see Alföldi, ‘Ager Romanus’, pp. 195–6; Scheid, ‘Sanctuaires de confins’, p. 584 (‘Ve / VIe mille d’une route indéterminée’); Scheid, Romulus, pp. 98–100; but see Baudy, Umgangsriten, pp. 174–8, arguing that the Φῆστοι mentioned by Strabo would actually be the lucus Deae Diae. For a summary of the scholarly discussion and the positions, see Baudy, Umgangsriten, pp. 159–64. 60 Baudy, Umgangsriten, pp. 158–71. 61 Ibid., pp. 170–1. It is probable, though, that these movements around the limits of Rome’s territory were impracticable from the outset and that they have always been performed ‘just’ symbolically. 62 Patterson, ‘On the Margins’, pp. 97–101. On the Porta Capena area, see also Kammerer-Grothaus, ‘Passeggiata Archeologica’. 63 See Östenberg, in this volume. 64 As opposed to the practices dealing with the dead and the relative cults: in this respect, the pomerium separated these two areas distinctively from each other.

282 Notes

Chapter Eleven   1 There has been a recent outpouring of research on the Roman triumph: see Claudine Auliard, Victoires et triomphes à Rome: Droit et réalités sous la République (Paris: Presses Universitaires Franc-Comtoises, 2001); Tanja Itgenshorst, Tota illa pompa: Der Triumph in der römischen Republik (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005); Jean-Luc Bastien, Le triomphe romain et son utilisation politique à Rome aux trois derniers siècles de la République (Rome: École française de Rome, 2007); Mary Beard, The Roman Triumph (Cambridge, MA: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2007); Helmut Krasser et al. (eds), Triplici invectus triumpho: Der römische Triumph in augusteischer Zeit (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2008); Miriam R. Pelikan Pittenger, Contested Triumphs: Politics, Pageantry, and Performance in Livy’s Republican Rome (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2008); Ida Östenberg, Staging the World: Spoils, Captives, and Representations in the Roman Triumphal Procession (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009); Christoph Lundgreen, Regelkonflikte in der römischen Republik: Geltung und Gewichtung von Normen in politischen Entscheidungsprozessen (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2011), pp. 178–253. Unless stated otherwise, all translations are those of the Loeb Classical Library.   2 What happened in between is open to debate: for a correction of the standard view of Filippo Coarelli, ‘La porta trionfale e la via dei trionfi’, Dialoghi di archeologia 2 (1968), pp. 55–103 on the triumphal route, see now Ida Östenberg, ‘Circum metas fertur: An Alternative Reading of the Triumphal Route’, Historia 59 (2010), pp. 303–20.   3 Cic. Verr. 5.77; Ov. Pont. 2.1.41-6; Plut. Mar. 12.3–4; Timothy Peter Wiseman, ‘Three Notes on the Triumphal Route’, in Anna Leone, Domenico Palombi and Susan Walker (eds), Res Bene Gestae: Ricerche di storia urbana su Roma antica in onore Eva Margareta Steinby (Rome: Edizioni Quasar, 2007), pp. 445–9, at 447.   4 See Geoffrey S. Sumi, Ceremony and Power: Performing Politics in Rome between Republic and Empire (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2005), pp. 35–41; Ida Östenberg, in this volume.   5 On imperial adventus see Sabine G. MacCormack, Art and Ceremony in Late Antiquity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981); Helmut Halfmann, Itinera Principum: Geschichte und Typologie der Kaiserreisen im Römischen Reich (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1986); Stéphane Benoist, Rome, le prince et la Cité: Pouvoir impérial et cérémonies publiques (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2005), pp. 19–101.   6 See Carsten H. Lange, ‘Triumph and Civil War in the Late Republic’, Papers of the British School at Rome 81 (2013): 67–90.   7 See Carsten H. Lange, Res Publica Constituta: Actium, Apollo and the Accomplishment of the Triumviral Assignment (Leiden: Brill, 2009), pp. 26–8.   8 Feriale Cumanum (Atilius Degrassi, Inscriptiones Italiae 13.2: Fasti Anni Numani et Iuliani (Rome: Libreria delle Stato, 1963), p. 442); Ov. Fast. 4.673–6; Dio Cass. 46.38.1; Cic. Phil. 14 (21 April: Senate meeting after the victory at Mutina; speech given in support of a proposal to recognize the three commanders’ acclamations and to decree supplicationes, raising the latter to 50 days).   9 See Lange, ‘Triumph and Civil War’. 10 Beard, The Roman Triumph, p. 324.

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11 On the differences and similarities between two central Roman celebrations, the triumph and the adventus, see Carsten H. Lange, ‘Constantine’s Civil War Triumph of ad 312 and the Adaptability of Triumphal Tradition’, Analecta Romana Instituti Danici 37 (2012), pp. 29–53. 12 See Christopher B. R. Pelling, ‘The Triumviral Period’, in Alan K. Bowman et al. (eds), Cambridge Ancient History 10: The Augustan Empire, 43 bc–ad 69 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996 (2nd edn)), pp. 1–69, esp. 17–18; Lange, Res Publica Constituta, esp. 28–9. For the reconciliation: Livy Per. 127; Vell. Pat. 2.76.3; 78.1; Tac. Ann. 1.10; App. B Civ. 5.60-4; Dio Cass. 48.28.3, 31.3. 13 Atilius Degrassi, Inscriptiones Italiae 13.1: Fasti Consulares et Triumphales (Rome: Libreria delle Stato, 1947), pp. 86–7, 568; cf. 342–3 (Fasti Barberiniani). 14 Dio Cass. 44.4.3; Suet. Iul. 79; Degrassi, Inscriptiones Italiae 13.1, pp. 86–7, 567. 15 Lange, Res Publica Constituta. 16 Cic. De or. 2.195; Livy 28.9.16; Suet. Claud. 24.3; SHA Sev. 14.7; Serv. Aen. 4.543. 17 Degrassi, Inscriptiones Italiae 13.1, pp. 86–7, 569: ovans ex Sicilia. Assignment: App. B Civ. 5.65; Dio Cass. 48.28.4; Lange, Res Publica Constituta, esp. pp. 29–33. This is a typical example of the blurring of civil and foreign war found during this period (Lange, Res Publica Constituta, esp. pp. 79–93; Lange, ‘Triumph and Civil War’). Contrary to this view, see Alison E. Cooley, Res Gestae Divi Augusti: Text, Translation, and Commentary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), p. 121. App. B Civ. 5.130 mentions that Octavian proclaimed peace and the ending of the civil wars. He was also given a column with prows, proclaiming the ending of the civil discord on its inscription (Lange, Res Publica Constituta, pp. 33–8, esp. 35). 18 Degrassi, Inscriptiones Italiae 13.1, pp. 86–7, 569. 19 See John W. Humphrey and Meyer Reinhold, ‘Res Gestae 4.1 and the Ovations of Augustus’, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 57 (1984), pp. 60–2. 20 See Georg Rohde, RE 18² (1942), pp. 1890–1903, s.v. Ovatio, at 1898–9. 21 For these honours, see Lange, Res Publica Constituta, pp. 125–57. 22 The Senate had previously voted a triumph to Caesar in 48 bce, over Juba and the Romans fighting with him, before the war even had begun (Dio Cass. 42.20.1–5; cf. 43.14.3). For the traditional procedure of requesting a triumph, see Dion. Hal. 3.22.3; Livy 3.63.5-11. A late source like Dio Cassius would have worked from contemporary evidence, at least implicitly, using evidence that derived from contemporary sources. See Lange, Res Publica Constituta, esp. p. 131. 23 On the honours presented to Octavian after Actium and Alexandria, see Lange, Res Publica Constituta, pp. 125–57. 24 See Carsten H. Lange, ‘The Battle of Actium: A Reconsideration’, Classical Quarterly 61 (2011): 608–23. Augustus’ sixth imperatorial acclamation came after Actium (Oros. 6.19.14). The fourth and fifth must be respectively for Naulochus and for the victory in Illyricum, with the second and third after Perusia and Brundisium, as mentioned above. Actium was both a foreign and a civil war: Lange, Res Publica Constituta, esp. pp. 60–90; Lange, ‘Triumph and Civil War’. 25 Ida Östenberg, ‘Demonstrating the Conquest of the World: The Procession of Peoples and Rivers on the Shield of Aeneas and the Triple Triumph of Octavian in 29 B.C. (Aen. 8.722–728)’, Opuscula Romana: Annual of the Swedish Institute in Rome 24 (1999), pp. 155–62, esp. at 156, argues that the triple triumph was a combined manifestation. Against this view, see Lange, Res Publica Constituta, pp. 148–56. The separate entries of the Fasti Triumphales seem to prove her wrong. 26 Cf. Dio Cass. 53.26.5; 55.6.6; Flor. 2.33.53.

284 Notes 27 RG 4.1, translation adapted from Cooley, Res Gestae Divi Augusti; cf. Fasti Barberiniani (Degrassi, Inscriptiones Italiae 13.1, pp. 344–5, 570). Suetonius (Aug. 22) and all other sources distinctly mention three triumphs and not a multi-day triumph, as celebrated earlier: Quinctius Flamininus (Livy 34.52.3–4; Degrassi, Inscriptiones Italiae 13.1, pp. 78–9, 553) and Aemilius Paullus (Livy 45.40; Plut. Aem. 32-4; Diod. Sic. 31.8.9–13; Degrassi, Inscriptiones Italiae 13.1, pp. 80–1, 556) both celebrated three-day triumphs, Pompeius two days (Plin. HN 7.26.98–9; App. Mith. 116-17; Plut. Pomp. 45; Dio Cass. 37.21.2; Degrassi, Inscriptiones Italiae 13.1, pp. 84–5, 566). 28 Lange, Res Publica Constituta, p. 155; Michel Tarpin ‘Le triomphe d’Auguste: héritage de la République ou révolution?’, in Frédéric Hurlet and Bernard Mineo (eds), Le Principat d’Auguste: Réalités et représentations du pouvoir Autour de la Res publica restituta (Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2009), pp. 129–42, 140; Frederik J. Vervaet, ‘On the Order of Appearance in Imperator Caesar’s Third Triumph (15 August 29 bce)’, Latomus 70 (2011), pp. 96–102. According to Jerzy Linderski, ‘Rome, Aphrodisias and the Res Gestae: The Genera Militiae and the Status of Octavian’, Journal of Roman Studies 74 (1984), pp. 74–80, the oath was a military oath; cf. Vervaet, ‘Imperator Caesar’s Third Triumph’, p. 102. It seems much more likely though that Octavian brought the senators along to prove his legitimacy and then wanted to reinforce the point in the triumph. See also Lange, Res Publica Constituta, p. 66 n. 69. Mary Beard, The Roman Triumph, p. 240, rightly stresses that the order of procession was mentioned by Dio Cassius as an honour. 29 Varro Ling. 5.165; Livy 1.19.2; Plin. HN 34.33. On the first closing of the Temple of Janus, see John W. Rich, ‘Augustus, War and Peace’, in Lucas De Blois et al. (eds), The Representation and Perception of Roman Imperial Power (Amsterdam: Brill, 2003), pp. 329–57; Lange, Res Publica Constituta, pp. 144–8. 30 See Degrassi, Inscriptiones Italiae 13.2, pp. 113, 395; EJ, p. 45. The Fasti Praenestini seem to suggest that Octavian closed the temple himself; Livy might agree (1.19.3), whereas Suetonius (Aug. 22) and Horace (Carm. 4.15.9) cannot be taken to suggest that he performed the action in person. 31 The triumph as a ‘Kriegsbeendigungsritus’, see Jörg Rüpke, Domi Militiae. Die religiöse Konstruktion des Krieges in Rom (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 1990), pp. 225–6. 32 Filippo Coarelli, Il Foro Boario dalle origini alla fine della repubblica (Rome: Edizioni Quasar, 1992 (2nd edn)), pp. 363–414. See also Lothar Haselberger, Mapping Augustan Rome (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2002), s.v. Porta Carmentalis, Porta Triumphalis. 33 Suet. Aug. 100.2; Dio Cass. 56.42.1. Timothy Peter Wiseman, ‘Review of M. Beard (2007) The Roman Triumph’, Journal of Roman Archaeology 21 (2008), pp. 389–91. 34 Coarelli, Il Foro Boario, pp. 13-59, 234–44, 104–5 (map); Haselberger, Mapping Augustan Rome, pp. 174–6, at 174 (accepting Coarelli’s reconstruction with some caution); Seth G. Bernard, ‘Continuing the Debate on Rome’s Earliest Circuit Walls’, Papers of the British School at Rome 80 (2012), pp. 1–44, at 24, map on p. 36. 35 Coarelli, Il Foro Boario, p. 36; Bernard, ‘Rome’s Earliest Circle Walls’, p. 25. 36 Convenient tabulation at Marianne Bonnefond-Coudry, Le sénat et la République romaine: De la guerre d’Hannibal à Auguste: pratiques délibératives et prise de décision (Rome: École française de Rome, 1989), pp. 144–5. 37 Livy 45.35.3; Plut. Aem. 30.2; cf. Cic. Fin. 5.70; Degrassi, Inscriptiones Italiae 13.1, pp. 80–1, 556, for the triumph. 38 Nicholas Purcell, ‘The Ports of Rome: Evolution of a “façade maritime”’, in Anna G. Zevi and Amanda Claridge (eds), ‘Roman Ostia’ Revisited: Archaeological and

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Historical Papers in Memory of Russell Meiggs (London: British School at Rome, 1996), pp. 267–79, at 269. 39 See now mainly Pier Luigi Tucci, ‘Navalia’, Archeologia Classica 57 (2006), pp. 175–202, who rejects the Horrea Cornelia and convincingly suggests that the building was a series of 50 shipsheds. See also Filippo Coarelli, ‘Horrea Cornalia?’, in Anna Leone, Domenico Palombi and Susan Walker (eds), Res Bene Gestae: ricerche di storia urbana su Roma antica in onore di Eva Margareta Steinby (Rome: Edizioni Quasar, 2007), pp. 41–6; contra Francesco P. Arata and Enrico Felici, ‘Porticus Aemilia, Navalia o Horrea? Ancora sui Frammenti 23 E 24 b–d della Forma Urbis’, Archeologia Classica 62 (2011), pp. 127–53. 40 On Augustus’ travels from 27 bce onwards, see tabulation in Halfmann, Kaiserreisen im Römischen Reich, pp. 157–62. 41 The triumviral assignment thus became the model for Augustus’ retaining of the powers needed to carry out the assignments presented to him by the Senate and the people. Fixed-term tasks became the standard way for Augustus to justify monarchy; see Lange, Res Publica Constituta, esp. pp. 18–38, 181–8, 198; John W. Rich, ‘Deception, Lies and Economy with the Truth: Augustus and the Establishment of the Principate’, in Andrew J. Turner et al. (eds), Private and Public Lies: The Discourse of Despotism and Deceit in the Graeco-Roman World (Leiden: Brill, 2010), pp. 167–91; John W. Rich, ‘Making the Emergency Permanent: auctoritas, potestas and the Evolution of the Principate of Augustus’, in Yann Rivière (ed.), Des réformes augustéennes (Rome: École Française de Rome 2012), pp. 37–121. 42 See, for example, P. Licinius Crassus, cos. 171 bce: Livy 42.49.1–7; his return: 42.49.6; cf. 45.39.11. 43 See John W. Rich, Cassius Dio: The Augustan Settlement (Warminster: Aris and Phillips, 1990), p. 219. 44 Dio Cass. 53.13.3, purporting to describe an enactment of 27 bce, but this may be wrong. See Rich, Cassius Dio, p. 144; cf. Dio Cass. 55.10.2; Suet. Aug. 29.2 on commanders starting from the Temple of Mars Ultor, i.e. after 2 bce. 45 RG 4.1; Dio Cass. 54.25.4 on 14 bce, 55.5.1 on 8 bce; Livy 45.39.10–12 for Republican sacrifice. 46 Dio Cass. 53.26.5; Oros. 6.21.11; Rich, Cassius Dio, pp. 162–3. 47 Degrassi, Inscriptiones Italiae 13.1, pp. 86–7, 568–9. 48 See John W. Rich, ‘Augustus’s Parthian Honours, the Temple of Mars Ultor and the Arch in the Forum Romanum’, Papers of the British School at Rome 66 (1998), pp. 71–128, at 77. 49 On the problems regarding this delegation, see Rich, Cassius Dio, pp. 186–7; Cooley, Res Gestae Divi Augusti, pp. 153–4. 50 On the Temple of Honos and Virtus and Marcellus, see Myles McDonnell, Roman Manliness: Virtus and the Roman Republic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), esp. pp. 206–40. 51 See Terry Corey Brennan, ‘Triumphus in Monte Albano’, in Robert W. Wallace and Edward M. Harris (eds), Transitions to Empire: Essays in Greco-Roman History 360–146 bc, in Honor of E. Badian (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1996), pp. 315–37; Veit Rosenberger, ‘Verwehrte Ehre: Zur Wertigkeit des triumphus in monte Albano’, Klio: Beiträge zur alten Geschichte 91 (2009), pp. 29–39. 52 Stefan Weinstock, Divus Julius (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971), esp. p. 326, is wrong to see Caesar’s ovation as an innovation and thus to overlook Marcellus as a possible precedent. Unfortunately, the Fasti Triumphales entry for Marcellus is lost. Degrassi,

286 Notes Inscriptiones Italiae 13.1, p. 551, assumes that there were two entries for Marcellus under that year, one for the Alban Mount triumph and one for the ovation. The Alban Mount triumph was on one day, the ovation on the next (Livy 26.21.6: Pridie quam urbem ovans iniret in monte Albano triumphavit (‘On the day before his entry into the city [in ovation] he triumphed on the Alban Mount’). However, the joint manifestation of Caesar in 44 bce (see Degrassi, Inscriptiones Italiae 13.1, pp. 86–7, 567) suggests that a single entry which included the words ovans ex monte Albano may be more likely. 53 Degrassi, Inscriptiones Italiae 13.1, pp. 86–7, 567. 54 According to Ronald Syme, ‘Janus and Parthia in Horace’, in James Diggle et al. (eds), Studies in Latin Literature and its Tradition in Honour of C.O. Brink (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 113–24, esp. 115, the Temple of Janus was opened on Augustus’ departure for the East. As pointed out by Rich, ‘Augustus’s Parthian Honours’, p. 73, and ‘Augustus, War and Peace’, pp. 355–6, it would then surely have been closed on his return, and this would not have gone unreported in the evidence. On the day of his departure, Augustus rededicated the temple to Quirinus on the Quirinal hill (Dio Cass. 54.19.4; cf. Ov. Fast. 6.795–6; Degrassi, Inscriptiones Italiae 13.2, pp. 411–12, 475). 55 Dio Cass. 54.36.2; Suet. Aug. 22; Oros. 6.22.1. See Rich, ‘Augustus, War and Peace’, pp. 355–6. 56 See John W. Rich, ‘Cantabrian Closure: Augustus’ Spanish War and the Ending of His Memoirs’, in Christopher J. Smith and Anton Powell (eds), The Lost Memoirs of Augustus and the Development of Roman Autobiography (Swansea: The Classical Press of Wales, 2009), pp. 145–72, at 157–61. 57 Dio Cass. 54.27.1; EJ, p. 36; ILS 88. 58 Suet. Aug. 100.4 mentions that the structure was built in his sixth consulship (sexto suo consulatu extruxerat), but it could not have been built in 28 bce; cf. Dio Cass. 53.30.5. Looking at the context of the building, 32 bce is by far the most likely candidate, as a counterbalance to the will of Antonius (Konrad Kraft, ‘Der Sinn des Mausoleums des Augustus’, Historia 16 (1967): 189–206). See Dio Cass. 50.3.5; Plut. Ant. 58.4. Furthermore, Octavian did choose to finish the tomb of Antonius and Cleopatra in Alexandria (Suet. Aug. 17.4). 59 See Lange, Res Publica Constituta, p. 7. 60 Paola Virgili and Paola Battistelli, ‘Indagini in piazza della Rotonda e sulla fronte del Pantheon’, Bullettino della Commissione archeologica Comunale di Roma 100 (1999): 137–55; Paola Virgili, ‘Il Pantheon: scavo sulla fronte del tempio’, in Maria A. Tomei (ed.), Roma: Memorie dal sottosuolo: ritrovamenti archeologici 1980/2006 (Rome: Electa, 2006), pp. 167–70. For a critical voice against the view that the building faced north throughout all its faces, see Adam Ziolkowski, ‘What Did Agrippa’s Pantheon Look Like? New Answers to an Old Question’, in Gerd Graßhoff et al. (eds), The Pantheon in Rome (Bern: Bern Studies, 2009), pp. 29–39. 61 See Halfmann, Kaiserreisen im Römischen Reich, pp. 159, 162; John W. Rich, ‘Drusus and the Spolia Opima’, Classical Quarterly 49 (1999): 544–55. 62 Dio Cass. 54.36.2–4; ILS 92; Halfmann, Kaiserreisen im Römischen Reich, p. 159; Rich, ‘Drusus and the Spolia Opima’, p. 549. 63 Twelfth salutation: CIL 3.3117, 6.701–2 (= ILS 91), 10.8035; RIC 1² 176–84, 186–97. Thirteenth: CIL 5.7231 (= ILS 94), 6.457 (= ILS 93), 10.931. See Rich, ‘Drusus and the Spolia Opima’, pp. 548–9. 64 Dio Cass. 55.2.2; Tac. Ann. 3.5.1; Sumi, Ceremony and Power, p. 250.

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65 Dio Cass. 55.6.4–5. See Rich, ‘Drusus and the Spolia Opima’, p. 551. For the honours of Drusus and for the general development 12–8 bce, see Rich, ‘Drusus and the Spolia Opima’; Peter Kehne, ‘Augustus und “seine” spolia opima: Hoffnungen auf den Triumph des Nero Claudius Drusus?’, in Theodora Hantos and Gustav A. Lehmann (eds), Althistorisches Kolloquium aus Anlass des 70. Geburtstag von Jochen Bleicken (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1998), pp. 187–211. 66 Dion. Hal. 2.70.1–5; Mary Beard, John North and Simon Price, Religions of Rome, vol. 1 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), p. 43; Cooley, Res Gestae Divi Augusti, p. 147. 67 Even according to Lily Ross Taylor, The Divinity of the Roman Emperor (Middletown, OH: American Philological Association, 1931), p. 236, this did place him on a par with the gods.

Chapter Twelve   1 For ceremonial movements and bodily re-enactments, see Paul Connerton, How Societies Remember (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006 (1989)), p. 74. For vicarious memories, see Ann Rigney, ‘Plenitude, Scarcity and the Circulation of Cultural Memory’, Journal of European Studies 35 (2005), pp. 11–28, at 14–16. The term catacomb originated at the site ad catacumbas, today’s San Sebastiano.   2 Rigney, ‘Cultural Memory’, pp. 14–16: ‘To the extent that cultural memory is the product of representations and not of direct experience, it is by definition a matter of vicarious recollection. The role of texts and other media and hence the degree of vicariousness obviously increases as the events recollected recede further in time. This suggests that it makes more sense to take mediated, vicarious recollection as our model for collective memory rather than stick to some ideal form of face-to-face communication in which participants are deemed to share experience in some direct, unmediated way.’   3 See also Michael Mulryan and Margaret M. Andrews in this volume.   4 Antonio Ferrua, Epigrammata Damasiana (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1942), no. 28.   5 See also Michael J. Roberts, Poetry and the Cult of Martyrs: The Liber peristephanon of Prudentius (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1993), p. 186.   6 Rodolfo Lanciani, ‘L’Itinerario di Einsiedeln e l’ordine di Benedetto canonico’ (Rome: Accademia dei Lincei, 1891). For an overview of the development of the liturgical rite, see Paul F. Bradshaw, The Search for the Origins of Christian Worship: Sources and Methods for the Study of Early Liturgy (London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 2002); Michel Andrieu, Les ordines romani du haut moyen âge (Leuven: Spicilegium Sacrum Lovaniense, 1961); Anton Baumstark, Comparative Liturgy (London: A. R. Mowbray, 1958). On early medieval practices within the city, see Mulryan, in this volume, for a narrative-based stational practice, and Andrews, in this volume, for penitential processions.   7 For the role of agent, medium and recipient in memory studies, see Wulf Kansteiner, ‘Finding Meaning in Memory: A Methodological Critique of Collective Memory Studies’, in History and Theory 41 (2002): 179–97, at 179, 196.   8 Arist. Mem.; Rhet. Her.; Cic. De orat.; Quint. Inst.   9 For the term memoria martyrum, see Jacques Le Goff, History and Memory, transl. Steven Rendall and Elizabeth Claman (New York: Columbia University Press, 1992),

288 Notes p. 71. For Augustine’s use of this term, especially in his homily on 29 June 411 (sermon 296), see Kevin J. Coyle, ‘Memoria Apostolorum: The Tombs and Remains of the Apostles at Rome as Symbols in Augustine’s Thought’, in Pietro e Paolo: il loro rapporto con Roma nelle testimonianze antiche (Rome: Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, 2001), pp. 477–81. 10 The earliest Christian cemetery in Rome is probably San Callisto, which was established by Pope Zephyrinus’ deacon Callixtus between 199 and 217. It is mentioned by Hippolytus (Philosophumena 9.12, 9.14) as τὸ κοιμητήριον, or in Latin coemeterium, which means resting place. See also Vincenzo Fiocchi Nicolai, Strutture funerarie ed edifici di culto paleocristiani di Roma dal IV al VI secolo (Vatican City: IGER, 2001), pp. 16–17. On Roman ‘burial streets’, see Henner von Hesberg, Römische Gräberstrassen: Selbstdarstellung, Status, Standard (Munich: Verlag der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1987). 11 Jean B. Guyon, ‘La vente des tombes à travers l’épigraphie de la Rome chrétienne (IIIe, VIIe siècles): le rôle des fossores, mansionarii, praepositi et prêtres’, Mélanges de l’Ecole française de Rome. Antiquité 86 (1974): 549–96; Danilo Mazzoleni, ‘La produzione epigrafica nelle catacombe romane’, in Fabrizio Bisconti, Vincenzo Fiocchi Nicolai and Danilo Mazzoleni (eds), Le catacombe cristiane di Roma: Origini, sviluppo, apparati decorativi, documentazione epigrafica (Regensburg: Schnell Steiner, 1998). Although few burial inscriptions of martyrs are extant, those remaining testify to the existence of martyr graves in the coemeteria. Examples include the tomb of the martyr Yachinthus in the San Ermete catacomb. The intact burial inscription, dated to 258, was found in 1845. See Inscriptiones Christianae Urbis Romae 10 no. 26672. For the burial inscription of Hippolytus from Portus, see Danilo Mazzoleni, ‘I reperti epigrafici’, in Ricerche nell’area di S. Ippolito all’isola sacra (Rome: Viella Libreria Editrice, 1983), no. 243. Both tombs were adorned by Damasus. 12 Between 55 and 60 Damasian epigrams have been reconstructed from marble fragments and medieval itineraries. See Steffen Diefenbach, Römische Erinnerungsräume: Heiligenmemoria und kollektive Identitäten im Rom des 3. bis 5. Jahrhunderts n. Chr. (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2007), p. 289; Marianne Sághy, ‘Scinditur in partes populus: Pope Damasus and the Martyrs of Rome’, Early Medieval Europe 9 (2000): 273–87; Carlo Carletti, ‘Damaso’, in Enciclopedia dei Papi (Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, 2000), pp. 349–72, at 351; Dennis E. Trout, ‘Damasus and the Invention of Early Christian Rome’, Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 33 (2003): 517–36. The general measure is around 1 × 3m as in the case of the intact epigram of Saint Agnes, which measures 1 × 3.08m. Damasus primarily erected epigrams in the catacombs and only a few in the tituli churches, among them his own San Lorenzo in Damaso. For the epigrams found in situ, see Ferrua, Epigrammata Damasiana. On Damasus’ building activity, see John Curran, Pagan City and Christian Capital: Rome in the Fourth Century (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), pp. 142–7; Aldo Nestori, ‘L’attività edilizia in Roma di papa Damaso’, in Saecularia Damasiana. Atti del convegno internazionale per il XVI centenario della morte di Papa Damaso 11. dicembre 384 (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1986); Antonio Ferrua, Damaso e i martiri di Roma (Vatican City: Pontificia Commmissione di Archeologia Sacra, 1985), p. 6. For different scholarly approaches to Damasus, see Marianne Sághy, ‘Prayer at the Tomb of the Martyrs’, in La preghiera nel tardo antico: dalle origini ad Agostino; XXVII Incontro di Studiosi dell’Antichità Cristiana, Roma, 7–9 maggio 1998 (Rome: Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, 1999), pp. 519–37, at 520–1.

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13 Some of the popes’ burial inscriptions that have been found are those of Pontian, Anterote, Fabian, Lucius and Euthychianus (Inscriptiones Christianae Urbis Romae 4, nos 10670, 10558, 10694, 10645, 10616). See also the Depositio Episcoporum in the Codex Calendar of 354; Michele Renee Salzman, On Roman Time: The CodexCalendar of 354 and the Rhythms of Urban Life in Late Antiquity (Berkeley, CA, Los Angeles, CA and Oxford: University of California Press, 1990). 14 Vincenzo Fiocchi Nicolai, ‘Itinera ad sanctos. Testimonianze monumentale del passaggio dei pellegrini nei santuari del suburbio romano’, in Akten des XII internationalen Kongresses für christliche Archäologie, Bonn 22-28.9. 1991, vol. 2 (Münster: Aschendorff; Città del Vaticano: Pontificio Istituto di archeologia cristiana, 1995), pp. 763–75, at 765: ‘nell’importantissimo santuario papale di S. Callisto i visitatori che scendevano dalla nuova scala damasiana raggiungevano rapidamente la cripta dei Papi per poi uscire dalla vecchia scala A o, forse, alternativamente, dall’altra B, entrambe restaurate in quell’epoca’. 15 Depositio Episcoporum mentions that Cornelius († 253), Gaius († 296), Eusebius († 310) and Militiades († 314) were buried in San Callisto – not in the Crypt of the Popes, however. See also Ferrua, Damaso e i martiri, p. 21. According to the Catalogus Liberianus, Cornelius died of the rigours of his banishment during the Novatian schism (ibi cum gloria dormicionem accepit); later accounts specify that he was beheaded. See Fiocchi Nicolai, ‘Itinera ad sanctos’, p. 768. 16 Fiocchi Nicolai, ‘Itinera ad sanctos’, p. 768. 17 Ibid., p. 769. 18 Archaeological remains of Damasus’ interventions may also be found in the catacombs of Pretestato, Santi Pietro e Marcellino, Giordani and Generosa. According to the Liber Pontificalis (34.24), Constantine had installed ascending and descending staircases to and from the tomb of Saint Lawrence in order to ease the flow of pilgrims. 19 On the visual sense experience of the airy and well-lit space of the early Christian basilicas, see Hans Henrik Lohfert Jørgensen, ‘Cultic Vision: Seeing as Ritual, Visual and Liturgical Experience in the Early Christian and Medieval Church’, in Nils Holger Petersen, Mette Birkedal Bruun, Jeremy Llewellyn and Eyolf Østrem (eds), The Appearances of Medieval Rituals: The Play of Construction and Modification (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004), pp. 173–97, at 174–7. 20 It may be argued that the choice of the subterranean galleries rather than the naves of the imperial basilicas was directed by the fact that the catacombs belonged to the church, while the basilicas were imperial property until the eighth century. If a bishop of Rome wanted to move as much as a roof tile from a public building, he needed the permission of the emperor. See the Liber Pontificalis 72.2 and discussion in Mark Humphries, ‘From Emperor to Pope? Ceremonial, Space, and Authority at Rome from Constantine to Gregory the Great’, in Kate Cooper and Julia Hillner (eds), Religion, Dynasty and Patronage in Early Christian Rome, 300–900 (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2007), pp. 21–58, at 54. 21 Jer., Comm. in. Ezech. 12.40 (PL 25.375), the author’s translation: Diebus Dominicis, sepulcra apostolorum et martyrum circuire; crebroque cryptas ingredi, quae in terrarum profunda defossae, ex utraque parte ingredientium per parietes habent corpora sepultorum et ita obscura sunt omnia, ut propemodum illud propheticum compleatur: Descendant ad infernum viventes (Ps. LIV.16): et raro desuper lumen admissum horrorem temperet tenebrarum, ut non tam fenestram, quam foramen demissi luminis putes: rursumque pedetentim acceditur, et caeca nocte circumdatis illud Virgilianum

290 Notes proponitur (Æenid. II.): ‘Horror ubique animos, simul ipsa silentia terrent’. See also Contra Vig. 12 (PL 23.364). 22 Prudent. Perist. 11.1–8 (Loeb translation by H. J. Thomson): Innumeros cineres sanctorum Romula in urbe vidimus. … Plurima litterulis signata sepulcra loquuntur martyris aut nomen aut epigramma aliquod, sunt. 23 Ibid., 11.154–78 (Loeb translation by H. J. Thomson): mersa latebrosis crypta patet foveis: huius in occultum gradibus via prona reflexis ire per anfractus luce latente docet. Primas namque fores summo tenus intrat hiatus inlustratque dies limina vestibuli. Inde ubi progressu facili nigrescere visa est nox obscura loci per specus ambiguum occurrunt celsis inmissa foramina tectis, quae iaciant claros antra super radios. Quamlibet ancipites texant hinc inde recessus arta sub umbrosis atria porticibus, at tamen excisi subter cava viscera montis crebra terebrato fornice lux penetrat. Sic datur absentis per subterranea solis cemere fulgorem luminibusque frui. 24 As reciting inscriptions and texts was common practice, we may assume that Damasus’ epigrams were recited. See for instance the inscription discussed by John Bodel, Epigraphic Evidence: Ancient History from Inscriptions (London: Routledge, 2001), p. 16. On Ambrose’s silent reading puzzling Augustine, see Conf. 6.3. Admittedly, no source has been preserved that might confirm that Damasus organized official ceremonies in the catacombs, but the itinera, the architectural ensemble and the epigrams make little sense without ceremonial re-enactment. And two decades after Damasus’ death, Prudentius seems to suggest that the Eucharist was celebrated at the martyrs’ shrines as he alludes to the offering of the sacrament at an altar (mensa) by the martyr tomb. See Prudent. Perist. 11.171–4 (Loeb translation by H. J. Thomson): Illa sacramenti donatrix mensa, dademque / Custos fida sui martyris apposita / Servat ad aeterni spem iudicis ossa sepulchro / Pascit Sanctis Tibricolas dapibus. See also Massey H. Sheperd Jr, ‘The Liturgical Reform of Damasus I’, in Patrick Granfield and Josef A. Jungmann (eds), Kyriakon. Festschrift Johannes Quasten (Münster: Aschendorff, 1970), pp. 847–63, at 854; Cyrille Vogel, Medieval Liturgy: An Introduction to the Sources (Washington, DC: Pastoral Press, 1986), p. 37; John Crook, The Architectural Setting of the Cult of Saints in the Early Christian West c.300-1200 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2000), p. 12. 25 Mnemonics was a standard part of the rhetorical curriculum, to which the rhetorical manual Ad Herennium and Cicero’s De oratore testify. 26 August. Conf. 10.8 (Penguin Classics translation by R. S. Pine-Coffin): nec ipsa tamen intrant, sed rerum sensarum imagines illic praesto sunt cogitatione reminiscentis eas. 27 Arist. Mem. Memory was thought to be part of the soul, hence its relevance to De anima. 28 As explained by Charles Hedrick, ‘Conversion: Memory and Transformation in Late Antiquity’ (paper, University of Copenhagen, 13 March 2008). 29 Arist. Mem. 450a–b. 30 August. Conf. 10.26 (Penguin Classics translation by R. S. Pine-Coffin): Ubi ergo te inveni, ut discerem te? neque enim iam eras in memoria mea, priusquam te discerem. ubi ergo te inveni, ut discerem te, nisi in te supra me? 31 Ibid., 10.25 (Penguin Classics translation by R. S. Pine-Coffin): habitas certe in ea, quoniam tui memini, ex quo te didici, et in ea invenio, cum recordor te. 32 Ibid., 10.27 (Penguin Classics translation by R. S. Pine-Coffin): mecum eras, et tecum non eram. … vocasti et clamasti et rupisti surditatem meam: coruscasti, splenduisti et fugasti caecitatem meam: fragrasti, et duxi spiritum, et anhelo tibi, gustavi et esurio et sitio, tetigisti me, et exarsi in pacem tuam.

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33 August. De Gen. ad litt. 8.25 (CSEL 28/1): Scriptura per corporalia spiritualia docet et invisibilia per visibilia demonstrat. On Ambrose and spiritual ‘vision’, see Diefenbach, Römische Erinnerungsräume, p. 298. 34 Damasus was clearly familiar with classical learning. On references to Virgil in his epigrams, see Salvatore Pricoco, ‘Valore letterario degli epigrammi di Damaso’, Miscellanea di studi della letteratura cristiana antica 4 (1953), pp. 19–41; Charles Pietri, ‘Concordia Apostolorum et Renovatio Urbis. Culte des martyrs et propagande pontificale’, Mélanges de l’Ecole française de Rome. Antiquité 73 (1961), pp. 275–322, at 321. 35 Damasus’ grand-scale enterprise differs from his predecessors’ sporadic attempts at monumentalizing the martyrs’ graves: Pope Julius (337–52) constructed three burial basilicas – one towards Porto, one on the Via Aurelia and one on the Via Flaminia – while Liberius adorned the tomb of St Agnes. Note that Julius’ basilica in Trastevere and on the Via Flaminia are the only examples of papal patronage before Damasus, according to the appendix in Bryan Ward-Perkins, From Classical Antiquity to the Middle Ages: Urban Public Building in Northern and Central Italy ad 300–850 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984). For a discussion of the Basilica Julia near Trajan’s Forum, see Curran, Pagan City and Christian Capital, pp. 119–20. 36 Rhet. Her. 3.22.35. 37 August. Serm. 51.1–2, c. 417–18 (PL 38.332-3). See also Lucy Grig, The Making of Martyrs in Late Antiquity (London: Duckworth, 2004), p. 42. 38 August. Serm. 301.1, c. 417 (PL 38.1380) and 301 A.7, c. 400 (PL 46.874–81). 39 August. In Evang. Iohan.7.6 (CCSL 36). For an analogy to the arena, see Peter Brown, ‘The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity’, in Peter Brown (ed.), Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1982), pp. 103–52, at 137; Elizabeth A. Castelli, Martyrdom and Memory: Early Christian Culture Making (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004), pp. 116–22. See also Ignatius’ Ep. ad. rom., 4. The church was aware that its competitor in the circus was often more successful in attracting the crowds than the services; see John Chrysostom Contra ludos et theatra (PG 56.263-70) and Leo I Serm. 84.1 (PL 54.430–3). 40 Cf. Hedrick, ‘Conversion’. 41 This approach to memory is represented in Connerton, How Societies Remember, p. 63 and Jaś Elsner, ‘From the Culture of Spolia to the Cult of Relics: The Arch of Constantine and the Genesis of Late Antique Forms’, Papers of the British School at Rome 68 (2000), pp. 149–84, at 163, 170, 176. 42 Alan Thacker, ‘Rome of the Martyrs: Saints, Cults and Relics, Fourth to Seventh Centuries’, in Éamonn Ó Carragáin and Carol Neuman de Vegvar (eds), Roma Felix – Formation and Reflections of Medieval Rome (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 13–50, at 36. 43 On memory and consolidation of togetherness, see Jan Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory: Ten Studies, transl. Rodney Livingstone (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2006), p. 11. 44 See Pietri, ‘Concordia Apostolorum et Renovatio Urbis’, p. 309; Coyle, ‘Memoria Apostolorum’, p. 485. 45 Irenaeus Adv. Haer. 3.3.2. 46 See also Diefenbach, Römische Erinnerungsräume, p. 323: ‘universalkirchlichen Primatsanspruch, den Damasus mittels der römischen Märtyrer artikulierte’. 47 Connerton, How Societies Remember, p. 74.

292 Notes 48 On smell in Christian liturgy, see Susan Ashbrook Harvey, Scenting Salvation: Ancient Christianity and the Olfactory Imagination (Berkeley, CA and London: University of California Press, 2006). On touch and vision in Christian liturgy and in Augustine, see Lohfert Jørgensen, ‘Cultic Vision’, pp. 178–80. On touch and visuality in Christian liturgy, see Lohfert Jørgensen, ‘Cultic Vision’; Georgia Frank, Memory of the Eyes: Pilgrims to Living Saints in Christian Late Antiquity (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2000); Crook, Architectural Setting, pp. 31, 36.

Chapter Thirteen   1 Gregory of Tours, Hist., 10:1 (MGH SRM 1.477); Gregory I, Dialogues 38.4.   2 MGH SRM 1.479–81. Victor Saxer, ‘L’utilisation par la liturgie de l’espace urbain et suburbain: l’exemple de Rome dans l’Antiquité et le Haut Moyen Âge’, in Actes du XIe Congrés International d’Archéologie Chrétienne, vol. 2 (Rome: École française de Rome, 1989), pp. 960–4; Victor Saxer, Sainte-Marie-Majeure: une basilique de Rome dans l’histoire de la ville et de son église (Rome: École française de Rome, 2001), pp. 133–6; Jacob A. Latham, ‘The Making of a Papal Rome: Gregory I and the letania septiformis’, in Andrew Cain and Noel Emmanuel Lenski (eds), The Power of Religion in Late Antiquity (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), pp. 295–301.   3 Gregory I, Registrum 13.2 (MGH Epp. 2.365).   4 The most complete and essentially only thorough study of the laetaniae septiformes per se is a chapter within Jacob A. Latham’s doctoral dissertation The Ritual Construction of Rome: Processions, Subjectivities, and the City from the Late Republic to Late Antiquity (University of California at Santa Barbara, 2007), pp. 331–87, in which he gives a history of scholarship (pp. 335–42) but largely focuses on the social identities that the procession constructed for its participants. Latham’s dissertation was followed by another short article dealing with many of the same issues: Latham, ‘The Making of a Papal Rome’. Beyond simple descriptions or imaginative recreations, discussions of the liturgical significance of the procession can also be found in John F. Baldovin, S.J., The Urban Character of Christian Worship (Rome: Pontificium Institutum Studiorum Orientalium, 1987), pp. 139–40, 158–66; Saxer, ‘L’utilisation par la liturgie’, pp. 960–4.   5 Such conflation is seen already in John the Deacon’s ninth-century account of the 590 laetania septiformis (Vita Greg. 1.41). Likewise, the heading for the account of the Great Litany in the MGH edition of Gregory’s letters (Registrum 2.2 (MGH Epp. 1.102)), which describes the laetania maior of 591 as being held in S. Maria Maggiore, is from a later manuscript and dates to no earlier than the ninth century. The editor of the second MGH volume of Gregory’s letters, Ludovicus M. Hartmann, nonetheless conflated the two again in his note on Reg. 13.2 (MGH Epp. 2.365). See also John Martyn, Letters of Gregory the Great (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 2004), p. 888; Baldovin, The Urban Character of Christian Worship, pp. 158–66; Joyce Hill, ‘The Litaniae maiores and minoris in Rome, Francia, and Anglo-Saxon England: Terminology, Texts, and Traditions’, Early Medieval Europe 9 (2000), pp. 228–9; Latham, ‘Ritual Construction of Rome’, p. 346.   6 Latham, ‘The Making of a Papal Rome’, pp. 297–8.   7 Liber Pontificalis (hereafter LP), ed. Louis Duchesne, 2 vols (Paris: Ernest Thorin, 1886–92), 1.232–3. The LP mentions only Sixtus III as the patron, but given the

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11

12

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scale of the construction project and similarities with S. Sabina, Sixtus’ predecessor Celestine likely initiated the project. See Richard Krautheimer, ‘Santa Maria Maggiore’, in Richard Krautheimer, Spencer Corbett and Wolfgang Frankl, Corpus Basilicarum Christianarum Romae, vol. 3 (Vatican City: Pontificio istituto di archeologia cristiana, 1971), p. 56; Saxer, Sainte-Marie-Majeure, pp. 56–9; Paolo Liverani, ‘Osservazioni sulla domus sotto S. Maria Maggiore a Roma e sulla sua relazione con la basilica’, Römische Mitteilungen 116 (2010), pp. 464–6. For the emergence of tituli, on which there is a vast bibliography, see most recently Julia Hillner, ‘Clerics, Property, and Patronage: The Case of the Roman Titular Churches’, Antiquité Tardive 14 (2006), pp. 59–68; Kristina Sessa, The Formation of Papal Authority in Late Antique Italy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011). Apart from one mention in Aulus Gellius’ Noctes Atticae (15.1.2.3), in which an insula on the Cispian is on fire, the Cispian gets mention only in Varro’s topographical discussion of the Argive shrines (L. 5.50). Most of ancient levels of the Cispian were exposed during the expansion of Roma capitale in the 1880s and thereafter, particularly during the construction of Via Cavour and Via Giovanni Lanza. Much of the discoveries were recorded by Rodolfo Lanciani on Pl. 23 of his Forma Urbis Romae prior to 1901. Unfortunately, there have been few published excavations in the area since. For general treatments, see Filippo Coarelli, ‘L’area tra Esquilino e Viminale nell’antichità’, in Giuseppe Cuccia (ed.), Via Cavour: una strada della nuova Roma (Rome: Palombi, 2003), pp. 123–44; for a recent re-examination of a structure uncovered in the mid-nineteenth century, see Filippo Coarelli, ‘The Odyssey Frescos of the Via Graziosa: A Proposed Context’, Papers of the British School at Rome 66 (1998), pp. 21–37. For new excavations, see Valerio Carozza, ‘Roma: Resti di abitazioni alle pendici del Cispio’, Fasti On Line Documents & Research 89 (2007), pp. 1–6. On the Roman remains below the basilica and the surrounding urban fabric, see Filippo Magi, Il calendario dipinto sotto Santa Maria Maggiore (Rome: Pontificio istituto di archeologia cristiana, 1972); Krautheimer, ‘Santa Maria Maggiore’, pp. 11–14; Paolo Liverani, ‘L’ambiente nell’antichità’, in Carlo Pietrangeli (ed.), Santa Maria Maggiore (Florence: Nardini, 1988), pp. 45–53; Saxer, Sainte-Marie-Majeure, pp. 7–29; Paolo Liverani, ‘Osservazioni sulla domus sotto S. Maria Maggiore’. For the degree to which S. Maria Maggiore changed the nature of the Cispian hill, see Sible de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor: liturgia e architettura nella Roma tardoantica e medioevale (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1994), pp. 339–40. Richard Krautheimer, Three Christian Capitals: Topography and Politics. Rome, Constantinople, Milan (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1983), p. 118, gives an estimate of 2000, while Sible de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, p. 338, n. 13, calculates a capacity of over 2700. LP 1.244–5. Scholarship on the original form of the basilica is vast. Among the most recent and most thorough treatments, see Krautheimer, ‘Santa Maria Maggiore’, pp. 32–54; de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, pp. 335–56; Saxer, Sainte-Marie-Majeure, pp. 34–59; Miguel Ángel del Iglesia Santamaría, Orden Continuados: transformaciones arquitectónias de la basílica de Santa María la Mayor en Roma (Salamanca: Gráficas Varona, 2001), pp. 15–57. Victor Saxer, Sainte-Marie-Majeure, pp. 109–46, provides perhaps the best examination of the role of the basilica in the city’s early liturgy, while Sible de Blauuw’s discussion of liturgy at the church (Cultus et Decor, pp. 415–43) focuses more on the early medieval period.

294 Notes 14 For a summary of the stational liturgy hosted by S. Maria Maggiore, see Saxer, SainteMarie-Majeure, pp. 111–46. 15 Coll. Avell. 1.9–12; Amm. Marc. 27.3.13; Adolf Lippold, ‘Damasus und Ursinus’, Historia 14 (1965), pp. 105–28; Malcolm R. Green, ‘The Supporters of the Antipope Ursinus’, Journal of Theological Studies 22 (1971), pp. 531–8; Charles Pietri, Roma Christiana (Rome: École française de Rome, 1976), pp. 407–31; Giuseppe de Spirito, ‘Ursino e Damaso: una nota’, in Dirk van Damme, Andreas Kessler, Thomas Rickli and Gregor Wurst (eds), Peregrina curiositas: Eine Reise durch den orbis antiquus: zu Ehren von Dirk van Damme (Freiburg: Universitätsverlag, 1994), pp. 263–74; Herman Geertman, ‘Forze centrifughe e centripete nella Roma Cristiana: il Laterano, la basilica Iulia, e la basilica Liberiana’, in Sible de Blaauw (ed.), Hic fecit basilicam: studi sul Liber Pontificalis e gli edifici ecclesiastici di Roma da Silvestro a Silverio (Leuven: Peeters, 2004), pp. 28–30; John Curran, Pagan City and Christian Capital (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), pp. 137–42; Peter Norton, Episcopal Elections 250–600: Hierarchy and Popular Will in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), pp. 63–5; Jacob A. Latham, ‘From Literal to Spiritual Soldiers of Christ: Disputed Papal Elections and the Advent of Christian Processions in Late Antique Rome’, Church History 81 (2012), pp. 308–13. 16 LP 1.262. 17 LP 1.242, 255. 18 Latham, ‘From Literal to Spiritual Soldiers’, pp. 308-10, 313–14. 19 Coll. Avell. 1.2, 14.6. See Latham, ‘From Literal to Spiritual Soldiers’, pp. 308–10, 313–14. 20 LP 1.303. 21 See above, n. 5. 22 Gregory I, Registrum 2.2 (MGH Epp 1.102): Sollemnitas annuae devotionis, filii dilectissimi, nos ammonet, ut laetaniam quae maior ab omnibus appellatur sollicitis, ac devotis debeamus auxiliante Domino mentibus celebrare, per quam a nostris excessibus eius misericordiae supplicantes purgari aliquatenus mereamur. Considereare etenim nos convenit, dilectissimi, quam variis continuisque calamitatibus pro nostris culpis atque offensionibus affligamur et qualiter item celestis pietatis nobis subinde medicina subveniat. Sexta igitur feria veniente, a titulo beati Laurentii martyris qui appellatur Lucina egredientes, ad beatum Petrum apostolorum principem domino supplicantes cum hymnis et canticis spiritualibus properemus, ut ibidem sacra mysteria celebrantes, tam de antiquioribus quam de presentibus beneficiis pietati eius in quantum possumus referre gratias mereamur. Registrum 9.167 (MGH Epp 2:166): quot letaniae sollemnes ab antiquitate fuerint. 23 Ov. Fast. 4.901–42. See also Augusto Gianferri, ‘Robigalia: un appuntamento per la salvezza del raccolto’, in Lorenzo Quilici and Stefania Quilici Gigli (eds), Agricoltura e commerci nell’Italia antica (Rome: ‘L’Erma’ di Bretschneider, 1995), pp. 127–40; Fréderic Blaive, ‘Le rituel romain des Robigalia et le sacrifice du chien dans le monde indo-européen’, Latomus 54 (1995), pp. 279–89; Joseph Dyer, ‘Roman Processions of the Major Litany (litaniae maiores) from the Sixth to the Twelfth Century’, in Éamonn Ó Carragáin and Carol Neuman de Vegnar (eds), Roma Felix: Formation and Reflections of Medieval Rome (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 112–37. 24 On the date of the Verona manuscript, see David M. Hope, The Leonine Sacramentary (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1971), pp. 54–77; for the Ember Days procession, see Charles L. Feltoe, Sacramentarium Leonianum (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1896), p. 114.

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25 A sacred path commemorating the martyrdom of S. Lorenzo along the Vicus Patricius within the valley to the north of the Cispian hill may have developed later, but it nonetheless bypassed the hill and continued outside the city to S. Lorenzo fuori le mura; see Michael Mulryan in this volume. Itineraries for pilgrims and visitors to the extramural sanctuaries and catacombs, however, were developed much earlier; see Gitte Lønstrup Dal Santo in this volume. 26 Ov. Fast. 3.167–258. 27 Saxer, ‘L’utilisation par la liturgie’, pp. 962-3; Saxer, Sainte-Marie-Majeure, pp. 133–6. 28 Per Jonas Nordhagen, ‘The Earliest Decorations in S. Maria Antiqua and Their Date’, Acta ad Archaeologiam et Artium Historiam Pertinentia 1 (1962), pp. 53–72; Richard Krautheimer, ‘Santa Maria Antiqua’, in Corpus Basilicarum Christianarum Romae, vol. 2 (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1967), pp. 251–70; John Osborne, ‘The Atrium of S. Maria Antiqua, Rome: A History in Art’, Papers of the British School at Rome 55 (1987): 191–200; John Osborne, ‘Images of the Mother of God in Early Medieval Rome’, in Antony Eastmond and Liz James (eds), Icon and Word: The Power of Images in Byzantium (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003), pp. 135–56. We anxiously await the final publication of the excavations carried out near the church by Henry Hurst for additional evidence for the date of the church and its decorative phases. 29 How large a role Mary and Mariology played in the Council of Ephesus is much debated. For a recent argument for the centrality of Mary and her nature at the council, see Stephen Shoemaker, ‘The Cult of the Virgin in the Fourth Century: A Fresh Look at Some Old and New Sources’, in Chris Maunder (ed.), The Origins of the Cult of the Virgin Mary (London: Burns and Oates, 2008), pp. 71–87. For the Ephesian interpretation of mosaics at S. Maria Maggiore, see Joseph Wilpert, Die römischen Mosaiken und Malereien der kirchlichen Bauten vom IV–XIII Jahrhundert (Freiburg: Herder, 1916); Gerard A. Wellen, Theotokos: Eine ikonographische Abhandlung über das Gottesmutterbild in frühchristlicher Zeit (Utrecht: Het Spectrum, 1961), pp. 93–138. 30 Beat Brenk, Die frühchristlichen Mosaiken in S. Maria Maggiore zu Rom (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1975), pp. 47–9; André Grabar, Christian Iconography: A Study of Its Origins (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1968); pp. 46–9; Suzanne Spain, ‘Promised Blessing: The Iconography of the Mosaics of S. Maria Maggiore’, The Art Bulletin 61 (1979): 518–40; Joanne D. Sieger, ‘Visual Metaphor as Theology: Leo the Great’s Sermons on the Incarnation and the Arch Mosaics at S. Maria Maggiore’, Gesta 26 (1987): 83–91; Margaret R. Miles, ‘Santa Maria Maggiore’s Fifth-Century Mosaics: Triumphal Christianity and the Jews’, The Harvard Theological Review 86 (1993): 155–75; Saxer, Sainte-Marie-Majeure, pp. 53–5; Per Olav Folgerø, ‘The Sistine Mosaics of S. Maria Maggiore in Rome: Christology and Mariology in the Interlude between the Councils of Ephesus and Chalcedon’, in Siri Sande and Lasse Hodne (eds), Mater Christi (Rome: Bardi Editore, 2008), pp. 33–64. 31 Germain Morin, ‘Liturgie et basiliques de Rome au milieu du VIIe siècle d’après les listes d’évangiles de Würzburg’, Revue Bénédictine 28 (1911): 296–330; Martin Jugie, ‘La première fête mariale en Orient et en Occident, l’Advent primitif ’, Échos d’Orient 22 (1923): 131–45; Bernard Botte, OS.B., ‘La première fête mariale de la liturgie romaine’, Ephemerides Litugicae 47 (1933): 425–30; Antoine Chavasse, Le Sacramentaire Gélasien, (Tournai: Desclée, 1958), pp. 651–6; Georges Frenaud, ‘Le culte du Notre Dame dans l’ancienne liturgie latine’, in Hubert Du Manoir de Juaye (ed.), Maria: études sur la Sainte Vierge, vol. 6 (Paris: Beauchesne, 1949), pp. 159–67;

296 Notes

32 33

34

35

36

37

Javier A. De Aldama, S.J., ‘La primera fiesta litúrgica de Nuestra Señora’, Estudios eclesiásticos 40 (1965): 43–52; Eugenio Russo, ‘L’affresco di Turtura nel cimitero di Commodilla, l’icona di S. Maria in Trastevere e le più antiche feste della Madonna a Roma’, Bullettino dell’Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medio Evo e Archivio Muratoriano 88 (1979), pp. 35–85; 89 (1980–1), pp. 71–150; Victor Saxer, ‘Testimonianze mariane a Roma prima e dopo il Consilio di Efeso nella letteratura e nel culto tardoantico’, Augustinianum 27 (1987): 337–45. LP 1.376. The Presentation and the Annunciation were both more Christological in nature, however, despite Mary’s role in the events that they celebrated; see Saxer, Sainte-Marie-Majeure, pp. 152–3. LP 1.371. Eight of ten popes from 685 to 752 were of eastern origin. On eastern influence in the Roman church during this period, see, among many others, Richard Krautheimer, Rome: Profile of a City, 312–1308 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1980); Baldovin, The Urban Character of Christian Worship, p. 166; Saxer, Sainte-Marie-Majeure, pp. 153–5; Osborne, ‘Images of the Mother of God’, pp. 136–7; Andrew J. Ekonomou, Byzantine Rome and the Greek Popes: Eastern Influences on Rome and the Papacy from Gregory the Great to Zacharias, A.D. 590–752 (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2007). There is a scholarly divide on the strength of Marian cult before the Council of Ephesus in 431. For a presentation of the evidence for pre-Ephesian origins, see Shoemaker, ‘The Cult of the Virgin’. See also Kenneth Holum, Theodosian Empresses: Women and Imperial Dominion in Late Antiquity (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1982), pp. 147–74; Vasiliki Limberis, Divine Heiress: The Virgin Mary and the Creation of Christian Constantinople (London: Routledge, 1994), pp. 52–61, 101–42. Both Holum and Limberis attribute the imperial endorsement of the Virgin in the city to the empress Pulcheria. For a sceptical perspective on Pulcheria’s role in the development of the cult and the conviction that the cult develops coherently only after the Council of Ephesus, see Averil Cameron, ‘The Early Cult of the Virgin’, in Maria Vassilaki (ed.), Mother of God: Representations of the Virgin in Byzantine Art (Milan: Skira, 2000), pp. 5–12; Christine Angelidi, Pulcheria: La Castità al Potere (Milan: Jaca Book, 1996), pp. 61–112. Otto Stegmüller, ‘Sub tuum praesidium: Bemerkungen zur ältesten Überlieferung’, Zeitschrift für Katholische Theologie 74 (1952), pp. 76–82; Gregory of Nazienzus, Orationes 24.9–11, 54–61; Sozomen, Historia Ecclesiae 7.5; Procopius, De aedificiis, 1.3.9; Evagrius, Historia Ecclesiae, 4.36; Corippus, In laudem Justini minoris, 2.52.69. For a concise history of the construction of the various Marian shrines in Constantinople during this period, see Cyril Mango, ‘Constantinople as Theotokoupolis’, in Vassilaki, Mother of God, pp. 17–25. For the lead seals, see Werner Seibt, ‘Die Darstellungen der Theotokos auf byzantinische Bleisiegeln besonders im 11. Jahrhundert’, Studies in Byzantine Sigillography 1 (1987): 35–56. Averil Cameron, ‘The Theotokos in Sixth-Century Constantinople: A City Finds Its Symbol’, Journal of Theological Studies 29 (1978): 79–108; Averil Cameron, ‘The Virgin’s Robe: An Episode in the History of Early Seventh-Century Constantinople’, Byzantion 49 (1979): 42–56; Averil Cameron, ‘The Cult of the Virgin in Late Antiquity: Religious Development and Myth-Making’, in Robert N. Swanson (ed.), The Church and Mary (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2004), pp. 1–21; Mango, ‘Constantinople as Theotokoupolis’; Mischa Meier, ‘Kaiserschafft und ‘Volksfrömmigkeit’ im Konstantinopel des 6. Jahrhunderts n. Chr. Die Verlegung der Hypapante durch Justinian im Jahr 542’, Historia 51 (2002): 89–111; Paul Speck, ‘The

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42 43

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Virgin’s Help for Constantinople’, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 27 (2003): 266–71, contra Bissera Pentcheva, ‘The Supernatural Protector of Constantinople: The Virgin and Her Icons in the Tradition of the Avar Siege’, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 26 (2002): 2–41. Vita Eutychi, Corpus Christianorum, Series Graeca 25, 75. On the later history of the myth, see especially Norman Hepburn Baynes, ‘The Supernatural Defenders of Constantinople’, Analecta Bollandiana 67 (1949): 165–77. LP 1.309; PL 72.703–5; Ekonomou, Byzantine Rome and the Greek Popes, pp. 8–9. Carlo Bertelli, La Madonna di Santa Maria in Trastevere (Rome: Eliograf, 1961); Pietro Amato, De vera effiegie Mariae: antiche icone romane (Rome: Eliograf, 1988); Maria Andaloro, ‘Le icone a Roma in età preiconoclasta’, in Roma fra Oriente e Occidente (Spoleto: Centro italiano di studi sull’alto Medioevo, 2002), pp. 719–53; Maria Andaloro, ‘La datazione delle tavola di S. Maria in Trastevere’, Rivista dell’Istituto Nazionale d’Archeologia e Storia dell’Arte 19–20 (1972–73): 139–215. Gerhard Wolf, ‘Icons and Sites: Cult Images of the Virgin in Mediaeval Rome’, in Maria Vassilaki (ed.), Images of the Mother of God: Perceptions of the Theotokos in Byzantium (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), pp. 23–50. On the emergence of the collecta, the often penitential nature of the processions that it preceded and the relative frequency with which the processions are associated with Mary, see Baldovin, The Urban Character of Christian Worship, pp. 160–6; Saxer, ‘L’utilisation par la liturgie’, pp. 952–9. For an argument that the area around the S. Adriano (the former Curia) and S. Martina was the location of a Marian shrine before the middle of the seventh century, see Botte, ‘La première fête mariale de la liturgie romaine’, pp. 425–6. Gerhard Wolf, Salus Populi Romani (Weinheim: VCH Acta humaniora, 1990), pp. 131–90; Gerhard Wolf, ‘Alexifarmaka: Aspetti del culto e della teoria delle immagini a Roma tra Bisanzio e Terra Santa nell’alto medioevo’, in Roma fra Oriente e Occidente, pp. 755–90.

Chapter Fourteen   1 Narrative-based commemorative Christian movement began much earlier outside the city of course, at the graves of the Christian martyrs with their traditions, which were formalized by the epigrams of Damasus: see Lønstrup Dal Santo, in this volume.   2 Epig. Dam. no. 33; Ambr., De off. 1.41; Prudent. Perist. 2.45–492.   3 Perhaps the fourth-century basilica of San Lorenzo in Damaso in the Campus Martius may have been the result of such a strategy: Kate Blair-Dixon, ‘Damasus and the Fiction of Unity: The Urban Shrines of Saint Laurence’, in Federico Guidobaldi and Alessandra G. Guidobaldi (eds), Ecclesiae Urbis: Atti del congresso internazionale di studi sulle chiese di Roma (IV-X secolo): Roma 4–10 settembre 2000, vol. 1 (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 2002), pp. 331–52, esp. 344–5.   4 AA.SS. Aug. 2.519. On the manuscript tradition and the written origin of the legend, see Hippolyte Delehaye, ‘Recherches sur le Légendier romain’, Analecta Bollandiana 51 (1932): 34–98; Enrica Follieri, ‘L’epitome della Passio greca di Sisto Lorenzo ed Ippolito (BHG 977d): Storia di un testo dal Menologio al Sinassario’, in Nia A. Stratos (ed.), Byzance: Hommage à André N. Stratos, vol. 2 (Athens: N. A. Stratou, 1986), pp. 399–423;

298 Notes Giovanni N. Verrando, ‘Alla base e intorno alla più antica Passio dei santi Abdon e Sennes, Sisto, Lorenzo ed Ippolito’, Augustinianum 30 (1990), pp. 145–87; Giovanni N. Verrando, ‘“Passio SS. Xysti Laurentii et Yppoliti”: La trasmissione manoscritta delle varie recensioni della cosiddetta Passio vetus’, Recherches Augustiniennes 25 (1991), pp. 181–221; Pio Franchi de’ Cavalieri, ‘S. Lorenzo e il supplizio della graticola’, in Scritti agiografici, vol. 1 (Vatican City: Biblioteca apostolica vaticana, 1962), pp. 383–99, reprint from Römische Quartalschrift 14 (1900): 159–76.   5 A craticula beati Laurentii martyris was to be found in Rome in 519 ce: Andreas Thiel (ed.), Epistolae romanorum pontificum genuinae, et quae ad eos scriptae sunt a S. Hilaro usque ad Pelagium II (Braunsberg: Eduardi Peter, 1868), pp. 873–5.   6 It appears in the seventh-century De locis sanctis martyrum que sunt foris civitatis Romae within the so-called ‘Salzburg Catalogue’: Christian Hülsen, Le chiese di Roma nel Medio evo: cataloghi ed appunti (Florence: L. S. Olschki, 1927), p. 3; Val. Zucc. 2.124. This had been thought to be a reference to San Lorenzo in Lucina off the Via Lata (Benedetto Pesci, ‘L’itinerario Romano di Sigerico Arcivescovo di Canterbury e la lista dei Papi da lui portata in Inghilterra (anno 990)’, Rivista di archeologia cristiana 13 (1936): 43–60, at 51–5, but is now attributed to San Lorenzo in Panisperna (LTUR 3.179). Restoration under Hadrian I: LP 1.507.   7 Herman Geertman, More Veterum: Il Liber Pontificalis e gli edifici ecclesiastici di Roma nella tarda antichità e nell’alto medioevo (Groningen: H. D. Tjeenk Willink, 1975), pp. 154–6, who argues that the titulus sancti Laurenti in the 499 ce synod list is this church.   8 CBCR 2.187; Mariano delle Rose, ‘S. Laurentius in Formonso’, LTUR 3 (1996), p. 183.   9 Itinerarium Einsiedlense: Val. Zucc. 2.179, 189, 192. 10 LP 2.11. 11 Panisperna may refer to some sort of distribution of bread and ham here by the Poor Clare nuns, or perhaps the type of shops on the street. However, this area was, by the early medieval period, part of the disabitato: Mirabilia (fourteenth century), Val. Zucc. 3.187, 189; Mirabilia (thirteenth century), Val. Zucc. 3.83; Mirabilia (twelfth century), Val. Zucc. 3.26. The church is described as a basilica in Formonsum in the life of Leo III in the LP (above), which suggests that the church was not linked to the pope Formosus (891–96), the latter not becoming pope until a hundred years later. Either that or Leo’s entry is from a late manuscript: Hülsen, Le chiese, p. 293. 12 CIL 6.1775; PLRE 2. Messala 4. 13 See n. 4. 14 For more detail, see CBCR 2.154–60; Simonetta Serra, ’S. Laurentius in Fontana’, LTUR 3 (1996), pp. 182–3; Margherita Cecchelli, ‘S. Lorenzo in Fonte: novità sulla memoria laurenziana della Suburra’, in Historiam pictura refert: Miscellanea in onore di p. A. Recio Veganzones OFM (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1994), pp. 127–39. There may have been some sort of memoria to Hippolytus in this area as far back as the later fourth century, however, if the find spot and an interpretation of an inscription (ILCV 1773) found near the Esquiline gate are taken at face value, but this more likely refers to Hippolytus’ tomb outside the city walls (Paolo Testini, ‘Nota di topografia romana: gli edifici del prete Ilicio’, in Philippe Pergola and Fabrizio Bisconti (eds), Quaeritur inventus colitur: Miscellanea in onore di padre Umberto Maria Fasola (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1989), pp. 779–93. 15 Not. Rom. 4 (Arvast Nordh (ed.), Libellus de regionibus urbis Romae (Lund: C. W. K. Gleerup, 1949), p. 77).

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16 Mariano Armellini, Le chiese di Roma dal secolo IV al XIX (Rome: Tipografia Vaticana, 1891), pp. 172–5; CBCR 4.37–50; Mario Bosi, SS. Quirico e Giulitta (Rome: Marietti, 1961); Francesco Tommasi, ‘SS. Quiricus et Iulicta, ecclesia’, LTUR 4 (1999), pp. 179–80. 17 However, it may have been built into a pre-existing late antique house: Federico Guidobaldi, ‘Una domus tardoantica e la sua trasformazione in chiesa dei SS. Quirico e Giulitta’, in Anna Leone, Domenico Palombi and Susan Walker (eds), Res Bene Gestae: Ricerche di storia urbana su Roma antica in onore di Eva Margareta Steinby (Rome: Quasar, 2007), pp. 55–78. 18 Pompeo Ugonio, Historia delle stationi (Rome: Bonfadino, 1588), c. 277, cited in CBCR 4.41 n. 5. The two deacons are still buried within San Lorenzo fuori le Mura today, with the thirteenth-century apse mosaic there also depicting them both. 19 Mirabilia Romae (twelfth century): Val. Zucc. 3.26 and see below n. 27. 20 Itinerarium Einsiedlense: Val. Zucc. 2.177, 192. 21 Armellini, Le chiese, pp. 156-7; Hülsen, Le chiese, pp. 288–9. A late sixteenthcentury etching by Etienne du Pérac, just prior to the baroque reconstruction, shows the extent of the medieval structure: http://www.bsrdigitalcollections.it/details. aspx?ID=0015759 [accessed 11 May 2012]. 22 This hall to the south of the Temple of Peace, now the sixth-century Santi Cosma e Damiano, was an audience hall suitable for such trials, particularly if it was indeed the seat of the urban prefecture. For the debate as to the identity and role of this hall, see Emilio Rodríguez Almeida, Formae Urbis antiquae: Le mappe marmoree di Roma tra la Repubblica e Settimio Severo (Rome: École française de Rome, 2002), pp. 72–4. More importantly for us, however, is that in the early Middle Ages this area of the Forum was believed to be where ancient trials were held. 23 Eleventh-century appearance: Guy Ferrari, Early Roman Monasteries: Notes for the History of the Monasteries and Convents at Rome from the V through the X Century (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1957), pp. 190–1. Mirabilia Romae (twelfth century): Val. Zucc. 3.56. Anonymus Magliabecchianus (fifteenth century): Ludwig von Urlichs (ed.), Codex urbis Romae topographicus (Würzburg: Stahel, 1871), p. 166. 24 Its seventh- to eighth-century origins seem to be founded on the idea that the temple must have been still relatively intact for a church to be founded within its cella and pronaos (Platner-Ashby, p. 14) and the church is not mentioned in the usual sources before then. This does not preclude a later foundation date, however, so for now at least we must assign to it an eleventh-century origin. The fourth-century Christian graffiti on the temple columns (Christian Hülsen, Il Foro Romano: Storia e Monumenti (Rome: Ermanno Loescher, 1905), pp. 185–6) may imply a passive ‘purification’ of the structure at that time, and thus the possibility of secular reuse in late antiquity, allowing it to survive in good condition into the Middle Ages. 25 Riccardo Santangeli Valenzani, ‘Strade, case e orti nell’altomedioevo nell’area del Foro di Nerva’, Melanges de l’École Française de Rome, Moyen Âge 111 (1999): 163–9. 26 The text was written around 1143 by either Benedict, canon of St Peter’s, or a colleague. For more on the author and the text, see Dale Kinney, ‘Fact and Fable in the Mirabilia urbis Romae’, in Éamonn Ó Carragáin and Carol Neuman de Vegvar (eds), Roma Felix: Formation and Reflections of Medieval Rome (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 235–52 with references. 27 AA.SS. Aug. 2.519; Enrica Follieri, ‘Antiche chiese romane nella Passio greca di Sisto, Lorenzo ed Ippolito’, Rivista di Studi Bizantini e Neoellenici, NS 17-19 (1980–2): 43–71, at 55–6.

300 Notes 28 Varro, Ling. 5.158; Mart. Epig. 5.22, 7.73; Not. Rom. 6 (Nordh, Libellus, p. 81); Filippo Coarelli, ‘Capitolium Vetus’, LTUR 1 (1993), p. 234. 29 Gardens of Sallust: Tac. Hist. 3.82; Kim J. Hartswick, The Gardens of Sallust: A Changing Landscape (Austin, TX: University of Texas Press, 2004), esp. pp. 1–7 with references. Temple of Salus: Cic. Att. 4.1.4, 12.45.3; Not. Rom. 6 (Nordh, Libellus, p. 81). 30 For these ‘collectae’ and the earlier papal stational liturgy, see Jean Deshusses (ed.), Le Sacramentaire Grégorien: Ses principales formes d’après les plus anciens manuscrits, vol. 1 (Fribourg: Éditions universitaires, 1971), passim, and John F. Baldovin, The Urban Character of Christian Worship: The Origins, Development, and Meaning of Stational Liturgy (Rome: Pontificium Institutum Studiorum Orientalium, 1987), pp. 36–7. For the intramural penitential processions by Gregory the Great, see Andrews in this volume. 31 In Bologna the monastic complex of S. Stefano, which comprised of seven churches originally, was built to recreate the holy places in Jerusalem. Some of the churches here may date to the fifth century and the well-known episcopate of Petronius (431–50), but the complex as a whole and the concept of mirroring Jerusalem seem to originate from the ninth century. For more on this monastery, see Robert G. Ousterhout, ‘The Church of Santo Stefano: A “Jerusalem” in Bologna’, Gesta 20 (1981): 311–21. 32 It may well have been to the infant Ophletes, as Pausanias suggests, but he also describes visiting a cave where the legendary lion was said to have lived: Paus. 2.15.2–4. See also Stephen G. Miller (ed.), Nemea: A Guide to the Site and Museum (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1990), pp. 104–10; Stephen G. Miller, ‘Excavations at Nemea’, Hesperia 49 (1980): 194–8; Hesperia 50 (1981): 60–5, and Hesperia 53 (1984), pp. 173–94. 33 Myth: Ov., Met. 10.1; Apollod. Bibl. 2.7.7. Cult site known as pyra: Livy 36.30. Archaeological evidence: George H. Chase, ‘Archaeology in 1920–21’, Classical Journal 17 (1922): 191–200, at 195; Yves Béquignon, La vallée du Spercheios des origines au IVe siècle: Études d’archéologie et de topographie (Paris: E. de Boccard, 1937), pp. 206–15. For the idea that there was a regular fire-festival held at the site in honour of Herakles, see Martin P. Nilsson, ‘Fire-festivals in Ancient Greece’, Journal of Hellenic Studies 43 (1923): 144–8, at 144–6; for the cremation myth later created to explain it, see Martin P. Nilsson, ‘Der Flammentod des Herakles auf dem Oite’, Archiv für Religionswissenschaft 21 (1922): 310–6. For more on the pyre, see Philip Holt, ‘The End of the Trachiniai and the Fate of Herakles’, Journal of Hellenic Studies 109 (1989), pp. 69–80. The archaic Doric temple found nearby, and restored in Late Antiquity, was probably dedicated to Athena (Chase, ‘Archaeology in 1920–21’, p. 195 (Paus. 10.22.1)) but may have been to Herakles (Béquignon, La vallée, pp. 206–15). 34 There were only a series of festivals associated aetiologically with Theseus’ journey to and from Crete to kill the Minotaur: Simon Hornblower and Antony Spawforth (eds), The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 3rd edn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), ‘Theseus’ with references. 35 Livy, 1.1–2; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.64. Archaeology: Paolo Sommella, ‘Heroon di Enea a Lavinium, recenti scavi a Pratica di Mare’, Atti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia: Rendiconti 44 (1971–2): 47–74. Heroon not associated with Aeneas: María J. Pena, ‘El santuario y la tumba de Eneas’, Estudios clásicos 71 (1974): 1–26; Erich S. Gruen, Culture and National Identity in Republican Rome (Ithaca, NY:

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Cornell University Press, 1992), pp. 24–5; Tim J. Cornell, The Beginnings of Rome: Italy and Rome from the Bronze Age to the Punic Wars (c.1000–264 bc) (London: Routledge, 1995), p. 68. For an interesting theory connecting classical and early Christian architectural motifs associated with the hero/martyr cult, see Eugenio La Rocca, ‘Le basiliche cristiane “a deambulatorio” e la sopravvivenza del culto eroico’, in Federico Guidobaldi and Alessandra G. Guidobaldi (eds), Ecclesiae Urbis: Atti del Congresso Internazionale di studi sulle chiese di Roma (IV–X secolo), vol. 2 (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 2002), pp. 1109–40. 36 S. Agnese in Agone, foundation: Itin. Eins. (Val. Zucc. 2.180, 195). Archaeology: Federico Guidobaldi, ‘La chiesa medievale di S. Agnese in Agone’, Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 87-8 (2011–12): 401–52 with refs; Silvana Episcopo, ‘S. Agnes’, LTUR 1 (1993): 27–8; CBCR 1.39. Martyrdom legend: Epig. Dam. no. 37, Ambr. De virg. I.2, Prudent. Perist. 14.38–90, AA.SS. Jan. 2.353. An earlier examp1e of this martyrdom memoria phenomenon may be the fourth- or fifth-century S. Caecilia church in Trastevere, but the tradition of the saint’s death here is later: S. Caecilia, foundation: ICUR 1.816, 116; MGH AA 12.411, 414; MGH Ep. 1.367. Archaeology: Neda Parmegiani and Alberto Pronti, ‘S. Caecilia, titulus’, LTUR 1 (1993): 206–7; Neda Parmegiani and Alberto Pronti, S. Cecilia in Trastevere: Nuovi scavi e ricerche (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 2004). Martyrdom legend: Hippolyte Delehaye, Étude sur le légendier romain: les saints de novembre et de décembre (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1936), pp. 219–20, which is probably sixth century and aetiological, but was certainly believed by the ninth century (LP 2.56; ICUR 2.151, 156, 444); Caroline J. Goodson, ‘Material Memory: Rebuilding the Basilica of S. Cecilia in Trastevere, Rome’, Early Medieval Europe 15 (2007): 2–34. 37 Domine Quo Vadis (S. Maria in Palmis), foundation: Armellini, Le chiese, pp. 891–2. Legend: Richard A. Lipsius (ed.), Acta Apostolorum Apocrypha, vol. 1. (Leipzig: Hermann Mendelssohn, 1891), pp. 7–8, 171, 233; AA.SS. July 1.304. S. Pietro in Carcere (S. Giuseppe dei Falegnami), legend: AA.SS. July 1.303. Archaeology and foundation: Giovanna Di Giacomo, Il complesso del Carcer-Tullianum sotto la chiesa di S. Giuseppe dei Falegnami (Rome: ESS, 2009). 38 Foundation: ICUR 1.124, n. 262. Dedication: Synod of 499, three priests of the titulus Fasciolae: MGH AA 12.413, 414; synod of 595, one priest of the Titulus SS. Nerei e Achillei: MGH Ep. 1.367. Legend: The account, which is fifth or sixth century, describes Peter’s bandage dropping apud sepem in via nova: cumque venisset ad portam Appiam, vidit Dominum Jesum Christum (AA.SS. July 1.304, ‘near a fence along the Via Nova; and upon arriving at the Porta Appia, he saw the Lord Jesus Christ’). Neither the Via Nova nor the Porta Appia existed in the first century ce. In any case, even if such a relic did reside in the church, it would hardly have been superseded by the remains of two local martyrs. Archaeology: Rudolfo Lanciani, Forma Urbis Romae (1893–1901; repr. Rome: Quasar, 1990), pl. 42; Giuseppe Lais, Memorie del titolo di Fascìola e discussione sul valore storico degli atti de’ ss. mm. Flavia, Domitilla, Nereo, Achilleo (Rome: Tip. di M. Armanni, 1880), p. 13; Orazio Marucchi, ‘Resoconto delle adunanze: 7 Gennaio 1905’, Nuovo Bullettino di Archeologia Cristiana 11 (1905), pp. 274–5; Carlo Pavolini, ‘I resti romani sotto la chiesa dei SS. Nereo e Achilleo a Roma: Una rilettura archeologica’, Melanges de l’École Française de Rome. Antiquité 111 (1999), pp. 405–48. The current church is an eighth/ninth-century rebuild on a different site nearby: LP 2.33. 39 Not. Rom. 10 (Nordh, Libellus, pp. 89-90). For the Lupercalia, see n. 42 below.

302 Notes 40 Antiquarianism: Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.79.11. Location of cave and hut: Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 1.79.8 and 11. Plut. Rom. 20.4-6 seems to refer to a sacred tree, thought to be a spear thrown by Romulus, that once existed in the area that was marked by a wall. Auguratorium: CIL 6.976. 41 For early Holy Land pilgrimage, see Edward D. Hunt, Holy Land Pilgrimage in the Later Roman Empire ad 312–460 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982). For the primary sources, see John Wilkinson (ed. and trans.), Jerusalem Pilgrims before the Crusades, 2nd edn (Warminster: Aris and Phillips, 2002). 42 Varro Ling. 6.13.34; Plut. Rom. 21.3-8, Caes. 61.3–4; August. De civ. D. 18.12. For the Lupercalia in late antiquity, see Michael Mulryan, ‘The Temple of Flora or Venus by the Circus Maximus and the New Christian Topography: The “Pagan Revival” in Action?’, in Luke Lavan and Michael Mulryan (eds), The Archaeology of Late Antique Paganism (Leiden: Brill, 2011), pp. 209–27, at 216–18 and references. 43 For example, processions of Magna Mater: Lucretius 2.600–60 (which was likely to have been inspired by a real event: Kirk Summers, ‘Lucretius’ Roman Cybele’, in Eugene N. Lane (ed.), Cybele, Attis and Related Cults: Essays in Memory of M. J. Vermaseren (Leiden: Brill, 1996), pp. 337–66). A fresco of her procession: Mary Beard, John. A. North and Simon R. F. Price (eds), Religions of Rome, Vol. 2: A Sourcebook (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 132–3. A procession of Isis in Kenchreae: Apul. Met. 11.9–10. 44 Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Ant. Rom. 7.72.1–13; Ov. Am. 3.2.43–57. 45 Prudent. Perist. 2.513–36 for the popularity of his cult and tomb-shrine in the late fourth century. A procession (presumably along the Via Tiburtina) to the tomb-shrine of Hippolytus: Prudent. Perist. 11. 199–204. 46 See n. 3.

Chapter Fifteen   1 Plaut. Cist. 682, 697–703, discussed by David Newsome, ‘Introduction: Making Movement Meaningful’, in Ray Laurence and David Newsome (eds), Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), pp. 1–2.   2 For example, John Urry, Mobilities (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2007).   3 The article builds on earlier work and is particularly influenced by Newsome, ‘Making Movement Meaningful’, especially pp. 4–9. I was privileged to supervise David Newsome’s thesis and I owe him many debts of gratitude – not least his enthusiasm for addressing difficult subjects and resolving loose ends.   4 J. Bert Lott, The Neighbourhoods of Augustan Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004); Ray Laurence, ‘City Traffic and the Archaeology of Roman Streets’, in Dieter Mertens (ed.), Stadtverkehr in der Antiken Welt (Rome: Ludwig Reichert, 2008), pp. 87–106; Ray Laurence, ‘Streets and Facades’, in Caroline Quenemoen and Roger Ulrich (eds), A Companion to Roman Architecture (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013).   5 Francesco Trifilò, ‘Text, Space, and the Urban Community: A Study of the Platea as Written Space’, in Gareth Sears, Peter Keegan and Ray Laurence (eds), Written Space in the Latin West (London: Bloomsbury, 2013), pp. 169–84.   6 Diana Spencer, ‘Movement and the Linguistic Turn’, in Laurence and Newsome, Rome, Ostia, Pompeii, pp. 57–80.

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  7 See, for example, Ray Laurence, ‘Literature and the Spatial Turn’, in Laurence and Newsome, Rome, Ostia, Pompeii, pp. 81–99; and David Larmour, ‘Holes in the Body: Sites of Abjection in Juvenal’s Rome’, in David Larmour and Diana Spencer (eds), The Sites of Rome: Time, Space, Memory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), pp. 168–210.   8 Timothy M. O’Sullivan, Walking in Roman Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011); Elizabeth Macaulay-Lewis, ‘The City in Motion’, in Laurence and Newsome, Rome, Ostia, Pompeii, pp. 262–89.   9 Ray Laurence, ‘Traffic and Land Transportation in and near Rome’, in P. Erdkamp (ed.), The Companion to Ancient Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013). 10 Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, ‘The Streets of Rome as a Representation of Imperial Power’, in Lukas de Blois et al. (eds), The Representation and Perception of Roman Imperial Power (Amsterdam: Brill, 2003); Francesco Trifilò, ‘Power, Architecture and Community in the Distribution of Honorary Statues in Roman Public Space’, in Corisande Fenwick, Meredith Wiggins and Dave Wythe (eds), TRAC 2007: Proceedings of the Seventeenth Annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2008); Newsome, ‘Making Movement Meaningful’, pp. 20–6. 11 Greg Woolf, ‘The City of Letters’, in Catharine Edwards and Greg Woolf (eds), Rome the Cosmopolis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), pp. 203–21. He makes the point that the later European empires of the nineteenth century produce a literature of the exotic, whereas at Rome the provinces became invisible in literature in favour of a focus on the capital city. 12 Ray Laurence, ‘Space and Text’, in Ray Laurence and Andrew Wallace-Hadrill (eds), Domestic Space in the Roman World (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 1997), pp. 7–15, explores the work of Henri Lefebvre and its application to Roman evidence. Clear analysis of the work of Lefebvre can be found in Edward Soja, Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-And-Imagined Places (Oxford: Blackwell, 1996), pp. 26–52. 13 David Harvey, ‘Space as a Key Word’, in Noel Castree and Derek Gregory (eds), David Harvey: A Critical Reader (Oxford: Blackwell, 2006), pp. 270–94. 14 E.g., Eric E. Poehler, ‘The Circulation of Traffic in Pompeii’s Regio VI’, Journal of Roman Archaeology 19 (2006): 53–74. 15 Laurence, ‘Literature and the Spatial Turn’, pp. 86–9. 16 See most recently, Claire Holleran, ‘The Street Life of Ancient Rome’, in Laurence and Newsome, Rome, Ostia, Pompeii, pp. 245–61. 17 Ray Laurence, ‘Writing the Roman Metropolis’, in Helen Parkins (ed.), Roman Urbanism (London: Routledge, 1997), pp. 1–20. Catharine Edwards, Writing Rome: Textual Approaches to the City (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), explores the issues of representation of the city; see also articles in Larmour and Spencer, The Sites of Rome. 18 Bob Jessop, Neil Brenner and Martin Jones, ‘Theorizing Sociospatial Relations’, Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 26 (2008): 389–401. 19 Lothar Haselberger, Urbem Adornare (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2007), pp. 18–23; on the definition of the Urbs and on the definition of territory via the new Augustan regions and a concept of a city without walls, see pp. 224–37. 20 Suet. Iul. 41.3, Aug. 40.2; Dio Cass. 47.14.2. On the role of landlords, see Bruce Frier, Landlords and Tenants in Imperial Rome (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1980).

304 Notes 21 Varro Ling. 5.45–54; Dion. Hal. 4.14; Livy 1.43; Lily Ross Taylor, ‘The Four Urban Tribes and the Four Regions of Ancient Rome’, Rendiconti della Pontificia Accademia di Archeologia 27 (1952–4): 225–38. 22 Taylor, ‘Four Urban Tribes’, p. 229. See Tabula Hebana on the exclusion of Suburana and Esquilina from the process of destinatio from 5 ce, in Michael Crawford, Roman Statutes (London: Institute of Classical Studies, 1996), pp. 507–43. 23 Taylor, ‘Four Urban Tribes’, p. 235, based on Varro Ling. 5.45, Plin. HN 18.13, Livy Epit. 20, CIL 6.10211 and a reading of the Tabula. 24 Taylor, ‘Four Urban Tribes’, p. 237, elucidates this mapping based on Dion. Hal. 4.14. Compare CIL 6.975 for later listing of vici in the 14 regions of Rome; see also CIL 6.445 for the link of vici to regions. 25 The opposite listing was given in other sources, see Domenico Palombi, ‘Regiones quattuordecim (topografia)’, in Eva Margareta Steinby (ed.), Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae, vol. 4 (Rome: Edizioni Quasar, 1999), pp. 196–7. 26 Suet. Aug. 30; Dio Cass. 55.8. Diane Favro, The Urban Image of Augustan Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 135–40. For mapping of the areas of each region, see Palombi, ‘Regiones quattuordecim’, pp. 199–204; Lothar Haselberger (ed.), Mapping Augustan Rome (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2002), p. 215. 27 Claude Nicolet, Space, Geography and Politics in the Early Roman Empire (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1991), pp. 194–8. 28 Joël le Gall, ‘La muraille servienne sous le haut empire’, in François Hinard and Manuel Royo (eds), Rome: L’espace urbain et ses représentations (Paris: Presses Universitaires de Paris-Sorbonne, 1991), pp. 55–64; Timothy Peter Wiseman, ‘A Stroll on the Rampart’, in Maddalena Cima and Eugenio La Rocca (eds), Horti Romani (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 1998), pp. 13–22. 29 CIL 6.899, 39207; on the identity of an individual with a specific region, see CIL 6.1956, 10089, 33899. 30 Filippo Coarelli, ‘Gli spazi della vita sociale’, in Elio Lo Cascio (ed.), Roma Imperiale: Una metropolis antica (Rome: Carocci, 2000), pp. 233–4. However, note that a consul appears to have been patron of Region II; see CIL 6.10029. 31 Caroline Vout, The Hills of Rome: Signature of an Eternal City (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), pp. 4–15, 57–75. 32 Dion. Hal. 4.14; Vout, The Hills of Rome, pp. 21–5, on debates about the inclusion and exclusion of hills in antiquity. Compare Varro Ling. 5.41 on the relationship of walls to hills. 33 Dion. Hal. 1.88.2; under the empire, Roma Quadrata was defined with reference to monuments/places (Tac. Ann. 12.24). For discussion and earlier work, see Vout, The Hills of Rome, pp. 76–7. Note also the convergence between the Palatine as a hill and the Palatine defined simply as Region X of the 14 Augustan regions; similarly, the Capitoline comprised Region VIII, whereas other regions were considerably larger in area, if not in prestige. 34 Livy 1.43–5; Vout, The Hills of Rome, p. 77, for discussion; the image has much in common with a vision of Rome spreading out under the empire and being undefined or defined as simply the built-up area. 35 Vout, The Hills of Rome. See Andrea Carandini, La Nascita di Roma (Turin: Einaudi, 1997), pp. 267–79 for the reconstruction of the structure of early Rome, and pp. 380–94 for post-Varronian interpretation.

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36 CIL 6.1030, 1646, 2229, 4017–24, 40519, 40520. Compare CIL 6.9404, locating a specific place amongst the 14 regions. But note that cippi have not been found that define the 14 regions. 37 Edmond Frézouls, ‘Rome ville ouverte: Réflexions sur les problèmes de l’expansion urbaine d’Auguste à Aurélien’, in L’Urbs: Espace urbain et histoire (Ier siècle av. J.-C.IIIe siècle ap. J.-C.) (Rome: Ecole française de Rome, 1987), pp. 373–92. Note that there were 425 hectares within the Servian Walls compared to 1400 hectares within the Aurelian Walls – the latter a reduction of the urban area of the city. 38 Frézouls, ‘Rome ville ouverte’, p. 382; Dig.16.87, 33.9.4.4–5, 50.16.139, 50.16.147. Note the planned expansion of the urban area discussed by Cic. Att. 13.20, 13.33a, Phil. 6.5.14; Dio Cass. 43.49. On the expansion of Rome and the development of places at the edge of the city, see Simon Malmberg and Hans Bjur, ‘Movement and Urban Development at Two City Gates in Rome’, in Laurence and Newsome, Rome, Ostia, Pompeii, pp. 361–85; see also Newsome, ‘Making Movement Meaningful’, pp. 26-30. 39 Tac. Ann. 15.40. What we have of Dio Cassius 62.16–18 creates a narrative without reference to hills or regions, but notes that two-thirds of the city was destroyed, including the Palatine and the amphitheatre of Taurus (no other specific places are mentioned). Suet. Ner. 38 provides no topographical indicators. Compare the linkage between regions and hills in Varro Ling. 45–54. 40 On vigiles and space, see Robert Sablayrolles, Libertinus Miles. Les Cohortes de Vigiles (Rome: Ecole française de Rome,1996), pp. 245–89; Stefania Capponi and Barbara Mengozzi, I Vigiles dei Cesari (Rome: Pieraldo, 1993), pp. 81–107. 41 Tac. Ann. 15.38–40. 42 Tac. Ann. 15.43; compare Suet. Ner. 38 on the intention of Nero in starting the fire to replace the old buildings and narrow, crooked streets. 43 E.g., John E. Stambaugh, The Ancient Roman City (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1988); Pierre Gros and Mario Torelli, Storia dell’Urbanistica: Il Mondo Romano (Bari: Laterza, 2007); Stephen Dyson, Rome: A Living Portrait of an Ancient City (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2010), pp. 214–40. 44 Newsome, ‘Making Movement Meaningful’, pp. 20-6, develops from Trifilò, ‘Power, Architecture and Community’, pp. 109–20. 45 Pierre Gros, ‘Le rôle du peuple de Rome dans la définition, l’organisation et le déplacement des lieux de la convergence sous l’empire’, in Gianpaolo Urso (ed.), Popolo e potere nel Mondo Antico (Pisa: ETS, 2005), pp. 191–214. 46 Strabo 5.3.7. 47 See n. 42 above. 48 Peter Stewart, Statues in Roman Society (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), pp. 136–40. 49 Harvey, ‘Space as a Key Word’, p. 275. 50 On the cultural specificity of speed, see John Tomlinson, The Culture of Speed: The Coming of Immediacy (London: Sage, 2009), pp. 2–5. Jeremy Hartnett, ‘The Power of Nuisances on the Roman Street’, in Laurence and Newsome, Rome, Ostia, Pompeii, pp. 135–59, documents the impediments to efficient movement in both Rome and Pompeii. Elizabeth Macaulay-Lewis, ‘The City in Motion’, pp. 262–72, documents the width of streets and the potential for crowding in Pompeii. 51 Laurence, ‘Literature and the Spatial Turn’, pp. 81–99, documents Martial’s relationship to space and movement in Rome. 52 A key requirement of those seeking election, see Comment. pet. 34–8, 51.

306 Notes 53 Tac. Ann. 4.2; Suet. Tib. 37; Juv. 10.94–5 on this change. On the appearance of praetorians, see Tac. Ann. 16.27, Hist. 1.38 and on the camp being clearly identifiable, see Dio Cass. 62.17; Tac. Ann. 15.38.7. 54 Alexandra Busch, Militär in Rom: Militärische und paramilitärische Einheiten im kaiserzeitlichen Stadtbild (Wiesbaden: Ludwig Reichert, 2011), pp. 31–72; Wiseman, ‘A Stroll on the Rampart’, p. 20. Jon Coulston, ‘“Armed and Belted Men”: The Soldiery of Imperial Rome’, in Jon Coulston and Hazel Dodge (eds), Ancient Rome: The Archaeology of the Eternal City (Oxford: Oxford University School of Archaeology, 2000), pp. 76–118; Wilfried Nippel, Public Order in Ancient Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 90–4. 55 Barbara Levick, Claudius (London: Batsford, 1990), pp. 21–40, sets out the space– time of the accession of Claudius over two days (24–5 January 41 ce), but he only enters the Senate a month later with a bodyguard. 56 Space or place in which movement takes place affects how it is viewed, something that adds to Anthony Corbeill, ‘Political Movement’, in David Fredrick (ed.), The Roman Gaze (Baltimore, NJ: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002), pp. 182–215, which studies the politics of movement in Republican Rome. 57 For dating to between 650 and 575 bce, see Albert Ammerman, ‘On the Origins of the Forum’, American Journal of Archaeology 94 (1990): 627–45. 58 Urry, Mobilities, pp. 66–77, charts the development of paving in early modern Europe to elucidate the changes made by the (to us) seemingly simple act of paving streets. 59 Livy 9.29, Per. 9; Diod. Sic. 20.36; Frontin. Aq. 1.4; Stat. Silv. 2.2.98; ILS 54. For significance in the study of urbanism, see Ray Laurence, ‘Roman Italy’s Urban Revolution’, in Elio Lo Cascio and Afredina Storchi Marino (eds), Modalità insediative e strutture agrarie nell’Italia meridionale in età romana (Bari: Edipuglia, 2001), pp. 593–611. 60 Livy 9.43.25. Ray Laurence, ‘Roads and Bridges’, in Jane DeRose Evans (ed.), A Companion to the Archaeology of the Roman Republic (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2013), contains a fuller discussion of the process of city extension through road building. 61 Livy 10.23, 10.47. 62 Varro Ling. 5.158. 63 Livy 41.27.5. 64 Note that the paving on the Via Appia was upgraded in 189 bce (Livy 38.28). 65 Rob Witcher, ‘The Extended Metropolis: Urbs, suburbium and Population’, Journal of Roman Archaeology 18 (2005), pp. 120–38, on the relation of the city to survey data from the Tiber Valley. 66 O. F. Robinson, Ancient Rome: City Planning and Administration (London: Routledge, 1992), pp. 59–82, provides an approachable discussion; for the text and translation, see Crawford, Roman Statutes, pp. 355–91. 67 Tab. Heracl. 24–8. 68 Ibid., 20–3. The law also applies to paths (semita); see Tabula Heracleensis 53–5. 69 Ibid., 29–31. 70 Ibid., 50–2. 71 Ibid., 68–72. 72 Ibid., 56–61; see Alan Kaiser, ‘Cart Traffic in Pompeii and Rome’, in Laurence and Newsome, Rome, Ostia, Pompeii, pp. 174–93, for full discussion. 73 O. F. Robinson, City Planning, pp. 62–9; Dig. 43.10.1. 74 Dig. 43.10.1, 43.11.1. See discussion in Robinson, City Planning, pp. 69–73.

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75 Plautus, Capt. 791ff., ensuring pigs did not inhabit the streets. For Stich. 352ff., on aediles being associated with scrubbing, see Robinson, City Planning, p. 70. 76 Urry, Mobilities, p. 66, for comparative evidence from eighteenth-century London to create clean and smooth street surfaces in parts of the city. 77 Fateaturque nullius Urbis magnitudinem in toto orbe potuisse ei comparari (Plin. HN 67). 78 Strabo 5.3.7–8. 79 Trifilò, ‘Text, Space, and the Urban Community’. 80 Ray Laurence, ‘Rumour and Communication in Roman Politics’, in Greece and Rome 41 (1994), pp. 62–74.

Chapter Sixteen   1 For good overviews of the overall extent and explored remains of Rome’s ports, see Joël Le Gall, Le Tibre: Fleuve de Rome dans l’antiquité (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1953); Ferdinando Castagnoli, ‘Installazioni portuali a Roma’, in John D’Arms and Christian Kopff (eds), The Seaborne Commerce of Ancient Rome (Rome: American Academy in Rome, 1980), pp. 35–42; Claudio Mocchegiani Carpano, ‘Tevere: Premesse per una archeologia fluviale’, Bollettino d’Arte 4 (1982): 151–65; Claudio Mocchegiani Carpano, ‘Il Tevere: Archeologia e commercio’, Bollettino di Numismatica 2–3 (1984): 21–81; Lorenzo Quilici, ‘Il Tevere e l’Aniene come vie d’acqua a monte di Roma in età imperiale’, in Stefania Quilici Gigli (ed.), Il Tevere e le altre vie d’acqua del Lazio antico (Rome: Consiglio Nazionale delle Ricerche, 1986), pp. 198–217; Tevere: un’antica via per il Mediterraneo (Rome: Istituto Poligrafico, 1986); Martin Maischberger, Marmor in Rom (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1997), pp. 68–84, 100–7; Martin Maischberger, ‘Tiberis’, LTUR 5 (1999): 69–73; Francesca De Caprariis, ‘I porti di Roma nel IV secolo’, in William V. Harris (ed.), The Transformations of Urbs Roma in Late Antiquity (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 1999), pp. 216–34; Carlo Pavolini, ‘Il fiume e i porti’, in Andrea Giardina (ed.), Roma antica (Rome: Laterza, 2000), pp. 163–81; Marco Maiuro, ‘Tiberis’, LTURS 5 (2008): 148–56; Simon Keay, ‘The Port System of Imperial Rome’, in Simon Keay (ed.), Rome, Portus and the Mediterranean (London: British School at Rome, 2012), pp. 33–67; Steven Tuck, ‘The Tiber and River Transport’, in Paul Erdkamp (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 229–45.   2 In recent years, the concept of hinterland and von Thünen’s economic model of the Isolated City have received criticism. In view of the high connectivity of Roman society, they need to be complemented by a more integrated approach, such as that of ‘dispersed hinterlands’ suggested by Horden and Purcell: Johann Heinrich von Thünen, The Isolated State (Oxford: Pergamon Press, 1966 [1826]); Neville Morley, Metropolis and Hinterland (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 59–62; Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000), pp. 112–22; Robert Witcher, ‘The Middle Tiber Valley in the Imperial Period’, in Helen Patterson and Filippo Coarelli (eds), Mercator Placidissimus (Rome: Quasar, 2008), p. 477. For a study of transshipment and dispersed hinterland, see Simon Malmberg, ‘Ravenna: Naval Base, Commercial Hub, Capital City’, in Kerstin Höghammar and Adam Lindhagen (eds), The Geography of

308 Notes Connections (Uppsala: Uppsala University Press, in press). See also Laurence in this volume.   3 The quote in the title of this chapter is from Mart. 4.64.18–24, a passage that contrasts the slow-moving vessels hauled upriver from the seaports with the light skiffs that plied the river above Rome, a trope we also find in e.g. Prop. 1.14.3–4 and Auson. Mos. 39–42, and which seems fitting in a study comparing the different character of traffic bound for Rome’s harbours.   4 Plin. HN 3.9; Plin. Ep. 5.6; Dio Cass. 57.14; Le Gall, Tibre, pp. 18, 28. In the early nineteenth century the route between Orte and Rome was most active, but was difficult to use in summer: Paolo Orlando, ‘Roma porto di mare e la navigazione interna del Tevere e sul Nera’, Nuova Antologia 3 (1905): 1–27; Le Gall, Tibre, pp. 15–16, 31; Maria Teresa De Nigris, Carla Ferrantini and Paola Buia, ‘Roma porto di mare’, Roma Moderna e Contemporanea 12 (2004): 260–89; Gregory Aldrete, Floods of the Tiber in Ancient Rome (Baltimore, NJ: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2007), pp. 56–61, 66–71; Andrews, this volume.   5 Livy 29.14.11; Ov. Fast. 4.291–304; Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 3.44; Plut. Vit. Caes. 58.5; Dio Cass. 60.11; Dig. 14.2.4. See also Iara in this volume.   6 Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 3.44; Strabo 5.3.5; Dig. 14.2.4; Orlando, ‘Roma porto’; Le Gall, Tibre, pp. 18, 128.   7 Sen. Ep. 77; Plin. Pan. 31; Symmachus Relat. 9.7.   8 J. Rasmus Brandt, ‘“The Warehouse of the World”: A Comment on Rome’s Supply Chain during the Empire’, Orizzonti 6 (2005): 34–6.   9 Sen. Brev. Vit. 18; Apul. Met. 11.48; Suet. Claud. 18–19; Dio Cass. 60.11; Cod. Theod. 13.9.3; Veg. Mil. 4.39; Dig. 14.2.4; Peter Garnsey, Famine and Food Supply in the Graeco-Roman World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), pp. 193–208; Colin Adams, ‘Transport’, in Walter Scheidel (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Economy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), pp. 225–7; Paul Erdkamp, ‘The Food Supply of the Capital’, in Erdkamp, Ancient Rome, p. 271; James Beresford, The Ancient Sailing Season (Leiden: Brill, 2013), pp. 14–39. 10 John Patterson, ‘Modelling the Urban History of the Tiber Valley in the Imperial Period’, in Patterson and Coarelli, Mercator; Witcher, ‘Middle Tiber’. For the impact of movement between Rome and its hinterland on urban development, see Simon Malmberg and Hans Bjur, ‘The Suburb as Centre’, in Hans Bjur and Barbro Santillo Frizell (eds), Via Tiburtina (Rome: Svenska Institutet i Rom, 2009), pp. 109-28; Simon Malmberg and Hans Bjur, ‘Movement and Urban Development at Two City Gates in Rome’, in Ray Laurence and David Newsome (eds), Rome, Ostia and Pompeii (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), pp. 361–85. 11 Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 3.44; Suet. Claud. 18–19; Dig. 3.6; Orlando, ‘Roma Porto’; Le Gall, Tibre, pp. 18, 128; Herman Wallinga, ‘The Unit of Capacity for Ancient Ships’, Mnemosyne 17 (1964): 13–14, 20; Lionel Casson, ‘Harbour and River Boats of Ancient Rome’, Journal of Roman Studies 55 (1965): 32; Russell Meiggs, Roman Ostia (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1973), p. 51; Patrice Pomey and André Tchernia, ‘Le tonnage maximum des navires de commerce romains’, Archaeonautica 2 (1978): 240; Antonio Aguilera Martín, ‘La sirga en el Tiber en época romana’, in Keay, Rome, Portus and the Mediterranean, p. 107. 12 Towing by men, oxen and mule are attested in the Roman period: Hor. Sat. 1.5; Strabo 5.3.5–6; Prop. 1.14.3–4; Ov. Tr. 4.1.7–8; Mart. 4.64.18–24; Philostr. V A 7.16; Apu. Met. 11.48; Auson. Mos. 39–42; Sid. Apoll. Epist. 2.10.4; Cassiod. Var. 12.19, 12.24.2; Procop. Goth. 1.26; Le Gall, Tibre, pp. 15–16, 226–8, 257; Casson, ‘Harbour’,

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p. 39; Martin Eckoldt, Schifffahrt auf kleinen Flüssen Mitteleuropas in Römerzeit und Mittelalter (Bremerhaven: Deutsches Schiffahrtsmuseum, 1980), pp. 21, 24–5; Antonio Aguilera Martín, El Monte Testaccio y la llanura subaventina (Rome: Escuela Española, 2002), pp. 30–1; Aguilera Martín, ‘Sirga’, p. 115. 13 Prop. 1.14; Sen. Brev. Vit. 13; Tac. Ann. 15.18; Non. 13; Le Gall, Tibre, pp. 226–8; Casson, ‘Harbour’, pp. 33–8; Hans Frenz, ‘Bildliche Darstellungen zu Schifffahrt römischer Zeit an Rhein und Tiber’, in Gerd Rupprecht (ed.), Die Mainzer Römerschiffe (Mainz: Verlag Krach, 1982), pp. 78–95; Olaf Höckmann, ‘Bemerkungen zur Caudicaria/Codicaria’, Archäologischer Korrespondenzblatt 24 (1994), pp. 425–39; Giulia Boetto, ‘L’épave de l’antiquité tardive Fiumicino 1’, Archaeonautica 15 (2008): 29–62; Giulia Boetto, ‘Les épaves comme sources pour l’étude de la navigation et des routes commerciales’, in Keay, Rome, Portus and the Mediterranean, pp. 153–73. Casson, ‘Harbour’, and Boetto, ‘Fiumicino 1’, argue that codicaria could be rigged and sailed, presumably for coastal traffic, but see Piero Dell’Amico, ‘Appunti sulle naves caudicariae’, Archaeologia Maritima Mediterranea 8 (2011): 189–90. The two excavated vessels are Fiumicino 1 and 2, identified as codicariae by Piero Gianfrotta and Patrice Pomey, Archeologia subacquea (Milan: Mondadori, 1981), p. 276. 14 Sen. Brev. Vit. 13; Varro, De vita populi Romani, cited by Non. 13; CIL 14.4234; Cod. Theod. 14.3.2, 14.4.9, 14.15.1–2, 14.21. The codicarii were last mentioned in 417. Otto Seeck, ‘Codicarii’, RE 4.1 (1900), pp. 173–4. 15 Suet. Aug. 30, 37; Le Gall, Tibre, pp. 149–56. The boundary stones (CIL 1.2516a–e) put up in Ostia, along the Via Ostiensis, are too far from the Tiber to be markers of the river bank. They should rather probably be viewed as creating a public space for the increasingly important river harbour at Ostia. 16 Tac. Ann. 1.76; Dio Cass. 57.14.8; Dig. 43.12–15; Le Gall, Tibre, pp. 135, 146–7; Anna Lonardi, La cura riparum et alvei Tiberis (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2013). Eighteen original markers of 100–3 ce are preserved, and 12 others which are later restorations: Le Gall, Tibre, pp. 156–64. 17 The official is last attested in Not. Dign. [occ.] 4.6. See also SHA Aurel. 47.3; Cassiod. Var. 5.17, 7.9; Le Gall, Tibre, pp. 147–9. 18 Procop. Goth. 1.26. Contra Aguilera Martín, Testaccio, pp. 34–43; Aguilera Martín, ‘Sirga’, p. 111. 19 Lucos Cozza and Pier Luigi Tucci, ‘Navalia’, Archeologia Classica 57 (2006): 175–202; Filippo Coarelli, ‘Horrea Cornelia?’, in Anna Leone, Domenico Palombi and Susan Walker (eds), Res Bene Gestae (Rome: Quasar, 2007), pp. 41–6; Pier Luigi Tucci, ‘La controversa storia della “Porticus Aemilia”’, Archeologia Classica 63 (2012), pp. 575–91; Boris Rankov, ‘Roman Shipsheds’, in David Blackman and Boris Rankov (eds), Shipsheds of the Ancient Mediterranean (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 40. I will address the complex issue of the Navalia in a forthcoming article. 20 Shipsheds may have existed in Rome already in 338 bce (Livy 8.14), but large-scale fleets were probably not built before the First Punic War: Philip de Souza, ‘Navies, Roman’, in Robert Bagnall, Kai Brodersen, Craige Champion, Andrew Erskine and Sabine Huebner (eds), The Encyclopedia of Ancient History (Oxford: Blackwell, 2013), pp. 4709–14. See also Livy 45.42.12; Plut. Vit. Cat. Min. 39. See also Lange and Westall in this volume. 21 Guglielmo Gatti, ‘“Saepta Julia” e “Porticus Aemilia” nella “Forma” Severiana’, Bullettino della Commissione Archeologica Comunale di Roma 62 (1934): 140, 145; Cozza and Tucci, ‘Navalia’, p. 186.

310 Notes 22 Geoffrey Rickman, The Corn Supply of Ancient Rome (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980), pp. 52–3; Garnsey, Famine, pp. 193–208; Robert Étienne, ‘Extra portam Trigeminam’, in Charles Pietri (ed.), L’Urbs: Espace urbain et histoire (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1987), pp. 235–49; Claudio Mocchegiani Carpano, ‘Emporium’, LTUR 2 (1995), pp. 221–3; David Mattingly and Gregory Aldrete, ‘The Feeding of Imperial Rome’, in Jon Coulston and Hazel Dodge (eds), Ancient Rome: The Archaeology of the Eternal City (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2000), pp. 142–65; Erdkamp, ‘Food Supply’, pp. 264–6; Aguilera Martín, Testaccio, pp. 54–104. For the dating of the Horrea Galbana and Lolliana, see Geoffrey Rickman, Roman Granaries and Store Buildings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), pp. 97–112, 164–71. For the Gracchan crisis, see Hammar in this volume. For markets along the Tiber in the late Republic, see Spencer in this volume. 23 Guglielmo Gatti, ‘L’arginatura del Tevere a Marmorata’, Bullettino della Commissione Archeologica Comunale di Roma 64 (1936): 77–82; Le Gall, Tibre, pp. 102–3; Castagnoli, ‘Installazioni’, p. 36; Roberto Meneghini, ‘Scavo di lungotevere Testaccio’, in Roma: Archeologia nel centro, vol. 2 (Rome: De Luca, 1985), pp. 433–41; Aguilera Martín, Testaccio, pp. 58–60. 24 Le Gall, Tibre, p. 200; Giulio Cressedi, ‘Roma: Sterri al lungotevere Testaccio’, Notizie degli Scavi di Antichità (1956), pp. 19–52; Giulio Cressedi, ‘Magazzini fluviali a Marmorata’, in Amor di Roma (Rome: Te Roma Sequor, 1956), pp. 113–21; Mocchegiani Carpano, ‘Commercio’; Claudio Mocchegiani Carpano, Roberto Meneghini and Mauro Incitti, ‘Lungotevere Testaccio’, Bullettino della Commissione Archeologica Comunale di Roma 91 (1986): 560–95; Aguilera Martín, Testaccio, pp. 60–2; Elisabetta Bianchi, ‘I bolli laterizi del porto fluviale romano di lungotevere Testaccio’, Bullettino della Commissione Archeologica Comunale di Roma 108 (2007): 89–124. 25 Gatti, ‘L’arginatura’; Le Gall, Tibre, pp. 194–201; Castagnoli, ‘Installazioni’, p. 36; Aguilera Martín, Testaccio, pp. 62–6; Bianchi, ‘Bolli’. 26 Giulio Jacopi, ‘Scavi in prossimità del porto fluviale di San Paolo località Pietra Papa’, Monumenti Antichi 39 (1943): 1–178; Le Gall, Tibre, pp. 172, 196–7, 258–9, 271; Claudio Mocchegiani Carpano, ‘Rapporto preliminare sulle indagini nel tratto urbano del Tevere’, Atti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia: Rendiconti 48 (1975–6): 243–4; Castagnoli, ‘Installazioni’, pp. 37–8; Robert Palmer, ‘The Topography and Social History of Rome’s Trastevere (Southern Sector)’, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 125 (1981): 382–9; Mocchegiani Carpano, ‘Premesse’; Mocchegiani Carpano, ‘Commercio’; Rabun Taylor, Public Needs and Private Pleasures (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 2000), pp. 197–8. 27 Fourth century bce: Giulio Cressedi, ‘I porti fluviali di Roma antica’, Atti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia: Rendiconti 24–6 (1949–51): 61–5; End of second century bce: Castagnoli, ‘Installazioni’, p. 35; Jean Marc Flambard, ‘Deux toponymes du Champ de Mars: ad Ciconias, ad Nixas’, in Pietri, L’Urbs, pp. 203–4. Republican period generally: Pavolini, ‘Fiume’, p. 173. Augustan date: Domenico Marchetti, ‘Di un antico molo per lo sbarco dei marmi riconosciuto sulla riva sinistra del Tevere’, Bullettino della Commissione Archeologica Comunale di Roma 19 (1891): 53; Le Gall, Tibre, p. 202; Eugenio La Rocca, La riva a mezzaluna (Rome: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 1984), p. 63. 28 Marchetti, ‘Molo’; Le Gall, Tibre, p. 201; Maischberger, Marmor, pp. 100–4. 29 Elaine Gazda, ‘Cosa’s Hydraulic Concrete’, in Robert Hohlfelder (ed.), The Maritime World of Ancient Rome (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2008), pp.

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265–90. See also Christopher Brandon, Robert Hohlfelder, Marie Jackson and John Peter Oleson (eds), Building for Eternity. The History and Technology of Roman Concrete Engineering in the Sea (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2014). 30 CIL 6.1639, 14.131. 31 Le Gall, Tibre, p. 257; De Caprariis, ‘Porti’, p. 234; Hendrik Dey, The Aurelian Wall and the Refashioning of Imperial Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), p. 191. 32 Nonius Marcellus 13 says lintres were naves fluminales (‘river boats’). They are also attested as river boats in Roman Gaul, where they were used for short-distance transport: Caes. B Gall. 1.12.1, 7.60; Livy 21.26.8; Auson. Ep. 22.31; Le Gall, Tibre, pp. 18, 216–20, 257. In the nineteenth century, heavier barges of up to 120 tons burden are known on the route between Rome and Orte, but they had a hard time navigating the river during summer: Orlando, ‘Roma porto’; De Nigris, Ferrantini and Buia, ‘Roma porto’. 33 Martin Maischberger, ‘Marmorata’, LTUR 3 (1996), p. 223; Maischberger, Marmor. 34 Dey, Aurelian Wall, is essential, see esp. pp. 165-94; De Caprariis, ‘Porti’, p. 219. According to Gatti, ‘L’arginatura’, p. 69, there were two small apertures in the wall near the Horrea Lolliana. 35 Emilio Rodríguez Almeida, Il Monte Testaccio (Rome: Quasar, 1984), pp. 135–9, 165; José Blázquez Martínez, José Remesal Rodríguez and Emilio Rodríguez Almeida, Excavaciones Arqueológicas en el Monte Testaccio (Roma) (Madrid: Ministerio de Cultura, 1994); Martin Maischberger, ‘Testaceus Mons’, LTUR 5 (1999): 28–30; De Caprariis, ‘Porti’; Aguilera Martín, Testaccio, pp. 162–218; Dey, Aurelian Wall, p. 187. 36 The dole of bread and pork may have begun already during the Severans, but probably did not become permanent until Aurelian. SHA Alex. Sev. 26.2; SHA Aurel. 35.2, 47.2; Notitia Urbis Romae; Curiosum; Cod. Theod. 11.2.2–3, 14.4.3, 14.17.2, 14.23.1; Emin Tengström, Bread for the People (Stockholm: Paul Åströms Förlag, 1974), pp. 82–8; Rickman, Corn Supply, p. 197; Filippo Coarelli, ‘La situazione edilizia di Roma sotto Severo Alessandro’, in Pietri, L’Urbs, pp. 445–56; Elio Lo Cascio, ‘Canon frumentarius, suarius, vinarius’, in Harris, Transformations, pp. 163–82; De Caprariis, ‘Porti’, pp. 219, 230–1; Aguilera Martín, Testaccio, pp. 66, 218; Domenico Vera, ‘Aureliano, Valentiniano I e il vino del populus romanus’, Antiquité Tardive 13 (2005): 247–64; Dey, Aurelian Wall, pp. 185–7; Erdkamp, ‘Food Supply’, pp. 266–7. 37 Helen Patterson, ‘The Middle Tiber Valley in the Late Antique and Early Medieval Periods’, in Patterson and Coarelli, Mercator, pp. 499–532. 38 SHA Aurel. 39.2, 47.3, 48; Castagnoli, ‘Installazioni’, p. 35; Andrea Moneti, ‘Posizione e aspetti del “tempio” del Sole di Aureliano a Roma’, Palladio 6 (1990), pp. 9–24; Robert Palmer, Studies of the Northern Campus Martius in Ancient Rome (Philadelphia, PA: American Philosophical Society, 1990), pp. 45–6; Catherine Virlouvet, Tessera frumentaria (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1995), pp. 51–9; Laura Chioffi, ‘Forum Suarium’, LTUR 2 (1995): 346–7; Filippo Coarelli, ‘Forum Vinarium’, LTUR 2 (1995), p. 360; Filippo Coarelli, ‘Portus Vinarius’, LTUR 4 (1999): 156; Dey, Aurelian Wall, p. 193. 39 Tac. Ann. 3.9; Claud. de cons. Olybr. et Prob. 232–6; Itinerarium Einsiedlense; Constantino Corvisieri, ‘Delle posterule tiberine tra la Porta Flaminia ed il Ponte Gianicolense’, Archivio della Società Romana di Storia Patria 1 (1878): 79–121, 137–71; Le Gall, Tibre, pp. 288–90; Lorenzo Quilici, ‘Un vicolo e una torre medioevali a Tor di Nona e loro implicazioni nell’antica topografia del Campo Marzio’, Bullettino

312 Notes della Commissione Archeologica Comunale di Roma 86 (1978–9): 141–51; Giuseppina Pisani Sartorio, ‘Muri Aureliani: Posterulae/Posternae’, LTUR 3 (1996): 313–14; De Caprariis, ‘Porti’, pp. 220–1; Dey, Aurelian Wall, p. 194. The name Tor di Nona might be derived from the older Torre dell’Annona, ‘the tower of the corn distribution’. 40 Francesco Asso, ‘Sull’origine dell’altura detta prima Monte di Giovanni Roncione, poi Monte Giordano’, Quaderni dell’Istituto di Storia di Architettura 1 (1953): 12–15; De Caprariis, ‘Porti’, pp. 227–31; Dey, Aurelian Wall, pp. 187–9, 194. 41 My translation of CIL 6.1785: (h)austoribus in cupa una numm(is) XXX / tabulariis in singulis apocis numm(is) XX / exasciatori in cupa una numm(is) X / falancariis qui de Ciconiis ad templum cupas / referre consuerunt numm(is) … / custodibus cuparum [numm(is)…] / de ampullis placuit ut post degustation[em] possessori reddantur / professionariis de Ciconiis statim ut advenerent / vinum in una cupa numm(is) CXX. 42 SHA Aurel. 48.14; Le Gall, Tibre, pp. 314–16; Silvio Ferri, ‘Ciconiae Nixae’, Atti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia: Rendiconti 27 (1951–4): 29–32; Jean Rougé, ‘Ad Ciconias Nixas’, Revue des Études Anciennes 59 (1957): 320–8; Castagnoli, ‘Installazioni’, p. 35; La Rocca, ‘Riva’, pp. 60–5; Flambard, ‘Toponymes’; Palmer, Studies, pp. 52–7, 62; Claudia Lega, ‘Ciconiae’, LTUR 1 (1993): 267–9; Virlouvet, Tessera frumentaria, pp. 56–9; De Caprariis, ‘Porti’, pp. 225–6; Dey, Aurelian Wall, pp. 106–7. 43 Garnsey, Famine, pp. 183–4; Aguilera Martín, Testaccio, pp. 54–104; Cozza and Tucci, ‘Navalia’; Erdkamp, ‘Food Supply’, pp. 269–70.

Chapter Seventeen   1 Werner Gauer, Untersuchungen zur Trajanssäule (Berlin: Mann, 1977), pp. 9–13, 79–86 and 171, initiated this approach by suggesting four axes. Martin Galinier, La Colonne Trajane et les Forums Imperiaux (Rome: École Française de Rome, 2007), has elaborated the argument further and proposed eight axes.   2 For a recent contribution, see Francesco de Angelis, ‘Sublime Histories, Exceptional Viewers: Trajan’s Colum and Its Visibility’, in Jaś Elsner and Michel Meyer (eds), Art and Rhetoric in Roman Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), pp. 89–114.   3 For an image, consult the Arachne image database, http://arachne.uni-koeln.de/ drupal/?q=en/node/202 [accessed 22 February 2015].   4 Map of the Via Flaminia /Lata and its imperial monuments: Filippo Coarelli, Rome and Environs. An Archaeological Guide (Berkley, CA: University of California Press), Fig. 77; http://cdm.reed.edu/ara-pacis/maps-1/ [accessed 22 February 2015].   5 Martin Beckmann, The Column of Marcus Aurelius: The Genesis and Meaning of a Roman Imperial Monument (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press 2012), Chapter 5.   6 Michael Pfanner, Der Titusbogen (Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern, 1983).   7 Ranuccio Bianchi Bandinelli, Rome: The Center of Power (New York: George Braziller, 1970), pp. 214–16; Pfanner, Titusbogen, pp. 59–62, concentrates his discussion on whether the spoil relief was intended as an illustration of a true pageant – but without enough space to depict its true linear course – and on refuting the idea that baroque style should characterize Flavian sculpture in general.

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  8 Images can be found on several image databases online, for instance Arachne, http:// arachne.uni-koeln.de/arapacis/index.html [accessed 22 February 2015].   9 Edmund Buchner, ‘Solarium Augusti und Ara Pacis’, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung 83 (1976), pp. 319–65, pls 108–17. 10 Erika Simon, Ara Pacis Augustae (Greenwich, CT: New York Graphic Society, 1968), p. 9. 11 See Ranuccio Bianchi Bandinelli, The Late Empire: Roman Art ad 200–400 (New York: George Braziller, 1971), pp. 63–70, 271–5, for assessments on the style of the Argentarii reliefs: expressionism, frontalism, the heritage of Plebeian form, Eastern ideological attitudes and so forth. 12 Jaś Elsner, ‘Sacrifice and Narrative on the Arch of the Argentarii at Rome’, Journal of Roman Archaeology 18 (2005), pp. 83–98 and Figs 1–11. 13 The course of the lesser streets has yet to be determined. The border between the Velabrum and the Forum Boarium is passed in parallel to or beside the Arch of the Argentarii. Samuel Ball Platner and Thomas Ashby, A Topographical Dictionary of Ancient Rome (London: Oxford University Press, 1929), pp. 574–5, had it pass through the monument apprehended as a gateway. The Vicus Tuscus, which was the main route from the Lower Forum Boarium towards the Forum, passed in front of the façade of the Arch of the Argentarii (i.e. through the Quadrifrons just beside it). 14 Ida Östenberg, ‘Circum metas fertur: An Alternative Reading of the Triumphal Route’, Historia 59 (2010): 317–18. 15 No autopsy has been conducted (that is, the monument has not been scrutinized on site by the present author). The situation is described in Elsner, ‘Sacrifice and Narrative’, p. 97, Figs 12–14, referring also to the similar observations made by Denys Eyre Lankester Haynes and P. E. D. Hirst, Porta Argentariorum (London: Macmillan, 1939), pp. 10–11. 16 Conchita Fernandez-Chicarro, ‘Munigua’, in Richard Stillwell, William L. MacDonald and Marian Holland McAllister (eds), The Princeton Encyclopedia of Classical Sites (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1976); Louise Revell, Roman Imperialism and Local Identities (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), pp. 133–5. 17 Michel Janon, ‘Lambèse’, in Salem Chaker and Yves Modéran (eds), Encyclopédie berbère, vol. 28–9: Kirtēsii–Lutte (Aix-en-Provence: Edisud, 2008), pp. 4340–6, Fig. 3. 18 Elsner, ‘Sacrifice and Narrative’, p. 94, Fig. 2. 19 Ibid., p. 90. 20 Richard Brilliant, The Arch of Septimius Severus in the Roman Forum (Rome: American Academy in Rome, 1967), p. 155. 21 Ibid. 22 Charles Brian Rose, ‘The Parthians in Augustan Rome’, American Journal of Archaeology 109 (2005): 62. 23 Heinz Kähler, Zwei Sockel eines Triumphbogens im Boboligarten zu Florenz (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1936). 24 http://www.romainteractive.com/eng/imperial-rome/arch-of-constantine/pedestals. html [accessed 22 February 2015]. 25 Josephus’ account of the triumphal procession of Vespasian and Titus stresses the fact that the pageant passed through the theatres of the city (BJ 7.5.4). The aim was of course to offer this spectacle to as large an audience as possible. The Coliseum did not exist in the days of Josephus, but did so well into the third century. The choice of

314 Notes putting the Arch of Constantine in this very location may well have been influenced by the vicinity of the Coliseum as well as by the possible access to the Forum Romanum by the Velia. 26 30 January and 4 July (Ov. Fast. 1.709ff.; CIL 1.320, 6.208b, 6.32347a). Simon, Ara Pacis Augustae, p. 8. 27 Jocelyn M. C. Toynbee, The Art of the Romans (London: Thames and Hudson, 1965), p. 61. 28 Both reading directions have been suggested, though without a convincing result for either. For references to this discussion, see Anne-Marie Leander Touati, The Great Trajanic Frieze: The Study of a Monument and of Message Transmission in Roman Art (Stockholm: Paul Åströms Förlag, 1987), p. 30 and nn. 90–100. 29 Leander Touati, Great Trajanic Frieze, pl. 6. 30 Gerhard Koeppel, ‘Profectio und adventus’, Bonner Jahrbücher 169 (1969): 150, 160. 31 For a review, see Leander Touati, Great Trajanic Frieze, pp. 33–4 n. 117. 32 Felix Pirson, ‘Style and Message on the Column of Marcus Aurelius’, Papers of the British School at Rome 64 (1996), pp. 142–7 and Figs 1–5. 33 Leander Touati, Great Trajanic Frieze, pp. 85–91. 34 Sandro Stucchi, ‘Tantis viribus: L’area della colonna nella concezione generale del Foro di Traiano’, Archeologia classica 61 (1989): 264–83; Galinier, Colonne Trajane, chap. 4.41; James Packer, The Forum of Trajan in Rome: A Study of the Monuments, vol. 1 (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1997). 35 Galinier, Colonne Trajane, Chapter 4.41 and n. 147. 36 Leander Touati, Great Trajanic Frieze, pp. 98–104, pl. 55 1–3. It could be that Stucchi, when borrowing the drawings of pl. 55, misunderstood the presentation containing both the Borghese fragments and the continuous representation of the frieze (although it meant to show two separate units without stating their hypothetical interrelation in the original pictorial space of the continuous frieze). 37 A single slab is around 2.20–2.30 m wide, so that three slabs would be around 6.60 to 6.90 m. Leander Touati, Great Trajanic Frieze, p. 96. The width of the portico is derived from Packer’s stone plans. James E. Packer, The Forum of Trajan in Rome: A Study of the Monuments (Berkeley and Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press), vol. 2, fols 0 and 2. 38 In her reconstruction of the north side of the column court, Carla Maria Amici, Foro di Traiano: Basilica Ulpia e Bibliothece = Studie e materiali dei musei e monumenti comunali di Roma 10 (Roma: Panetto and Petrelli, 1982), followed by James Packer, Forum of Trajan, 72, suggest a central opening to the column court in a first phase and more passages, also including paths in the alignments of the library porticoes, in a second, hypothetical phase, pp. 71–7, esp. Fig. 123. 39 Eugenio La Rocca, ‘La nuova immagine dei fori imperiali: Appunti in margine agli scavi’, Mitteilungen des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Römische Abteilung 108 (2001): 171–213, at p. 175; Galinier, Colonne Trajane, Figs 1–2 (plan after Nathalie de Chaisemont); Roberto Meneghini and Riccardo Santangeli-Valenzani, I Fori Imperiali: Gli scavi del Comune di Roma (1991-2007) (Rome: Viviani Editore, 2007), cover and p. 30. http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Foros_imperiales-plano_ base.png [accessed 22 February 2015]. For a somewhat less fitting but still possible suggestion, see Amanda Claridge, ‘Hadrian’s Lost Temple of Trajan’, Journal of Roman Archaeology 20 (2007), pp. 54–94, Fig. 9a. 40 Leander Touati, Great Trajanic Frieze, pls 14 and 16. 41 Leander Touati, Great Trajanic Frieze, pls 16 and 17.3–4.

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42 This kind of intervention would explain the worried look of the Dacian obviously trying to escape into the river, depicted on the fragment inserted into the east wall of the Villa Medici. Leander Touati, Great Trajanic Frieze, pl. 48. It would also constitute a worthy counterpart to the heroic posture of the emperor. 43 It could even be hypothesized that the frieze belonged to the first, Trajanic entrance antedating the conjectured Hadrianic remake of the area needed in order to build the temple. For the state of the art in the discussions on this area, see James Packer, ‘Templum Divi Traiani Parthici et Plotinae: A Debate with R. Meneghini’, Journal of Roman Archaeology 16 (2003), 120–6; Amanda Claridge, ‘Hadrian’s Lost Temple of Trajan’, Journal of Roman Archaeology 20 (2007); John R. Patterson, ‘The City of Rome Revisited: From Mid-Republic to Mid-Empire’, Journal of Roman Studies 100 (2010): 229.

Chapter Eighteen   1 According to Gisella Cantino Wataghin, ‘Even if all the practical and cultural problems hindering large-scale excavations in urban contexts and buildings-in-use could be overcome, the evidence would still remain fragmentary. Interpretation, therefore, still has to concentrate on discussing models.’ Wataghin, ‘Christian Topography in the Late Antique Town’, in Luke Lavan and William Bowden (eds), Theory and Practice in Late Antique Archaeology (Leiden: Brill, 2003), p. 252.   2 ‘In terms of methodology, it is clear that much of our knowledge of late antique urban topography has depended simply on crude patterns in the survival of archaeological evidence; to improve on this we must concentrate on writing actively about topography, not just through the collection of evidence, but through argument, critically evaluating different kinds of sources to create a human spatial narrative for Late Antiquity.’ Luke Lavan, ‘The Political Topography of the Late Antique City’, in Lavan and Bowden, Late Antique Archaeology, p. 331.   3 While the adherents of the cult themselves never used the word ‘mithraeum’ as far as we know, but preferred words like speleum (cave), antrum (cave), crypta (underground hallway or corridor), fanum (sacred or holy place) or even templum (a temple or a sacred space), the neologism ‘mithraeum’ is the common appellation in Mithraic scholarship and consequently is used throughout this chapter.   4 The most recent overall study which deals with the mithraea of Ostia is Jan Theo Bakker, Living and Working with the Gods: Studies of Evidence for Private Religion and its Material Environment in the City of Ostia (100–500 ad) (Amsterdam: Gieben, 1994). Still useful are G. Becatti’s original study, Scavi di Ostia II: I mitrei (Rome: Libreria dello Stato, 1954), and Samuel Laeuchli (ed.), Mithraism in Ostia: Mystery Religion and Christianity in the Ancient Port of Rome (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1967), as are several articles in Ugo Bianchi (ed.), Mysteria Mithrae: Atti del Seminario Internazionale su ‘La Specificità storico-religiosa dei Misteri di Mithra, con particolare riferimento alle fonti documentarie di Roma e Ostia’ (Leiden: Brill, 1979). There is also a section on Mithras at Ostia in Douglas Boin, Ostia in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013).   5 There are of course exceptions to this trend, most notably Alison Griffith’s doctoral dissertation ‘The Archaeological Evidence for Mithraism in Imperial Rome’

316 Notes

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  7

  8

  9

(University of Michigan, 1993), which discusses in some detail the location of the Roman mithraea in relation to the topography of the city. These discoveries include the Crypta Balbi mithraeum in Rome itself, the Tienen mithraeum in Belgium or the Huarte/Hawarti mithraeum in Syria. A new mithraeum was discovered in Rome, on the Via Tiburtina, in 2011. Not even preliminary reports have been published so far, but there were two brief reports of the find in La Repubblica on 21 and 25 April 2012, and the salient points can be found cited in Robert Coates-Stephens, ‘Notes from Rome 2011–12’, Papers of the British School at Rome 80 (2012): 329. This mithraeum is magnificently decorated by mural paintings and features several unique motifs which will certainly be important for the study of Mithraic iconography. The mithraeum has not yet been fully published, but several preliminary reports by Michal Gawlikowski, the archaeologist in charge of the excavations, have appeared: ‘Hawarti Preliminary Report’, Polish Archaeology in the Mediterranean 10 (1999): 197–204; ‘Hawarte 1999’, Polish Archaeology in the Mediterranean 11 (2000): 261–71; ‘Un nouveau mithraeum récemment découvert à Huarté près d’Apamée’, Comptes-rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 144 (2000): 161–71; ‘Le mithraeum de Haouarte (Apamène)’, Toπoi 11 (2001) [2004]: 183–93. The discovery of a large quantity of tableware as well as animal remains in a pit outside the newly excavated mithraeum at Tienen, Belgium, has also attracted new attention to the topic of Mithraic processions and largescale feasts, begging a re-examination of the secrecy of the cult and its visibility in local society. For more on the finds from this mithraeum, see below and of course Marleen Martens, ‘The Mithraeum in Tienen (Belgium). Small Finds and What They Can Tell Us’, in Marleen Martens and Guy De Boe (eds), Roman Mithraism: The Evidence of the Small Finds (Brussels: IAP, 2004), pp. 25–56. Each new find excavated according to the standards of modern archaeology seems to yield new and pertinent information. The recent discovery of a small portable tauroctony relief at the Villa dei Quintilii, for example, suggests that Mithraists could, and did, assemble for ritual practices in ad hoc locations to a far greater extent than has so far been assumed. If more corroborating examples of such semi-permanent or ad hoc mithraea come to light, it would imply that serious revisions of the potential Mithraic membership mass are urgently needed. For a detailed discussion of the stability of Mithraic iconography from Rome, see Jonas Bjørnebye, ‘Hic locus est felix, sanctus, piusque benignus: The Cult of Mithras in Fourth-Century Rome’ (PhD dissertation, University of Bergen, 2007), pp. 126–41, 160–8. Especially important in this regard has been the membership album from Virunum (AE, 1994, p. 1334; originally published by Gernot Piccottini, Mithrastempel in Virunum (Klagenfurt: Verlag des Geschichtsvereines für Kärnten, 1994)), and for Rome in particular the set of inscriptions connected to the Piazza San Silvestro mithraeum (V 400–6, CIL 6.749–54). For a wider discussion of the demographics and mobility, see Simon Price, ‘Religious Mobility in the Roman Empire’, Journal of Roman Studies 102 (2012), pp. 1–19. Price provides a detailed discussion of religious mobility in connection with the demographic makeup of both ‘ethnic’ and ‘elective’ cults. Price uses the example of the Mithras cult to great effect in his discussion. Although I do not touch upon empire-wide mobility and movement in the present chapter, Price’s argument provides a useful macro-prism for some of the local patterns under discussion here.

Notes

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10 See Elisa Lissi-Caronna, Il Mitreo dei Castra Peregrinorum (S. Stefano Rotondo) (Leiden: Brill, 1986), and Elisa Lissi-Caronna, ‘La rilevanza storico-religiosa del materiale mitriaco da S. Stefano Rotondo’, in Bianchi, Mysteria Mithrae, pp. 205–18. 11 The connection between the cult of Mithras and the frumentarii is intriguing and certainly deserves further study elsewhere. 12 For an in-depth discussion of the term ‘semi-public’ in connection with the Roman mithraea, see Jonas Bjørnebye, ‘Secrecy and Initiation in the Mithraic Communities of Fourth-Century Rome’, in Christian H. Bull, Liv Ingeborg Lied and John D. Turner (eds), Mystery and Secrecy in the Nag Hammadi Collection and Other Ancient Litterature: Ideas and Practices (Leiden: Brill, 2012), pp. 351–74. 13 See Marco Ricci, ‘Il mitreo della Crypta Balbi a Roma (note preliminari)’, in Martens and De Boe, Roman Mithraism, pp. 157–65, and Lucia Saguì, ‘Il mitreo della Crypta Balbi a Roma e i suoi reperti’, in Martens and De Boe, Roman Mithraism, pp. 167–78. 14 The largest cult room in Rome up until the recent discovery of the Crypta Balbi mithraeum was the mithraeum of the Terme di Caracalla, which is 23 metres long and a little under 10 metres wide. The largest in central Italy, outside of the city of Rome, is that of the Marino mithraeum, which is a little over 29 metres long, but the lengths of these three mithraea are exceptional indeed and not representative of a typical Roman mithraeum. 15 See Maarten J. Vermaseren and Carel Claudius van Essen, The Excavations in the Mithraeum of the Church of Santa Prisca in Rome (Leiden: Brill, 1965). 16 For a discussion concerning the relationship between city gates and religious buildings, particularly churches, see Hans Bjur and Simon Malmberg, ‘The Suburb as Centre’, in Hans Bjur and Barbro Santillo Frizell (eds), Via Tiburtina: Space, Movement and Artefacts in the Urban Landscape (Rome: Svenska institutet i Rom, 2009), pp. 109–28, esp. 118–24. 17 Alan Kaiser, Roman Urban Street Networks (New York: Routledge, 2011), pp. 138–9. 18 Simon Malmberg, ‘Navigating the Urban Via Tiburtina’, in Bjur and Santillo Frizell (eds), Via Tiburtina, pp. 61–78, at 67. 19 Such as, for example, the possible mithraeum at Villa dei Quintilii close to the city, or further afield, such as the mithraea at Marino and at Capua. 20 For religiously motivated destruction of mithraea, see Eberhard Sauer, The Archaeology of Religious Hatred in the Roman and Early Medieval World (Stroud: Tempus Publishing, 2003). For the opposite point of view, see Bjørnebye, ‘Hic locus’, pp. 53–9, and Richard L. Gordon, ‘The End of Mithraism in the Northwest Provinces’, Journal of Roman Archaeology 12 (1999): 682–8. Most recently, see Jonas Bjørnebye, ‘Re-interpreting the Cult of Mithras in Fourth-Century Rome’, in Michele R. Salzman, Marianne Sághy and Rita Lizzi Testa (eds), Pagans and Christians in Late Antique Rome: Conflict, Competition and Coexistence in the Fourth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, forthcoming). 21 For a study of private religion in Ostia which includes several helpful sections on the mithraea, see Bakker, Living and Working with the Gods. Most recently see Boin, Ostia in Late Antiquity. 22 For a more in-depth treatment of the actual topography of each mithraeum in Rome in the context of its immediate surroundings, see Griffith, ‘Archaeological Evidence’, pp. 163–240. See also Maarten J. Vermaseren, De Mithrasdienst in Rome (Nijmegen: Centrale Drukkerij N.V., 1951), pp. 33–110, though Vermaseren’s dissertation is naturally rather dated today.

318 Notes 23 Griffith analyses the immediate neighbourhoods of the mithraea, but reaches few general conclusions other than that the preponderance of mithraea were confined to four main locations: ‘in certain barracks, in domus, in imperial baths, and in the sanctuaries of other Oriental deities’. Griffith, ‘Archaeological Evidence’, p. 237. 24 Bakker, Living and Working with the Gods, p. 204. See also Boin, Ostia in Late Antiquity. 25 The mithraeum at the Casa di Diana was located in what was most likely a guild-hall, and is in fact only a few metres away from the Menandro mithraeum which probably functioned as the regular neighbourhood mithraeum here. The mithraeum in the Terme di Mitra, on the other hand, is one of the largest in Ostia and is located close to the busy port/harbour area vis-à-vis the Isola Sacra and the road to Portus. Circumstantial evidence for early morning rituals could indicate that Ostian residents or transients working in Portus but living in Ostia could have used the mithraeum for morning gatherings on their way to work. Of course, this point must remain hypothetical given the state of the evidence. 26 Bakker, Living and Working with the Gods, pp. 114–15. 27 The mithraeum has not as yet been completely published, but there are several preliminary reports available, notably in Martens and De Boe, Roman Mithraism. 28 Notably by Filippo Coarelli, ‘Topografia mitriaca di Roma (con una carta)’, in Bianchi, Mysteria Mithrae, pp. 69–79, at 76–7. 29 Coarelli’s numbers for Ostia were based on Russell Meiggs, Roman Ostia (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1973 (2nd edn)), pp. 532–4. Recent research suggests that Ostia had 200,000–250,000 inhabitants in the first century. This number does not take into account the extramural inhabitants, however. 30 The parameters for postulating forty mithraea seem to be faulty, however. Coarelli, ‘Topografia mitriaca di Roma’, believed that only about 33 hectares out of a total of 77 hectares had been uncovered, thus bringing the number of mithraea statistically from 18 to 40. Recent archaeology has shown however that a much larger percentage of Ostia has been excavated; see Bakker, Living and Working with the Gods, p. 114. Bakker estimates the number of mithraea at 24. 31 Coarelli, ‘Topografia mitriaca di Roma’, p. 77. It should be noted, however, that on the other end of the scale, Vermaseren in his original study of the cult of Mithras in Rome estimated only about 100 mithraea in total for the city; see Vermaseren, Mithrasdienst, p. 149. 32 Coarelli, ‘Topografia mitriaca di Roma’, p. 77. 33 See Bakker, Living and Working with the Gods, p. 114 and n. 29 with reference to Carlo Pavolini, Ostia (Rome: Laterza, 1983), p. 36. These estimates do not, however, include the suburban areas of Ostia Antica, which could quite possibly yield finds of several new mithraea. 34 Bertrand Lançon, Rome dans l’Antiquité tardive: 312–604 après J.-C. (Paris: Hachette, 1995), p. 27. 35 Maarten J. Vermaseren, Corpus Inscriptionum et Monumentorum Religionis Mithriacae, 2 vols (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1956–60), V 513–14 (inscribed altars). References to Vermaseren’s catalogue are abbreviated V from here on. 36 V 467 (mithraeum) and V 468–71 (relief fragments, relief, inscription and inscribed altar). 37 From an inscribed altar to the Great Gods (V 514), dedicated by the senator Ulpius Egnatius Faventinus, featuring what amounts to a veritable cursus honorum of religious titles.

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38 CIL VI.497–504. See also Alison B. Griffith, ‘Mithraism in the Private and Public Lives of 4th-c. Senators in Rome’, Electronic Journal of Mithraic Studies 1 (2000), pp. 1–27, at 10, n. 31. 39 Griffith, ‘Archaeological Evidence’, pp. 158–9. 40 See Malmberg, ‘Via Tiburtina’, p. 63. 41 The increase in frequency of literary sources pertaining to the cult of Mithras in late antiquity is discussed in more detail in Bjørnebye, ‘Hic locus’, pp. 94–7, and 193, n. 578, as well as in Bjørnebye, ‘Re-interpreting the Cult of Mithras’. The increase in more publicly visible mithraea in late antique Rome is discussed at length throughout Bjørnebye, ‘Hic locus’.

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List of Abbreviations AA.SS. Bollandists, Acta Sanctorum, 67 vols., 1643–1883; repr. Brussels: Victorem Palme, 1902–70. CBCR

Krautheimer, R., Corpus basilicarum christianarum Romae: The Early Christian Basilicas of Rome (IV–IX cent.), 5 vols, Vatican City: Pontificio istituto di archeologia cristiana, 1937–77.

Epig. Dam.

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ICUR

De Rossi, G. B. (ed), Inscriptiones Christianae urbis Romae septimo saeculo antiquiores, 3 vols, Rome: Ex Officina Libraria Pontificia, 1861–1915.

LP

Duchesne, L., Le Liber Pontificalis, 3 vols, 1886–92; repr. Paris: E. de Boccard, 1955–7.

LTUR

Steinby, E. M. (ed.), Lexicon topographicum urbis Romae, 6 vols, Rome: Quasar, 1993–2000.

LTURS

La Regina, A. (ed.), Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae. Suburbium, 5 vols, Rome: Quasar, 2001–8.

MGH AA

Monumenta Germaniae historica: Auctores antiquissimi, 15 vols, Berlin: Weidmann, 1877–1919.

MGH Ep.

Monumenta Germaniae historica: Epistolae, 8 vols, Berlin: Weidmann, 1887–1939.

Not. Rom.

Notitia Regionum Urbis XIV, in A. Nordh (ed.), Libellus de regionibus urbis Romae, Lund: C. W. K. Gleerup, 1949, pp. 73–106.

Platner-Ashby Platner, S. B. (completed and revised by Thomas Ashby), A Topographical Dictionary of Ancient Rome, Oxford and London: Oxford University Press, 1929. PLRE

The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire, 3 vols, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971–92.

SIG3

Dittenberger, W. (ed.) Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum, 5 vols, 3rd edition, Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1915–24.

Val. Zucc.

Valentini, R. and Zucchetti, G., Codice topografico della città di Roma, 4 vols, Rome: Tipografia del Senato, 1940–53.

Index Alban Mount 28, 135, 136, 139, 141 Ambrose 65–6, 68, 69, 70 Ammianus Marcellinus 47, 53–56 Appian 18, 78, 79–80, 83–4, 135–6 Ara Pacis 40–1, 46, 142, 206–11, 214–16, 223 Arch of the Argentarii 209–13 Arch of Constantine 213–21 Arch of Septimius Severus 211–14, 223 Arch of Titus 206–8, 216 arrivals 18–19, 26–8, 31, 54, 127, 130, 133–4, 139, 140, 143, 214, 217–18, 219, 221 Arval Brethren 128–30, 131, 132 Augustus 19, 21, 37, 38–42, 44–6, 55, 100, 103, 111–12, 114, 117–18, 120–2, 133–43, 178, 181, 192, 193 Aurelian Wall 125, 168, 194, 196–7, 200, 231 Aventine 69, 79, 102, 108–9, 138–9, 179, 183, 200, 228, 234

Cicero, Marcus Tullius 17, 18, 29, 85–6, 90, 92, 93, 94, 95, 109–10, 114, 138 exile and return 18, 19, 20, 133, 141, 239 n.6, 242 nn.34, 37, 263 n.44 Circus Flaminius 133, 136, 138, 142 Circus Maximus 45, 55, 65, 107–9, 126, 138, 180, 213–14, 217, 223 Clodius 76, 82–7, 133 Colosseum 185, 206, 213–14, 217 Column of Marcus Aurelius 203, 206–7, 218–19, 222–3 Column of Trajan 203–6, 216, 218–19 Commentariolum petitionis 17 Consolatio ad Liviam 38–40, 43–4 Consolatio ad Marciam 38–9, 143 crowd 18, 30, 39, 48, 52–4, 56, 63–4, 66, 68, 70, 78, 79, 80–6, 92–3, 94–6, 108, 121, 133, 140, 159, 181, 201 see also mob Curia 19, 28, 31, 32, 47, 80–1, 83–4, 87, 90

Basilica Aemilia 95, 213 Basilica Ulpia 204–6, 219–23 Baths of Caracalla 55, 228, 231–2, 235–6

Damasus 54, 69, 145–54, 159 Dea Dia, sacred gove of 128–31 departures 18–19, 34–5, 133, 140, 141, 143, 218 Digesta 92, 93, 94, 183 Dio Cassius 17, 42, 47–8, 49–51, 52–3, 54, 55, 57, 83–4, 134–7, 140–3

Caelian hill 108, 126–7, 179, 180, 228 Caesar, Gaius Julius 17, 18, 21, 28, 76, 135, 141, 243 n.70, 283 n.22, 285–6 n.52 Campus Martius 21, 27, 34, 44, 56, 115, 135, 136, 138–9, 141, 142, 163, 181, 182, 187, 195, 197–201, 204, 221, 222, 223 Capitol 18–19, 27, 31, 33–4, 78, 79, 80–1, 102, 107, 117, 128, 130–1, 133, 135–6, 139–40, 141, 142, 208, 212 carcer 90–1, 107–8, 212–13 carpentum 40, 42–4, 46 catacombs 145–54 Catullus 92, 94, 114–17

Einsiedeln Itinerary 146, 166, 197–8 Forma Urbis 139, 198 Forum Augustum 19, 95, 117, 181 Forum Boarium 105–6, 138, 209, 211, 226 Forum Holitorium 106 Forum Romanum 15, 18–21, 34, 39, 44, 49, 51, 55, 79, 80–1, 83–4, 89–91, 94–6, 97–8, 106, 107, 128, 130–1, 133, 163, 165, 167–8, 171, 178, 181, 182, 186, 206, 208, 211–13, 223

360 Index funerals 4, 17, 20, 21–2, 34, 38–9, 41, 45, 46, 83–4, 117, 127, 138, 143, 252 n.72 gates 18–20, 52, 102–3, 105, 119–20, 128, 134, 136, 138, 141, 143, 145, 184, 197, 198, 204, 206, 217–18, 228–9, 232, 235–6 see also Porta Capena, Carmentalis, Triumphalis Great Trajanic frieze 203, 214–23 harbours 3, 105, 187–201 Herodian 47–53, 57 Historia Augusta 47, 53–6 Horace 41, 114, 121–2, 140, 250 n.41 Satirae 1.5 112, 115–16 Satirae 1.9 15, 89, 91, 94–8, 116 Jerome 61–70, 149–50 Juvenal 175 Lateran 155, 158–9 lictors 13–14, 17, 19, 20, 21, 35, 42, 44, 45, 46, 208, 243 n.70 litters 15, 18, 21, 32, 42, 53, 67 Livy 18, 24, 32, 33, 35, 38–9, 43–4, 79, 80, 81, 106, 108, 135, 136, 138, 139, 141, 180 Magna Mater 126–7, 130, 234 Martial 115, 175, 176, 181–2 martyrs 61, 62, 63, 66, 67, 68–9, 70, 145–54, 165–72 mithraea 225–36 mob 22, 30, 76–7, 78, 80, 81–4, 85–6, 230 movement see also processions, walking escorted 13–22, 25–6, 29, 32, 34, 38, 42, 46, 49, 51, 64–8, 85, 97, 107, 135, 136, 209–11, 213 hasty, running 14, 34–5, 39, 47–57, 78–80, 84, 94–5, 108, 113 in and out of the city 19, 20, 27, 34–5, 52, 69, 125–32, 133–43, 146–54, 169–72, 187–92 restricted 21, 59–71, 91, 121–2 slow, dignified 39, 47, 50, 52, 55, 181–2, 189 violent 75–87, 90–4

Navalia 27, 139, 193–4 Ostia 2, 3, 189–91, 196, 226, 228, 230–3 Ovid 39, 40, 46, 106, 111, 114, 119–22 Palatine 41, 44–5, 46, 50, 83, 108–9, 116–21, 126–7, 138, 161, 170, 177, 179–80, 207–8 Pantheon 129, 142, 163 pilgrims 145–54, 166, 168, 170 Plautus 92, 93, 108, 114 Pliny the Elder 29, 184 Pliny the Younger 51–2, 56–7 Plutarch 26, 27–8, 34, 78, 79–80, 84, 136, 139 pomerium 19, 26, 30, 52, 103, 128, 131, 133–4, 135–6, 138–43, 178, 180, 276 n.5 Pompeii 2, 3, 95, 176, 182 Pons Milvius 187, 191, 196, 199, 200 Porta Capena 69, 126, 128, 130–1, 135, 138–9, 140–1, 183, 228, 242 n.49, 256 n.53 Porta Carmentalis 27, 138 Porta Triumphalis 133–4, 135–6, 138–9, 141 processions 4, 15–22, 34, 37, 43, 48, 50, 107, 113, 122, 125–32, 133–43, 206–8, 212, 215, 223, 232, 236 Christian 65, 155–64, 169–71, 177 funeral 4, 17, 20, 21–2, 34, 38–9, 46, 117, 138, 143 religious 15, 40–2, 43, 44, 45, 48, 125–32 triumphal 4, 15, 16–17, 18, 19, 21, 38, 39–40, 46, 122, 128, 133–43, 171, 206–8, 209, 212, 216, 223 Propertius 95, 106, 111, 118–19, 122 Prudentius 65, 68–9, 70, 149–50 Quintilian 113 salutatio 17, 19, 20, 21 spatial turn 2, 175–6 S. Maria Maggiore 155–64 St Lawrence 165–72 St Peter’s 67, 68, 70, 158, 159–60, 169–70 Subura 158, 160, 163, 165, 167, 171, 177 Suetonius 18, 21, 40, 140

Index Symmachus 54, 65, 159 Tabula Heracleensis 183 Tacitus 38, 40, 50, 52, 138, 180 Temple of Bellona 27, 136, 138 Jupiter Dolichenus 234 Jupiter Feretrius 33, 142 Jupiter Optimus Maximus 19, 30, 33, 115, 128, 140, 142 Saturn 27–8 Vesta 41, 44, 95, 98, 119–20 Testaccio 187, 192–201 Tiber 27, 106–7, 116, 126, 127, 138–9, 142, 155, 187–201 traffic 2, 3, 8, 34, 104, 175, 187–201, 228–9, 232, 235–6 Trajan 24, 51–2, 56, 189, 191–2, 197, 200, 204 transvectio equitum 15, 127–8, 130, 131

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Varro 31, 99–110, 117, 175, 191 Vatican 126, 158, 159, 160, 170, 201, 234 Velabrum 50, 102, 209, 211 Velleius Paterculus 77–8, 79–81, 84, 86, 137 Vestals 17, 21, 37, 41, 42, 45, 46, 65, 141 Via Appia 27, 55, 69, 82, 127–8, 131, 138, 170, 182–3, 228 Via Campana 128, 190 Via Flaminia 56, 142, 183, 190, 199, 206, 207–8, 211, 214–16, 219, 223 Via Sacra 15, 85, 89, 115–16, 126, 133, 181, 208 vici 103–5, 175–8, 182, 184–6 Virgil 43, 86, 106, 111, 112, 117–18, 122, 149 walking 2, 4, 13–21, 39, 50, 56, 57, 67, 70, 85, 96, 101, 111, 113–22, 150, 154, 175, 182, 183