Usages of the Past in Roman Historiography (Historiography of Rome and Its Empire) 9004445021, 9789004445024

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Table of contents :
Contents
Preface
Notes on Contributors
References and Abbreviations
Historiography of Rome and Its Empire Series
Introduction: Usages of the Past in Roman Historiography
Part 1 Coming to Terms with the Principate
Chapter 1 Velleius Paterculus and the Battle of Actium
Chapter 2 In Short, the Republic: Florus and the (Re)Written Republic
Chapter 3 Principatus ac Libertas!? Tacitus, the Past and the Principate of Trajan
Part 2 Intertextuality and Intratextuality
Chapter 4 “Making History”: Constructive Wonder (aka Quellenforschung) and the Composition of Caesar’s Gallic War (Thanks to Labienus and Polybius)
Chapter 5 When in Disgrace with Fortune and Men’s Eyes … Livy (and Polybius) on the Gallic Sack of Rome
Chapter 6 Livy’s Faliscan Schoolmaster
Chapter 7 From Thrasea Paetus to Calgacus – or Was It the Other Way Around? An Example of Tacitean Intratextuality
Part 3 The Frontiers of Historiography
Chapter 8 The Staging of Death: Tacitus’ Agrippina the Younger and the Dramatic Turn
Chapter 9 Tiberius and Tears: Grief and Genre
Chapter 10 Migration and Mobile Memory in the Roman Historical Digression
Chapter 11 Epilogue: History in Pompeii
Index Nominum et Rerum
Index Locorum
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Usages of the Past in Roman Historiography

Historiography of Rome and Its Empire Series Editors Carsten Hjort Lange (Aalborg, Denmark) Jesper Majbom Madsen (SDU, Denmark) Editorial Board Rhiannon Ash (Oxford, UK) Christopher Baron (Notre Dame, USA) Henning Börm (Konstanz, Germany) Alain Gowing (University of Washington, USA) Adam Kemezis (Alberta, Canada) Christina S. Kraus (Yale, USA) J. E. Lendon (University of Virginia, USA) David Levene (New York University, USA) Steve Mason (Groningen, Netherlands) Josiah Osgood (Georgetown, USA) John Rich (Nottingham, UK) Cristina Rosillo-López (Sevilla, Spain) Federico Santangelo (Newcastle, UK) Christopher Smith (St Andrews, UK) Catherine Steel (Glasgow, UK) Frederik J. Vervaet (Melbourne, Australia) David Wardle (Cape Town, South Africa) Kathryn Welch (Sydney, Australia) Johannes Wienand (Braunschweig, Germany)

VOLUME 9 The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/hre

Usages of the Past in Roman Historiography Edited by

Aske Damtoft Poulsen Arne Jönsson

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Cover illustration: Clio, muse of history, ca. 240 AD. Detail of a 10,36m × 5,92m mosaic from the Roman villa near present-day Vichten in Luxembourg. Collection of the National Museum of History and Art Luxembourg, Photographer: Christof Weber. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Usages of the past in Roman historiography (Conference) (2018 :  Lund, Sweden) | Damtoft Poulsen, Aske, editor, author. | Jönsson, Arne,  editor. Title: Usages of the past in Roman historiography / edited by Aske Damtoft  Poulsen, Arne Jönsson. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, [2021] | Series: Historiography of  Rome and its empire, 2468–2314 ; volume 9 | These questions formed the  backbone of a conference entitled “Usages of the Past in Roman  Historiography”, which took place at Lund University 11–12 January  2018—Preface. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020046127 (print) | LCCN 2020046128 (ebook) | ISBN  9789004445024 (hardback) | ISBN 9789004445086 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Rome—Historiography—Congresses. | Rome—History—Errors,  inventions, etc.—Congresses. | Historians—Rome—Attitudes—Congresses. Classification: LCC DG205 .U83 2018 (print) | LCC DG205 (ebook) | DDC  937.0072—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020046127 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020046128

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/brill-typeface. issn 2468-2314 isbn 978-90-04-44502-4 (hardback) isbn 978-90-04-44508-6 (e-book) Copyright 2021 by Aske Damtoft Poulsen and Arne Jönsson. Published by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Hes & De Graaf, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Rodopi, Brill Sense, Hotei Publishing, mentis Verlag, Verlag Ferdinand Schöningh and Wilhelm Fink Verlag. Koninklijke Brill NV reserves the right to protect this publication against unauthorized use. Requests for re-use and/or translations must be addressed to Koninklijke Brill NV via brill.com or copyright.com. This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents Preface vii Notes on Contributors ix List of Figures xii References and Abbreviations xiv Historiography of Rome and Its Empire Series xv Carsten H. Lange and Jesper M. Madsen Introduction: Usages of the Past in Roman Historiography 1 Aske Damtoft Poulsen

Part 1 Coming to Terms with the Principate 1 Velleius Paterculus and the Battle of Actium 25 Roberto Cristofoli 2 In Short, the Republic: Florus and the (Re)Written Republic 40 Rachel Lilley Love 3 Principatus ac Libertas!? Tacitus, the Past and the Principate of Trajan 69 Kai Ruffing

Part 2 Intertextuality and Intratextuality 4 “Making History”: Constructive Wonder (aka Quellenforschung) and the Composition of Caesar’s Gallic War (Thanks to Labienus and Polybius) 91 Christopher B. Krebs 5 When in Disgrace with Fortune and Men’s Eyes … Livy (and Polybius) on the Gallic Sack of Rome 115 Ulrike Roth

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6 Livy’s Faliscan Schoolmaster 146 Christina Shuttleworth Kraus 7 From Thrasea Paetus to Calgacus – or Was It the Other Way Around? An Example of Tacitean Intratextuality 169 Aske Damtoft Poulsen

Part 3 The Frontiers of Historiography 8 The Staging of Death: Tacitus’ Agrippina the Younger and the Dramatic Turn 197 Rhiannon Ash 9 Tiberius and Tears: Grief and Genre 225 Johan Vekselius 10 Migration and Mobile Memory in the Roman Historical Digression 262 Kyle Khellaf 11 Epilogue: History in Pompeii 298 Anne-Marie Leander Touati Index Nominum et Rerum 327 Index Locorum 335

Preface How did Roman historians use, and manipulate, the past? What did they seek to accomplish by participating in its re-creation, what tools did they have at their disposal to do so, and which underlying conceptualisations of history can we glimpse behind their efforts? These questions formed the backbone of a conference entitled “Usages of the Past in Roman Historiography”, which took place at Lund University 11–12 January 2018. Inspired by Christina S. Kraus’ 2014 article “Long Ago and Far Away … The Uses of the Past in Tacitus’ Minora”, participants were encouraged to explore late republican and early imperial historiographical texts through the inclusively ambiguous concept “usage of the past”. Welcoming both close readings of specific passages and panoramic discussions of broader issues in the study of Roman historiography, the conference aimed to facilitate debate not only about the literary-rhetorical nature of historiography, i.e. how past textualised events provided a framework within which new historical texts were (consciously or unconsciously) placed and given meaning, but also about conceptualisations of historical change during transformative periods of Roman history, i.e. how portrayals of the past might reveal unstated assumptions about the passing of time and indicate expectations of the future. The raison d’être of the current volume was to provide participants with the opportunity to develop their arguments further by drawing on the feedback received and discussions begun at the conference; to seek answers to the questions raised and debated, but not – due to the usual constraints of such academic gatherings – given the necessary time to mature through re-reading, re-thinking, and re-phrasing. Moreover, since we felt that certain areas of Roman historical writing were not adequately covered at the conference, two additional scholars were invited to contribute: Christopher Krebs (University of Stanford) has done so with a paper on Julius Caesar’s reworking of Labienus’ report on his campaign along the Seine; Roberto Cristofoli (University of Perugia) with a paper on Velleius Paterculus’ engagement with earlier traditions in his treatment of the Battle of Actium. While the papers of the volume cover a wide range of themes and writers, their shared point of departure from the concept “usage of the past” constitutes its red thread. The following introductory chapter will outline the key themes of the volume, situate it within previous research on usages of the past and/in Roman historiography, and present its papers.1 1 Some of the papers presented at the conference have been published elsewhere: Ellen O’Gorman’s paper on “Sensing the Republic in Tacitus” has been published as

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The editors would like to express their gratitude to a number of people, foundations, and academic institutions without whom/which neither the conference nor this volume would have seen the light of day. Firstly, the financial costs of the conference were shouldered by Thora Ohlssons Stiftelse, Kungliga Humanistiska Vetenskapssamfundet i Lund, Sven och Dagmar Saléns Stiftelse, and Harald och Tonny Hagendahls Stiftelse. These also contributed to fund translation and preliminary proof-reading of certain papers for the volume. Secondly, Carsten Hjort Lange and Jesper Majbom Madsen, the editors of Brill’s “Historiography of Rome and its Empire” series, provided invaluable help and guidance in getting the volume ready for publication. Excellent feedback was delivered by the anonymous reader appointed by them. Thirdly, work on the volume was carried out at various academic institutions, each of which deserves a special thanks: while the foundation of the project was laid at the Centre for Languages and Literature at Lund University and major advances were made at the Swedish Institute in Rome, it would not have reached its present, felicitous conclusion were it not for the time and serenity offered by a two-year fellowship at the Department of Classics and Ancient History at Bristol University, courtesy of the Carlsberg Foundation. Fourthly, and finally, heartfelt thanks are due to all those who have taken part in the making of the volume as authors (also for their significant efforts as internal reviewers), proof-readers, translators, artists, and last, but not least, participants at the conference. Arne Jönsson and Aske Damtoft Poulsen

“Conspicuous Absence: Tacitus’ de Re Publica” in Elena Giusti’s and Tom Geue’s (eds.) Unspoken Rome (Cambridge, 2019); Dennis Pausch’s paper on “Livy’s Battle in the Forum between Roman Monuments and Greek Literature” may be found in Kaj Sandberg’s and Christopher Smith’s (eds.) Omnium Annalium Monumenta: Historical Writing and Historical Evidence in Republican Rome (Brill, 2018); and the observations and arguments presented by Edwin Shaw in his paper on “Talking and not talking about Carthage in Sallust’s Bellum Jugurthinum” are currently finding their way into his forthcoming monograph Sallust and the Fall of the Republic: Historiography and Intellectual Life at Rome, also to be published in Brill’s “Historiography of Rome and its Empire” series.

Notes on Contributors Rhiannon Ash Fellow and Tutor in Classics at Merton College, Oxford, and Professor of Roman Historiography, Oxford University. She publishes widely on Latin prose narratives but has special research interests in Tacitus. Her other research interests include ancient epistles, Greek and Roman biography, battle narratives, paradoxography, Cicero, Sallust, Livy, Pliny the Elder, and Pliny the Younger. She has previously co-edited Classical Quarterly and now co-edits (with John Marincola and Tim Rood) Histos, the electronic journal of Ancient Historiography. Roberto Cristofoli Professor of Roman History at the University of Perugia. Besides many papers published in scientific journals, in proceedings and in miscellaneous books on various aspects of Roman history and of Latin literature, he has written four monographs devoted to the last decades of the Roman Republic (and his current research activities also focus on this period of Roman history), as well as other monographs devoted to Caligula, to Constantine, and to the food and the role of dietetics in ancient Rome. Aske Damtoft Poulsen Carlsberg Foundation Internationalisation Fellow at Bristol University, where he is working on a project on “Peace and Power in the Roman Principate”. Having done his BA and MA in Classical Studies at Oslo University, he graduated from Lund University in 2018 with a thesis on Accounts of Northern Barbarians in Tacitus’ Annales and spent the academic year 2018/2019 as a postdoctoral researcher at the Swedish Institute in Rome. He has published articles on (the lack of) mercy in Virgil’s Aeneid, on the language of freedom and slavery in Tacitus’ Agricola, and on side-shadowing devices in Tacitus’ Annals 1–2 (in de Gruyter’s forthcoming Ancient and Modern Philosophies of History, ed. A. Turner). Arne Jönsson Professor emeritus in Latin at Lund University and former vice-chairman of the board of the Swedish Institute in Rome and the Villa San Michele Foundation on Capri. He has specialised in historical-philological research with editions and studies on St. Birgitta of Sweden, Chancellor Axel Oxenstierna, Sophia Elisabet Brenner (Sweden’s first woman poet), and the Linnaeus disciple Daniel Rolander. In 2017 he edited (with Gregor Vogt-Spira, Marburg

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University) a collection of articles entitled The Classical Tradition in the Baltic Region: Perceptions and Adaptations of Greece and Rome for Olms Verlag. Kyle Khellaf Assistant Professor of Comparative Literature and Classics at the University of California, Riverside. He teaches courses on Greek civilization, classical receptions, comparative theories of empire, and gender and sexuality in antiquity. He has recently published articles on Polybius’ digressions and the Roman poet Propertius, and is guest-editing a special issue of the journal Ramus on Deleuze, Guattari, and the classics. His current book project, The Paratextual Past, examines how digression fundamentally shaped Greco-Roman historiography. Christina Shuttleworth Kraus Thomas A. Thacher Professor of Latin at Yale University. She has research interests in commentaries and the commentary tradition, Latin historiography and biography, and Latin prose style. She serves on the advisory boards of Brill’s ‘Historiography of Rome and Its Empire’ and of ‘Trends in Classics’ (de Gruyter), and was a co-founder of the Yale Initiative for the Study of Antiquity and the Premodern world (now ARCHAIA). She has recently published (with C.A. Stray) Classical Commentaries: Explorations in a Scholarly Genre (2016), and (with Marco Formisano) Marginality, Canonicity, Passion (2018). Christopher B. Krebs Associate Professor of Classics at Stanford University. He studied classics and philosophy in Berlin, Kiel, and Oxford and has been teaching classics at Stanford since 2012. He works in the fields of intellectual history, Greek and Roman historiography, and Latin philology, and is the author of two books on Tacitus, including A Most Dangerous Book: Tacitus’s Germania from the Roman Empire to the Third Reich (2011), and the co-editor of two volumes on Greek and Roman historiography, including The Cambridge Companion to the Writings of Julius Caesar (2018). He is currently finishing a commentary on Caesar, Bellum Gallicum VII for Cambridge University Press. Anne-Marie Leander Touati Senior professor of Classical Archaeology and Ancient History at Lund University. Her main research interests are in Roman art, message transmission through artistic expression, image narratives and syntactic organisation of iconography, and reception studies. She is head of two research projects in progress: One is the publication and study of all marble objects, ancient pieces, and early-modern emulations in the Swedish Royal collections at the end of

Notes on Contributors

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the 18th century. A large part of the collection, acquired from the estate of the late Giovanni Batista Piranesi, includes an array of decorative marbles. The other, begun while she was Director of the Swedish Institute in Rome (1997– 2001), revisits a city-block in Pompeii that was unearthed in the 19th century. Its aim is to give a comprehensive documentation and historical analysis of life lived in “Insula V1” through close study of its standing structures. Rachel Lilley Love Assistant Professor of the Classics at Harvard University, where she works on Roman historiography, specialising in minor and so-called “sub-literary” forms of historical writing. She graduated from Yale University in 2019 with a thesis on historical epitomes in the Livian tradition. Her current book project is on Latin historical epitomes and the Livian tradition. Ulrike Roth Reader in Ancient History at Edinburg University. She works on slavery from the Roman republican to the early medieval period, with a particular focus on non-urban forms of slave exploitation as well as the role of enslaved women in the Romans’ slave system. She is also interested in the ways in which slavery was conceptualised in antiquity, and especially how attitudes to slavery and freedom have shaped Greek and Roman historiography. This interest has led to an ongoing engagement with the Roman historian Livy, from which her contribution to this volume springs. Kai Ruffing Professor of Ancient History at the University of Kassel. He studied History and Latin Philology at the Westfälische Wilhelms-Universität Münster, where he received his PhD in Ancient History in 1997. He has also held positions in Heidelberg and Marburg, where the qualification of a professor was conferred on him in 2005. His main research interests are the economic and social history of the Ancient World, the contacts between the Mediterranean World and the Ancient Near East, the history of the Roman Empire, classical receptions and last, but not least, ancient historiography. Johan Vekselius Postdoctoral researcher in Ancient History at Stockholm University, where he works on politics in ancient Rome. He wrote his dissertation on tears and weeping in Roman political culture at Lund University. His current project uses contemporary political science theories to further our understanding of populism and the people in the Roman world, while he continues his work on the representation of emotions and emotional displays in ancient literature.

Figures 3.1 RIC II Nerva 86. Archaeological Museum of the University of Münster. M2086. Photo: Robert Dylka 74 3.2 RIC II Trajan 343. Archaeological Museum of the University of Münster. M2129. Photo: Robert Dylka 75 4.1 Map of Labienus’ Campaign by the Seine, by French officer and archaeologist Eugène Georges Henri Céleste Stoffel (1821–1907) 98 5.1 Schematic representation of Roman success as a rising trend in Polybius 133 5.2 Graphic representation of the triangular relationship between the Gallic Sack, tyche and Roman rule in Polybius 134 6.1 Left: “Camillus and the Schoolmaster of Falerii”, by Domenico Corvi (1721–1803). Right: “School-boys flogging the School-master”, by John Leech (1817–1864) 148 8.1 “The Shipwreck of Agrippina”, by Gustav Wertheimer (1847–1902). Photograph Courtesy of Sotheby’s, Inc. © 2007 199 9.1 Portrait head of Emperor Tiberius, Villa San Michele, Anacapri, Island of Capri, Italy. Photographer: Pelle Bergström. With kind permission from SKARP agent AB 226 10.1–5 Five images by Tony de los Reyes which constitute part of his series entitled Border Theory: (10.1) “System of Logical Abuse/Blue Green”, 2017; (10.2) “rio grande/colorscale 4”, 2014; (10.3) “illuminated river/flujo libre”, 2012; (10.4) “rio grande/colorscale 9”, 2014; (10.5) “rio bravo/rancho el comedor”, 2014. Images reprinted with the generous permission of the artist 263 11.1 Monumental entrance to the House of the Little Bronze Bull (V 1,7), Pompeii, second century BC. Photo: Hans Thorwid. Photogrammetry: Carolina Larsson. 3D reconstruction: Stefan Lindgren 299 11.2 Riot in the Amphitheatre fresco from House I 3,3, Pompeii. Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, inv. 112222. Courtesy of the photographer: Carole Raddato 303 11.3 Detail of Riot Fresco, north of the amphitheatre. Photo: Carole Raddato 306 11.4 Detail of Riot Fresco, in the arena. Photo: Carole Raddato 307 11.5 Detail of Riot Fresco, by the city wall south of the amphitheatre. Photo: Carole Raddato 307 11.6 Detail of Riot Fresco, missiles thrown from the exterior terrace of the summa cavea on opponents in the street below. Photo: Carole Raddato 308

Figures

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11.7 Earthquake reliefs in previous onsite display in the House of Caecilius Iucundus (V 1,26), Pompeii. Photo: Ernest Nash. Fototeca Unione, American Academy in Rome. Image used courtesy of the Institute of Archaeology, University of Oxford 312 11.8 Earthquake reliefs in onsite display before 1927. Watercolour by Luigi Bazzani. Reproduction published in A. Maiuri, Pompeii, Novara 1929. Source: www.romeinspompeii.net/bazzani.html 313 11.9 Re-cycled column in the garden of Caecilius Iucundus. Photo: Hans Thorwid, Swedish Pompeii Project. Courtesy of Soprintendenza Speciale per i Beni Archeologici di Napoli e Pompei 317 11.10 Corinthian capital re-cycled in the masonry of the second floor of the north garden portico of the House of Caecilius Iucundus. Water colour by the Swedish architect Isac Gustaf Clason, 1884. Photo: Linn Ahlgren, Swedish Pompeii Project. Courtesy of the Royal Academy of Fine Arts, Stockholm 318

References and Abbreviations References to ancient texts follow, whenever possible, the Oxford Latin Dictionary (OLD) for Latin texts and the Liddell-Scott-Jones Greek-English Lexicon (LSJ) for Greek texts. Common abbreviations include:

“BNP” for Brill’s New Pauly (2002–2011), edited by H. Cancik, H. Schneider & M. Landfester, English edition by C.F. Salazar. “LCL” for Loeb Classical Library, wherefrom many translations are taken.

Historiography of Rome and Its Empire Series Carsten H. Lange and Jesper M. Madsen Brill’s Historiography of Rome and Its Empire Series aims to gather innovative and outstanding contributions in order to identify debates and trends, and in order to help provide a better understanding of ancient historiography, as well as how to approach Roman history and historiography. We would particularly welcome proposals that look at both Roman and Greek writers, but are also happy to consider proposals which focus on individual writers, or individuals in the same tradition. It is timely and valuable to bring these trends and historical sources together by founding the Series, focusing mainly on the Republican period and the Principate, as well as the Later Roman Empire. Historical writing about Rome in both Latin and Greek forms an integrated topic. There are two strands in ancient writing about the Romans and their empire: (a) the Romans’ own tradition of histories of the deeds of the Roman people at home and at war, and (b) Greek historical responses, some developing their own models (Polybius, Josephus) and the others building on what both the Roman historians and earlier Greeks had written (Dionysius, Appian, Cassius Dio). Whereas older scholarship tended to privilege a small group of ‘great historians’ (the likes of Sallust, Livy, Tacitus), recent work has rightly brought out the diversity of the traditions and recognized that even ‘minor’ writers are worth exploring not just as sources, but for their own concerns and reinterpretation of their material (such as The Fragments of the Roman Historians (2013), and the collected volumes on Velleius Paterculus (Cowan 2011) and Appian (Welch 2015)). The study of these historiographical traditions is essential as a counterbalance to the traditional use of ancient authors as a handy resource, with scholars looking at isolated sections of their structure. This fragmentary use of the ancient evidence makes us forget to reflect on their work in its textual and contextual entirety.

Introduction: Usages of the Past in Roman Historiography Aske Damtoft Poulsen



Sino ad allora avevo pensato che ogni libro parlasse delle cose, umane o divine, che stanno fuori dai libri. Ora mi avvedevo che non di rado i libri parlano di libri, ovvero è come si parlassero fra loro. Alla luce di questa riflessione, la biblioteca mi parve ancora più inquietante. Era dunque il luogo di un lungo e secolare sussurro, di un dialogo impercettibile tra pergamena e pergamena, una cosa viva, un ricettacolo di potenze non dominabili da una mente umana, tesoro di segreti emanati da tante menti, e sopravvissuti alla morte di coloro che li avevano prodotti, o se ne erano fatti tramite. Umberto Eco, Il Nome della Rosa: Quarto giorno, Terza

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Origins and Aims of the Volume

Few pieces of writing illustrate better than Eco’s description of murmuring parchments the literariness of history: that the past, for all its action-packed events, is textual – and intertextual. If we accept that history is made up of stories, that stories are preserved (primarily) in the shape of texts, and that texts make sense in relation to other texts, then our understanding of the past would appear to depend on our understanding of the interactions between texts. While texts cannot help but interact with one another, interactions among them may also be the result of authorial intent and designed to achieve certain purposes, whether that is to legitimate (or denigrate) a socio-political order, to corroborate (or question) the validity of a moral system, or to promote (or undermine) a collective identity among a group of people. In these cases, one might speak of “usages of the past”: how a text – or its author, depending on one’s epistemological persuasion – uses other texts in order to make sense of past events for present purposes. The current volume includes eleven papers on such usages of the past in Roman historiography and other forms of

© Aske Damtoft Poulsen, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004445086_002

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historical writing,1 asking where they might be found, what they look like, how they function, and for what purposes they are employed. The theoretical foundations of the volume are those laid down by T.P. Wiseman and A.J. Woodman as part of the ground-breaking “rhetorical turn” in the study of ancient historiography.2 While not every paper collected here shares the unapologetically literary approach pioneered by Wiseman and Woodman, they all appreciate the inherent literariness of Roman historical texts. In the (recent) words of Christopher Smith, “the Roman knowledge of their past cannot be distinguished from their invention of it; the very act of writing down history constructs stories, imposes interpretation and encourages debate.”3 Thus, whether the value we ascribe to these texts derives ultimately from a wish to reconstruct the events they narrate, to access the minds of their creators and the moments of their creation, or to explore them as works of political thought and/or literary art, we need to elucidate the parameters within which they were created. We need to understand how they work as texts.4 The title of the volume highlights the attention paid by its contributors to the literary nature of Roman historiography and its interpretive consequences. With “usage”, we wish to underline that narratives of the past are always constructed, always ideological. By pluralising the word (“usages”), we wish to highlight the multitude of ways in which and purposes for which past events can be used to create meaning in and for the present. 1 As noted in the preface, the conference from which the volume originated was focused more narrowly on Roman historiography. While the editors have chosen to retain “historiography” in the title of the volume, they concede that its field of inquiry could also be described with the more inclusive term “historical writing”. Given that ancient historiography was closely related to other genres (cf. esp. part three, “The Frontiers of Historiography”), it was felt that a nuanced appreciation of its usages of the past ought to take the fuzziness of these generic boundaries into consideration. The current volume, then, includes discussions also of Caesarian commentarii, Augustan poetry, Tiberian inscriptions, Trajanic coins, and even some Pompeian frescoes. 2 Wiseman 1979; Woodman 1988. The theoretical roots of the “rhetorical turn” – also known as the “Wiseman-Woodman revolution” – were formed in the wake of Hayden White’s work on the rhetorical elements of historical writing. As noted by White, the transformation of past events into a narrative entails the construction of a plot. The historian not only decides which events to include but is also responsible for sewing them together into a coherent whole. This construction of plot is the most obvious act of fictionalisation carried out by the historian, since by it she decides what the events mean: to the events she adds the story (White 1973, esp. 1–42). For an all-out attack on Wiseman, Woodman, and their successors, see Lendon 2009. For more nuanced appraisals of the “rhetorical turn” in ancient historiography, see Feldherr 2009, 6–8; Laird 2009; Marincola 2009; Levene 2010; Ash 2012, 10–11. 3 Smith 2018, 7. 4 Cf. Innes 2000, 1–5.

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This, indeed, is the main aim of the volume: to explore the interpretive possibilities offered by an approach that starts from the premise that Roman historians consciously shaped their narratives of past events in various ways and for various purposes. The temporal span of the volume extends from Caesar (Krebs) to Florus (Love), with significant attention devoted to Livy (Roth, Kraus, Khellaf) and Tacitus (Ruffing, Damtoft Poulsen, Ash, Vekselius, Leander Touati) and somewhat less to Velleius Paterculus (Cristofoli) and Sallust (Khellaf).5 Although some papers also consult material sources (Ruffing on Trajanic coinage; Leander Touati on Pompeian frescoes), the volume deals primarily with usages of the past in literary-historical texts, asking how real-life events are turned into narratives, how narratives interact with one another, and how such interactions contribute to the creation of meaning. The volume does not pledge allegiance to any overarching theory or methodology. Its coherence lies instead in the concern of all papers with how specific visions of the past are activated and what they achieve. The papers share four interrelated assumptions: (i) the significance ascribed to past events depend on the stories told about them; (ii) socio-political conditions and the production of historical truth are intimately linked; (iii) since accounts of the past are never ideologically neutral, recounting the past is therefore a way of exercising power in the present; (iv) accounts of the past are always also usages of the past, whose study – whether in literary texts or in material culture – may reveal attitudes to the present and expectations and/or aspirations for the future. 1.1 Previous Scholarship on Usages of the Past Collectively, the papers of the volume respond to a contemporary boom within scholarship on approaches to the past in antiquity. Three major edited volumes have appeared since the 2018 conference in Lund, all of which may fruitfully be read as companion pieces to the papers collected here. Firstly, the ambitious Historical Consciousness and the Use of the Past in the Ancient World (Baines et al. 2019) comprises 24 papers covering a vast range of ancient cultures, including the Near East, Egypt, China, Greece, Rome, and even the Maya. While its wide sweep of ancient historiographical traditions is brilliantly suited to highlight how different socio-political contexts give rise to different usages of the past, the volume’s two papers on Roman historical writing can do no 5 While the most well-known (scil. best preserved) Roman historians are all treated in some way or another, some key texts and themes have been left untouched. In the former category belong Caesar’s Commentarii de bello civili, Sallust’s Bellum Catilinae, and a great many books from Livy’s Ab urbe condita. In the latter belong questions of alternative history and historical hindsight, on which see Morello 2002; O’Gorman 2006a; Pelling 2013b; Low 2013; Grethlein 2013.

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more than gesture towards the variety within this incredibly rich and varied tradition.6 Secondly, Omnium Annalium Monumenta: Historical Writing and Historical Evidence in Republican Rome (Sandberg & Smith 2018) investigates “the manifold ways in which Roman writers needed and then used the past as a repository of shared knowledge, as a source of authority, and as a rich vein of inspiration.”7 While the volume devotes particular attention to the early Roman historiographical tradition as an intellectual enterprise inspired by the physical monuments of the city and Greek literary models, its papers also explore the distinction between historians and antiquarians, the usage of history by orators, the depth of historical knowledge among the populace, and the literary aspects of historiography.8 Thirdly, Augustus and the Destruction of History: The Politics of the Past in Early Imperial Rome (Gildenhard et al. 2019a) focuses more narrowly on how the past acquired new meanings during the socalled “Augustan Age”, a term whose ideology it sets out to deconstruct.9 Its ten papers employ both texts and material sources to explore how Roman politics of the past changed with the establishment of an autocratic regime. Although these three collections appeared in print too late to be taken into consideration by the contributors of the current volume, the reader will find significant overlap in terms of premises, themes, and approaches. Individually, the papers of this volume employ “usages of the past” as a concept with which to connect with and contribute to current debates in scholarship on Roman historical writing. The memory of the Republic during the Principate is treated by Roberto Cristofoli and Rachel Love, whose papers on how, respectively, an individual event and a long-term development were entrusted to the written record pursue questions that have dominated research 6 Baines et al. 2019; on Roman historiography, see the papers by Kraus and van der Blom. The volume originated from the conference “Historical Consciousness and Historiography (3000 BC–AD 600)”, which took place in September 2014 at Oxford University. 7 Smith 2018, 2. 8 Sandberg & Smith 2018. The volume draws inspiration from Feeney 2016 on how Roman literature emerged (240–140BC) through a systematic appropriation of the Greek literary tradition. On the origins of historiography in Rome, see esp. the papers by Rich, Chassignet, and Beck. On the literary aspects of historiography, see esp. the papers by Pausch, Scapini, and Di Fazio. As noted by Smith (2018, 5), “these essays, at the more literary end of the understanding of Roman historiography, are less concerned with any potential truth element in the events; the truth lies in the persuasiveness and probability of the picture constructed in the eyes of their contemporary readers.” 9 Gildenhard et al. 2019a. The volume originated from a workshop of the same title, which took place in September 2013 at Cambridge University. For another recent re-interpretation of the Augustan Age, see Morrell, Osgood & Welch 2019. Both rely heavily on Wallace-Hadrill 2008.

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on Roman imperial political culture in the first two decades of the 21st century. Especially prominent have been the monographs of Gowing and Gallia, which drew on the burgeoning field of memory studies in order to investigate how the remembered Republic manifested itself in the literary and material culture of the Principate.10 The interpretive challenges posed by the political nature of Roman historiography are tackled by Kai Ruffing, whose emphasis on the importance of the context wherein the act of historical writing takes place is a healthy reminder of Habinek’s observation that for prominent Roman politicians, “literature is politics by other means”.11 The distinction between rhetoric and “historiographical truth”, a distinction which has come to exercise somewhat of a polarising force within the scholarly community ever since the effects of the “Wiseman-Woodman revolution” started to be felt among the adherents of more traditional historical methods, plays a key role in the papers by Christopher Krebs and Rhiannon Ash, both of whom focus on the (blurring of) boundaries between historiography and other forms of literature.12 The revolutionary tremors are felt also in the papers by Christina S. Kraus and Aske Damtoft Poulsen. The former, an investigation into the interpretive potential of an historical exemplum, intervenes in the recently revitalised study of Roman exemplary ethics. At the forefront of this revitalisation stand the recent monographs of Langlands and Roller, who, in contrast to earlier treatments of exempla as conveyors of ready-made and readily applicable moral excerpts, investigate exemplarity as a cultural phenomenon and its use “as a medium for communicating … ethical issues and debates, as well as a complex of meta-exemplary principles that guide learners in handling exempla and implementing their lessons.”13 The latter, an analysis of the effects and functions of an intertext between two historical texts, joins a growing number of studies that seek to understand the peculiarities of intertextuality in a genre that aims at some form of truthful reconstruction of extratextual events. As noted by Pelling, although intertexts in historiography are fairly similar to

10 11

Gowing 2005; Gallia 2012; cf. Gildenhard et al. 2019a. Habinek 1998, 13. On the interrelationship between literature and politics in the ancient world, see also Dominik, Garthwaite & Roche 2009; Foxhall, Gehrke & Luraghi 2010. 12 On the “Wiseman-Woodman revolution”, see note 2 above. On the blurring of boundaries between historiography and other forms of writing, see Miller & Woodman 2010; Joseph 2012. 13 Langlands 2018, 4: “… These include sensitivity to the difficulties of interpreting exemplary deeds, awareness of the importance of motivation and especially awareness of situational variability, whereby virtues must be enacted differently depending on the circumstances.” Cf. Roller 2018.

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those in poetry (at least from a formal point of view), we might care about our inferences in different ways.14 The Roman historians’ use of texts written by their Greek colleagues – an issue touched upon also by Krebs – is addressed more extensively by Ulrike Roth, whose discussion of the role ascribed to Tyche/Fortuna in the rise of Rome sheds light on the nature of cross-lingual literary interactions within the realm of historical writing. While studies on intertextuality in Latin poetry have always  – instinctively, and seemingly effortlessly  – crossed the Greco-Roman divide and frequently stress the ideological dimensions of such crossings, studies on intertextuality in Roman historiography rarely venture beyond the confines of the Latin language and thus rarely remark upon the “specific ideological charge  … to Roman historians’ engagement with their Greek predecessors”.15 The emotions of the ancient world and their portrayal in literature, a sub-discipline which has generated some extraordinary interdisciplinary research in the last decade-and-a-half through the application of cognitive theory to ancient texts, are treated by Johan Vekselius. His analysis of the portrayal of grief and mourning among a variety of ancient historians highlights the political implications of the performance of an emotion which scholars have approached primarily from a philosophical perspective and mainly through the works of Cicero and Seneca.16

14 Pelling 2013a, 19; on intertextuality in Roman historiography, see also Woodman 1979; 2009; Pelling 1999; 2019, passim; O’Gorman 2006b; 2009; Damon 2010; Marincola 2010; Levene 2010 (esp. p. 85: “historiography in particular has generic features that significantly alter the terms in which allusions need to be discussed”); Haimson Lushkov 2013; Elliott 2015. On intertextuality in Roman poetry (to which such studies were originally confined), see Conte 1974/1986 and 2017; West & Woodman 1979; Barchiesi 1984; Thomas 1986; 1999; Fowler 1997/2000; Hinds 1998; Edmunds 2001. See also Ginsberg (2017, 5–16), who astutely draws on both traditions as she lays down the methodological groundwork for an intertextual reading of Roman historical drama, i.e. the Octauia. 15 O’Gorman 2009, 240. Some noteworthy exceptions are Renehan 1976 (Sallust and various Greek writers), Scanlon 1980 (Sallust and Thucydides), Rodgers 1986 (Livy and Thucydides; cf. Polleichtner 2010; Levene 2010, 111–7), Levene 2010, chap. 2 (Livy and Polybius), Champion 2015 (Livy and various Greek historians), and Spielberg 2017 (Sallust, Tacitus, and Thucydides). For broader treatments of Greco-Roman literary interactions, see Hutchinson 2013 (on the period 100BC–AD200); König, Langlands & Uden 2020 (on the “long second century”, AD96–235). 16 Spearheading the “history of emotions” movement in classical studies has been, at least for the Roman world, Kaster, whose 2005 monograph, however, mentions mourning only in passing (pp. 98–9). On grief and mourning in Cicero and Seneca see note 41 in Vekselius’ paper. On the emotions of the ancients, see also Braund & Gill 1997; Konstan 2006; Caston & Kaster 2016; Cairns & Nelis 2017.

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Kyle Khellaf discusses the role of digressions in offering spatial access to the “plupast”, a fairly recent coinage which nonetheless already drives research on the temporalities of ancient historical writing, while he simultaneously treads new theoretical ground by incorporating perspectives from migration and border studies.17 While key concepts such as “Hodology” (the study of paths) and “Thirdspace” were coined already in the latter part of the 20th century, the post 9/11 shattering of the dream of a borderless world community has made them increasingly useful – not least as counterweights to the dominance exerted by narratives of origin – for understanding the construction of identity. Finally, Anne-Marie Leander Touati’s discussion of the commemoration of historical events in the material culture of Roman Pompeii builds on the scholarly tradition that casts the spotlight on the culture of the non-elites. However, by investigating the material evidence side-by-side with key literary sources, it bridges two persistent gaps in classical scholarship: between text-based and imagebased studies and between studies of elites and non-elites.18 1.2 Some Purposes of and Four Forms Taken by Usages of the Past Historical texts may use the past for a variety of purposes, including aesthetic, personal, epistemological, and ideological. An historian may wish to legitimise a certain political order (cf. Cristofoli on Velleius Paterculus and the Augustan regime; Ruffing on Tacitus and the Trajanic regime), to come to terms with a traumatic political transformation (cf. Love on Florus’ reboot of Roman history), to turn an aesthetically barren account of events into proper historical writing (cf. Krebs on Caesar’s use of Polybius when reworking the fundamentals of Labienus’ report), to accentuate a particular conceptualisation of Rome’s path to world rule (cf. Roth on Livy’s account of the Gallic Sack of Rome; Khellaf on historical digressions on origins, migrations, and intercultural amalgamation), to highlight the perversions of autocracy (cf. Vekselius on Tacitus’ portrayal of Tiberius’ mourning behaviour; Ash on Tacitus’ portrayal of Nero’s theatricality), to question the stability of the Roman moral and political systems (cf. Kraus on Livy’s account of the fall of Veii), and to consolidate group cohesion (cf. Leander Touati on the “riot fresco” in Pompeii). Usages of 17

On “Hodology”, see de Jonge 1967–8; Turnbull 2007; on “Thirdspace”, see Bhabha 1994; Soja 1996. On the role of migration in the construction of historical identity, see Chambers 1994. On the border as a process (rather than a product) of social division, see Nail 2016. For the term “plupast”, see Grethlein & Krebs 2012. 18 On non-elite Roman art and culture, see esp. Clarke 2003; cf. Joshel & Hackworth Petersen 2014; MacLean 2018. On the depth of historical knowledge among non-elite Romans, see Sandberg & Smith 2018, part 3; on the commemoration of historical events in material culture vis-à-vis literary sources, see part 5.

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the past in Roman historical writing, in other words, were both multifarious and nefarious. While we do not seek to impose a strict definition or rigid categorisation of the diverse usages of the past in Roman historical texts, it may nonetheless be useful to offer some tentative distinctions between their possible guises in order to highlight the particular interpretabilities at play in each case. As suggested by the introductory citation from Eco’s Name of the Rose, the forms taken by usages of the past may be understood within the framework of imitation/ exemplarity and intertextuality: just as a person’s actions are judged through comparison with previous actions (whether her own or those of others), so an account of past events derives meaning from its relationships with other texts and with other parts of the same text. Four types may be distinguished. Firstly, a real-life historical person may model behaviour on that of a predecessor, as when Pompey and Caesar invoke Alexander the Great (App. 12.117, Suet. Caes. 7; cf. Vekselius on Tiberius imitating Julius Caesar’ self-control). The fact that “events themselves can allude to earlier events” constitutes, in the words of Cynthia Damon, “an additional layer of interpretability … peculiar of historiographical intertexts”.19 This kind of imitation is interpretively knotty for two reasons: (i) since it embraces a wide spectrum of self-awareness – from unconscious (a daughter taking after her mother) to deliberate imitation (an emperor modelling his rule on that a predecessor) –, its omnipresence makes it difficult to tease out the significance of individual examples; (ii) since past actions are preserved for us in the shape of texts and objects, their real-life constellations/configurations are accessible only through these. In other words, a textual representation of an act of imitation will never correspond completely to the original and may diverge significantly from it. The interpretive complexity in coming to grips with the original act of imitation may be illustrated by the emperor Claudius’ speech on extending senate membership to the primores Galliae. The words spoken during the relevant senate debate in AD48 are represented in two versions: on the fragmentarily preserved Lyons Tablet (CIL XIII 1668) and in Tacitus’ Annals (11.24). While fairly similar, there are still notable differences between the two versions. For example, Tacitus’ omission of the imperial and inclusion of the republican precedents mentioned by Claudius on the tablet obscure the emperor’s 19 Damon 2010, 381, 385. On real-life imitation and its effects in historiography, see also Marincola 2010, 265–6; Levene 2010, 85. As noted by Marincola, the sensation of timelessness in ancient societies and the consequent “unhistorical thinking” of their inhabitants would have spurred (p. 265) “a certain ‘intertextuality’ of real life”. Given that past and present (and future) were deemed qualitatively similar, examples from the past were powerful forces in the present.

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effort to draw on the authority of his predecessors. If the tablet represents what Claudius said or wished to be heard, then the historian, it would seem, has exercised his artistic license.20 Even assuming that the Lyons Tablet (in its original, unfragmented form) did provide a close report of what was said in the senate, the rare survival of such inscriptions means that we are, for the most part, restricted to the evidence provided by literary texts. Given that Tacitus’ historiographical practices are unlikely to have been exceptional, our access to original acts of imitation is correspondingly limited. Moreover, some acts of imitation preserved for us may lack real-life counterparts. They may never have existed beyond the page.21 While clear-cut examples are hard to come by (given that we can seldom exclude entirely the possibility of real-life imitation), it appears to follow naturally from the acknowledgement of the literariness of historical writing that historical writers were inclined to let their characters model themselves on their predecessors. In other words, literary characters, just like real-life people, may – at the behest of their creators – allude to or mimic others. In fact, it might even be argued that the sphere of allusive action enjoyed by literary characters is wider than 20 Griffin 1982; Kraus & Woodman 1997, 98–9. Other examples include Augustus imitating Camillus’ republicanism (Gaertner 2008, 51–2) and the emperor Otho modelling his suicide on that of Cato the Younger in order to shape his own posthumous reputation (Ash 2007, 200). See also Ginsburg (1993, 92) on the senatorial debate at Tac. Ann. 3.33–34 about whether or not the wives of governors should be allowed to accompany their husbands into their designated provinces: “We cannot know, of course, to what extent the speakers in the actual debate of AD21 alluded to and exploited the debate over the Lex Oppia as a model for themselves and to what extent Tacitus was responsible for creating such a connection between the two debates”. Even the seemingly straightforward example of Pompey donning a cloak that once belonged to Alexander the Great for his 61BC triumph is interpretively problematic. Not only is our access to the action provided by a text written 200 years later by Appian, said historian refuses to vouch for the claim (12.117): αὐτὸς δὲ ὁ Πομπήιος ἐπὶ ἅρματος ἦν, καὶ τοῦδε λιθοκολλήτου, χλαμύδα ἔχων, ὥς φασιν, Ἀλεξάνδρου τοῦ Μακεδόνος, εἴ τῳ πίστον ἐστιν, “Pompey himself was borne in a chariot studded with gems, wearing, so they say, a cloak of Alexander the Great, if anyone can believe that” (transl. by H. White 1913, LCL, slightly modified). Regardless of whether the parenthetical ὥς φασιν refers to the time of action or to the time of writing, the nature and significance of Pompey’s original action remain unclear. The cloak may (or may not) once have belonged to Alexander the Great and Pompey may (or may not) have promoted the claim that it had. 21 On the difficulty of distinguishing between real-life and literary intertextuality, i.e. to determine whether the act of imitation belongs to the doer or to the writer, see Marincola 2010, 265–6; cf. Damon (2010, 386) on Tacitus’ relation of the rumour that Nero alluded to burning Troy during the great fire in Rome (Ann. 15.39.3): praesentia mala uetustis cladibus adsimulantem, “assimilating present calamities to olden disasters” (transl. by Woodman 2004).

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that of their real-life counterparts, since they are not bound to a specific moment in time and may thus allude to both earlier and later events (cf. Damtoft Poulsen on how Tacitus’ Eprius Marcellus invokes Calgacus in his accusation against Thrasea Paetus).22 A particularly revealing example of historical characters engaging anachronistically with history is provided by Livy’s account of the 195BC debate about the potential repeal of the Lex Oppia (Liv. 34.2–7). As noted by Chaplin, both Cato and Valerius make impossible points: Cato deplores the importation of luxuries from Greece and Asia (34.4.3), despite the fact that Livy himself explicitly writes that such imports started arriving in Rome 8 years later (39.6.7); Valerius musters Cato’s own Origines against him (34.5.7), despite the fact that it had not yet been published at the time of the debate.23 Secondly, an historian may provide an account of events in which he was himself involved, as when Velleius Paterculus narrates Tiberius’ Germanic and Pannonian campaigns (Vell. 2.104.3, 111.3; cf. Krebs on Labienus’ account of his 52BC campaign; Ruffing on Tacitus’ treatment of the accessions of Nerva and Trajan; Leander Touati on historical frescoes in Pompeii). In this case, the historian engages directly with past events. Thirdly, an historian may engage with earlier texts (or earlier parts of the same text) or objects either to offer a new interpretation of the events presented therein/on, as when Livy draws on Polybius for his narrative of Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps (Levene 2010, 136–44; cf. Krebs on Caesar’s use of Labienus), or to portray other events through their lens, as when Tacitus models his Sejanus on Livy’s Hannibal, who, in turn, is modelled on Sallust’s Catiline and Jugurtha (O’Gorman 2009, 238–9; cf. Krebs on Caesar’s use of Polybius; Roth on Livy’s use of Polybius; Kraus on Livy’s use of himself). In these cases, the historian engages indirectly with past events, directly with past text(s).24

22

23

24

For a more recent example of a fictional character alluding to a future historical person, see Darius III in Oliver Stone’s 2004 film Alexander. Although supposedly unintentional, the Persian king’s resemblance to Osama Bin Laden did not pass unnoticed among viewers and reviewers (Eakin 2004; Engen 2007; García Sánchez 2012, 52). Chaplin 2000, 98–9. This goes against the claim made by Damon (2010, 381) that literary characters – unlike historical actors – were unaware of “the literary and historical precedents for their situations”. On the potential of intertextuality to embrace anachronism and disrupt ordinary temporality, see O’Gorman (2006b; 2009, 239) and Damtoft Poulsen in this volume. On the effects of the disparity in knowledge about past actions and their consequences between (i) historians and their audiences and (ii) contemporary witnesses, see Marincola 2010, 268–9. A similar sort of imitation may be witnessed in art and architecture, as when the designers of the Prima Porta statue of Augustus decided to model it on Polyclitus’ Doryphorus; cf. Galinsky 1996, 24–5.

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While falling naturally under the rubric of classic intertextuality, the particular nature of historical writing means that this third type of usages of the past features its own interpretive peculiarities. In other words, although intertextuality (especially the deployment of allusions) in historical writing is fairly similar to that of poetry – unsurprisingly, perhaps, given the notorious difficulty of delineating the boundaries between the two forms of writing –, the former’s commitment to some form of truthful reconstruction of extratextual events means that we might deal with our inferences in different ways. For instance, given that conformity with an already accepted causal explanation suggests plausibility, intertextual links may increase the persuasiveness of an historical narrative. Moreover, since similarities with (or differences from) past events prompt reflection on historical continuity/discontinuity, intertextuality facilitates interpretation: it invites the reader to try and make sense of the text. While this characteristic of intertextuality is pertinent also to poetic texts, especially those which deal with a mythological, and therefore quasi-historical, subject matter, it assumes extra importance in the genre that deals specifically with interpretations and explanations of the past.25 Fourthly, an historian may re-interpret a course of events by employing a characteristic style or mode of writing, as when Tacitus opts for an annalistic format in his narrative of the Julio-Claudian dynasty (cf. Love on Florus’ use of the ab urbe condita format in his re-writing of Roman republican history; Cristofoli on Velleius Paterculus’ negotiation of various earlier traditions in his treatment of the battle of Actium; Ash on Tacitus’ use of dramatic aspects in his account of the murder of Agrippina the Younger).26 Unlike the cases where meaning is created through usage of specific texts, these examples tend to involve interaction with entire traditions (cf. Cristofoli and Ash) or even cultural memory writ large (cf. Love). In these cases, the word “usage” is therefore better reserved for the “how” than the “what”, for the methods rather than the texts and/or objects used: in order to give a desired interpretation of past events, the historian uses rhetorical manoeuvres (e.g. omissions, simplifications, erasures of causal links; cf. Cristofoli and Love), generic markers (e.g. dramatic phrasing, subject matter, and plot composition; cf. Ash), and larger structuring devices (start-and-endpoints of the narrative, book divisions, digressions, choice of material and main characters/forces, including attribution of agency; cf. Love and Khellaf).

25 26

On imitation/exemplarity and intertextuality in historiography, see note 14 above. Cf. Russell 2019 on how the shape and format of the senatorially erected Fasti Capitolini promoted a specific understanding of the past that stressed the importance of the senate as a collective.

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The Papers of the Volume

The volume is divided in three parts. Part 1, “Coming to Terms with the Principate”, comprises three papers on the significance of the establishment of an imperial regime for Roman conceptions and usages of the past. The first two, which make for excellent companion pieces to Gildenhard et al. 2019a, explore how (if not the princeps, then) the imperial historian could “smooth over  – and smother  – the complexities of the historical record”.27 Roberto Cristofoli analyses Velleius Paterculus’ account of the battle of Actium and its aftermath in Egypt. By identifying the peculiarities of the Velleian narrative through comparison with other writers, he allows us not only to recover and reconstruct the diverse historical traditions surrounding the events that finalised the Caesarian revolution and inaugurated the imperial period, but also to grasp how Velleius navigated his predecessors’ narratives and pushed a proAugustan version.28 In conclusion, Cristofoli argues that Velleius’ tendency to synthesise previous traditions while simultaneously obliterating and/or altering unfortunate causal connections reveals a trademark practice in ancient historians’ usages of the past. Rachel Love’s paper investigates the legacy of ab urbe condita historiography under the Principate. Noting the preference for abbreviated forms of historical writing during the Empire, she uses Florus’ Epitome as a case study of how such abbreviated formats helped revitalise traditional modes of historical writing. In Love’s analysis, Florus navigates the same perceived breakdown in public discourse as his 2nd century contemporaries, most notably Tacitus, Juvenal, and Pliny the Younger. In contrast to his fellow historian Tacitus, however, Florus leverages the unique formal aspects of the epitome to overcome the traumatic rupture constituted by the fall of the Republic.29 Drawing on literary reactions to similar traumatic experiences, she demonstrates succinctly how Florus 27 Gildenhard et al. 2019b, 25; see esp. Biesinger on how Augustus countered the threat posed by Sallustian-style prognoses of perpetual historical decline by proposing and ritually inaugurating a new saeculum; Havener on how traditional “triumphalist history” was brought to an end with the placement of Augustus’ military exploits outside and above customary memorial practices (cf. Rich 2014; Lange 2016); and Osgood on the transformation of family history with the emergence of new political and social realities. See also van der Blom 2019 on the selective use and simplification of republican history in imperial rhetorical exercises. 28 On the historiography of the late republican civil wars, see also the papers collected in Lange & Vervaet 2019. The Battle of Actium is discussed by Lange; Velleius’ treatment of the civil wars by Cowan. 29 On the Latin literary landscape under Nerva, Trajan, and Hadrian, see König & Whitton 2018.

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attempts to “reboot” the entire historical tradition by portraying the past as one of continuity rather than of fragmentation and internal power-struggles. Instead of offering new interpretations of specific events, Florus (p. 64) “offers readers a new path from the earliest days of Rome, from the earliest histories of Rome to the present.”30 In the final paper of this part, Kai Ruffing analyses Tacitus’ accounts of the back-to-back accessions of Nerva and Trajan in AD96 and 98, respectively. Ruffing dives into one of the most controversial (and longstanding) disputes in Tacitean scholarship, namely that of the historian’s political opinions. While some recent interpretations of his political outlook have resurrected the idea of a “red” – i.e. revolutionary and anti-imperial – Tacitus, Ruffing promotes the idea of a “purple”  – i.e. unashamedly monarchical  – Tacitus. He does so by challenging us to reconcile the literary and material evidence, that is, Tacitus’ devastating criticism of emperors and his highly successful political career under their reigns. Crucial for Ruffing’s argument is the claim that Roman historical writing was inherently political, meaning that (p. 70) “it is impossible to consider Tacitus’ political thoughts without taking his biography and his political career into consideration”. Since the literary artist cannot be separated from the pragmatic politician, it is unlikely that Tacitus’ historical works would contain a damning indictment of the system of government in which he himself participated actively. Ruffing concludes that Tacitus’ usage of the past was designed, on the contrary, to promote acceptance of the new Trajanic regime.31 Part 2, “Intertextuality and Intratextuality”, includes four papers exploring usages of the past in Roman historical texts through the terminology and methodology of intertextuality. Christopher Krebs discusses how Labienus’ victory against the Gauls in 52BC was “made” into history by Caesar in his Gallic Wars (7.57–62). Through close analysis of the episode, Krebs identifies un-Caesarian linguistic elements, i.e. elements that would appear to originate from Labienus’ original report. Arguing that Caesar used Labienus’ military report as a “factual source” for the events and Polybius’ account of Hannibal on the banks of the Rhone as a “source of inspiration”, he suggests that such a mix of facts and literature – which conforms to the historiographical method 30 Love’s observations may fruitfully be read together with Biesinger’s 2019 analysis of the statues on Augustus’ Forum, whose elogia tend to simplify internal history (esp. episodes of internal conflict) and focus on foreign affairs (esp. military triumphs). In the words of Biesinger, the language (p. 92) “offers a radically restricted and restrictive perspective on history that does not encourage debate and controversies”. On the memory of the Republic during the Principate, see Gowing 2005; Gallia 2012. 31 On the political nature of Roman historical writing, see also Biesinger 2019. On Tacitus’ self-presentation and the political context wherein he wrote, see Sailor 2008; Strunk 2017.

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outlined in Cicero’s de Oratore and to the careful reconstruction of which he gives the name of “constructive wonder” – may well illustrate Caesar’s modus scribendi at large. By asking how Caesar used different texts/pasts for different purposes, Krebs raises questions about the special nature of intertextuality in historical writing, especially the distinction between “factual” and “inspirational” sources. His neologism “constructive wonder” lays out a new approach for coming to grips with the literariness of Roman historical writing and the debates that have followed in the wake of the “rhetorical turn”.32 Polybius remains at centre stage in Ulrike Roth’s paper, which deals with Livy’s usage of the Greek historian in his account of the Gallic Sack of Rome. After identifying a range of parallels with Polybius’ account of the Illyrian capture of Phoenice, Roth focuses on the role played by Tyche/Fortuna, helpfully distinguishing between fortune’s general purpose (i.e. the unstoppable drive to Roman world rule) and its many particular manifestations (i.e. the causes of the outcomes of individual battles and wars). Like Krebs, she offers nuanced observations on the role(s) and function(s) of intertextuality in historical writing, especially regarding what she calls (p. 127) “the thorny question of when similarities and overlaps turn into conscious engagement and allusion”. In her analysis, Livy’s account (including its location within his oeuvre) is designed to challenge the Greek historian’s interpretation of the sack and its significance for the Roman path to world rule: rather than positing the sack as the beginning, Livy promotes a continuous and unbroken Roman history that goes all the way back From the foundation of the city.33 With Christina S. Kraus’s contribution, we let go of Polybius but hang on to Livy, whose intratextuality is now explored. Starting from the practice of exemplarity – “the mode of interpretation that dominates Rome’s historiographical imagination and its cultural memory” (p. 151) –, Kraus offers a reinterpretation of an episode that has generally been read as a typical Livian illustration of the superiority of Roman values over Greek: the account of the schoolmaster who betrays Falerii Veteres to the Romans during the central Italian wars in 396BC (5.24–28). Through a contextual analysis of the account within its narrative 32

For an example of a Roman historian (Tacitus) using a “factual” source (Velleius) for aesthetic effect and an “inspirational” source (Virgil) for factual detail, see Woodman 2009, 4–5. On the relationship between rhetoric and “historiographical truth”, see Laird 2009; Levene 2010. 33 On Livy’s engagement with Polybius, see Levene 2010, chap. 2. On Polybius’ impact on Roman historiography more generally, see Davidson 2009 (with mention of Livy on pp. 128–9). On the use of Greek models in Roman historiography, see also Pausch 2018. On the role of Tyche/Fortuna in Greek and Roman conceptualisations of historical change, see Hutchinson 2013; Hau 2016.

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context and with an eye for Livy’s use of comparatio, she reveals significant interaction both with the preceding account of the capture of Veii and the subsequent anecdote about the Liparan pirates, as well as with the narrative of internal affairs. The episode in question, she concludes, does not illustrate Roman moral superiority as much as it problematises Roman value systems. The tool used by Livy to achieve this is comparatio, whose power to ascribe significance to events makes it a driving force in his re-creation of the past.34 In the final paper of this part, by Aske Damtoft Poulsen, intratextual practices are again under scrutiny, though now within an entire corpus rather than a single book. Damtoft Poulsen investigates a parallel between Marcellus’ senate-floor accusation against Thrasea Paetus in Annals 16 and Calgacus’ famous pre-battle speech in Agricola. Notwithstanding the historical impossibility of such an allusion (with the speeches delivered in AD66 and 83, respectively), he argues that Marcellus portrays his victim as a Roman Calgacus. After deconstructing the logic on which Marcellus’ portrayal is based and the effect it has within its rhetorical situation, Damtoft Poulsen asks how Tacitus’ contemporary readers might have reacted to the comparison between one of their most celebrated martyrs and a Caledonian chieftain. Not only does the allusion serve “to deconstruct the intertwined ideologies of benevolent imperialism and imperial benevolence” (p. 186), it also demonstrates that Roman historians might (allow their characters to) engage in anachronistic allusive activities – and that the results of such activities create interpretive difficulties/ possibilities.35 Part 3, “The Frontiers of Historiography”, includes three papers on generic and geographical fusion. Rhiannon Ash explores the boundaries between historiography and drama, asking what it means “when a notorious incident from the past is presented to us in a historical narrative as if it were the finale of a staged drama unfolding before our very eyes” (p. 197). Taking her cue from Quintilian’s designation of historiography as proxima poetis (10.1.31), she analyses the dramatic aspects in Tacitus’ account of the murder of Agrippina the Younger in AD59 (Ann. 14.1–13). Through a comparison with the account of Agrippina’s death in the pseudo-Senecan Octauia (309–376), she demonstrates that Tacitus’ account is in fact the more “stagey” of the two. In conclusion, Ash suggests that Tacitus’ dramatic shaping of the murder is designed to intensify the denunciation of Nero and to satisfy the moralising agenda of his unique brand of historiography.36 34 35 36

On exemplarity and its interpretability, see Langlands 2018; Roller 2018. On the effects and functions of intertextuality in historiography, see pp. 8–11 above. On tragic motifs in accounts of early Roman history, see Scapini 2018.

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Johan Vekselius next investigates how Tiberius’ mourning behaviour was put to use by a range of different writers. While most attention is devoted to Tacitus, he also touches on the writings of Seneca, Suetonius, Cassius Dio, and the author of the Consolatio ad Liuiam, as well as the Senatus Consultum de Cn. Pisone Patre. Paying particular attention to generic conventions and the power of exemplarity, Vekselius demonstrates that an emperor’s expression of grief was a key element in his self-presentation. He also provides historical context for the portrayals of Tiberius’ behaviour by offering a survey of the various mourning strategies available to elite Romans when faced with the loss of family and kin, from composed self-control to extrovert weeping. In conclusion, Vekselius suggests that Tacitus mercilessly used Tiberius’ mourning behaviour as a way to criticise the emperor and to describe (what he considered) the perversions of his rule.37 Kyle Khellaf ’s contribution, the final paper in this part, draws inspiration not only from migration and border theory but also from contemporary works of art that try to catch the essence of borders and frontier spaces.38 As noted by Khellaf, a significant number of digressions in historiography deal with questions of migration, settlement, and intercultural contact and conflict. As such, they transport readers from primary narrative time to the “plupast” in order to provide aetiologies for major historical conflicts. Khellaf investigates such ethnographical and ethno-geographical digressions in Sallust and Livy (and Polybius, again), focusing specifically on how their different configurations of the “plupast” reveal different conceptualisations of historical origins and intercultural amalgamations. Noting that the disruption brought about by these digressions – through “glimpses of mixed origins, fluid timescapes, modulating attitudes about empire, and non-linear narratives” (p. 290)  – replicates their accounts of wandering, intercultural identity politics, and cultural displacement, he argues that digressions offer readers a kind of historiographical mimesis by virtue of their combined narratological dislocation and itinerant subject matter. The paper not only highlights the potential for identity politics inherent in the stories we tell of our distant past, but also opens up for a new interdisciplinary research avenue on ancient literature and border theory. The epilogue, written by Anne-Marie Leander Touati, offers a different perspective on usages of the past in the Roman world by looking primarily at material evidence from Pompeii. Asking what kind of achievements were celebrated, where, by whom, and why on a local level, she notes that 37 On tears and crying and their portrayal in ancient literature, see Fögen 2009; Hagen 2017. 38 de los Reyes, T. (2012–2018). Border Theory . See pictures on p. 263. On migration and border theory, see note 17 above.

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commemoration of historical events is relatively rare in Pompeii, significantly rarer than representations of mythological stories. Her analysis focuses on two frescoes, one depicting the AD59 riot in the amphitheatre and the other the earthquake of AD62/63. Through close “readings” of the frescoes and comparative analyses with the literary evidence (both events are treated in historiography), she pinpoints the different purposes to which commemoration of past events could be put in literary vis-à-vis material sources: while Tacitus’ interest in the riot seems to stem from its role in the downfall of Livineius Regulus, the Pompeian fresco – situated in a secluded portion of a modestly sized atrium house – was probably intended to consolidate community cohesion. Leander Touati’s discussion of these two local usages of the past not only reminds us that most ancients came into contact with the past through physical objects (to which one might perhaps add rituals), it also sheds light on the depth of historical knowledge and the functions of historical commemoration among non-elites in Roman Italy. Bibliography Ash, R. (2007). Tacitus: Histories 2, Cambridge & New York. Ash, R. (2012). “Introduction”, in R. Ash (ed.), Oxford Readings in Classical Studies: Tacitus (Oxford & New York): 1–35. Baines, J. et al. (eds.) (2019). Historical Consciousness and the Use of the Past in the Ancient World, Sheffield & Bristol, CT. Barchiesi, A. (1984). La Traccia del Modello: Effetti Omerici nella Narrazione Virgiliana, Pisa. Bhabha, H. (1994). The Location of Culture, London & New York. Biesinger, B. (2019). “Rupture and Repair: Patterning Time in Discourse and Practice (from Sallust to Augustus and Beyond)”, in I. Gildenhard et al. (eds.), Augustus and the Destruction of History: The Politics of the Past in Early Imperial Rome (Cambridge): 81–96. Blom, H. van der (2019). “Roman Republican History in Imperial Rhetorical Exercises”, in J. Baines et al. (eds.), Historical Consciousness and the Use of the Past in the Ancient World (Sheffield & Bristol, CT): 359–375. Braund, S.M. & Gill, C. (eds.) (1997). The Passions in Roman Thought and Literature, Cambridge. Cairns, D. & Nelis, D. (eds.) (2017). Emotions in the Classical World: Methods, Approaches, and Directions, Heidelberg. Caston, R.R. & Kaster, R.A. (eds.) (2016). Hope, Joy, and Affection in the Classical World, New York.

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Chambers, I. (1994). Migrancy, Culture, Identity, London & New York. Champion, C.B. (2015). “Livy and the Greek Historians from Herodotus to Dionysius: Soundings and Reflections”, in B. Mineo (ed.), A Companion to Livy (Oxford & Malden, MA): 190–204. Chaplin, J. (2000). Livy’s Exemplary History, Oxford & New York. Clarke, J.R. (2003). Art in the Lives of Ordinary Romans: Visual Representation and Non-Elite Viewers in Italy, 100 B.C.–A.D. 315, Berkeley & Los Angeles, CA. Conte, G.B. (1974/1986, ed. & transl. by C. Segal). The Rhetoric of Imitation: Genre and Poetic Memory in Virgil and other Latin Poets, London & Ithaca, NY. (orig. published as Memoria dei poeti e sistema letterario: Catullo, Virgilio, Ovidio, Lucano, Turin). Conte, G.B. (2017). Stealing the Club from Hercules: On Imitation in Latin Poetry, Berlin & Boston. Damon, C. (2010). “Déjà vu or déjà lu? History as intertext”, in F. Cairns & M. Griffin (eds.), Papers of the Langford Latin Seminar, Fourteenth Volume: Health and Sickness in Ancient Rome; Greek and Roman Poetry and Historiography (Cambridge): 375–388. Davidson, J. “Polybius”, in A. Feldherr (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Historians (Cambridge): 123–136. de Jonge, D. (1967–8). “Applied Hodology”, Landscape 17, 10–11. Dominik, W.J., Garthwaite, J. & Roche, P.A. (eds.) (2009). Writing Politics in Imperial Rome, Leiden & Boston. Eakin, E. (2004). “Ancient Conqueror, Modern Devotees”, New York Times 26.09.2004. (https://www.nytimes.com/2004/11/26/books/ancient-conqueror-modern-devotees .html – accessed 06.07–2020). Edmunds, L. (2001). Intertextuality and the Reading of Roman Poetry, Baltimore. Elliott, J. (2015). “The Epic Vantage-Point: Roman Historiographical Allusion Reconsidered”, Histos 9, 277–311. Engen, D.T. (2007). “Oliver Stone’s Alexander: Personal Concerns and Poor Timing”, Classical Outlook 84, 113–117. Feeney, D. (2016). Beyond Greek: the Beginnings of Latin Literature, London & Cambridge, MA. Feldherr, A. (2009). “Introduction”, in A. Feldherr (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Historians (Cambridge): 1–8. Fögen, T. (ed.) (2009). Tears in the Graeco-Roman World, Berlin & New York. Fowler, D. (1997/2000). “On the Shoulders of Giants: Intertextuality and Classical Studies”, in D. Fowler (ed.), Roman Constructions: readings in postmodern Latin (Oxford): 115–137 (orig. published in Materiali e discussioni 39, 13–34). Foxhall, L., Gehrke, H.-J. & Luraghi, N. (eds) (2010). Intentional History: Spinning Time in Ancient Greece, Stuttgart. Gaertner, J.F. (2008). “Livy’s Camillus and the Political Discourse of the Late Republic”, Journal of Roman Studies 98, 27–52. Galinsky, K. (1996). Augustan Culture, Princeton.

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Gallia, A.B. (2012). Remembering the Roman Republic: Culture, Politics, and History under the Principate, Cambridge and New York. García Sánchez, M. (2012). “Soberbia y molicie: Cambises, Jerjes, Darío III Codomano y otros ilustres perdedores aqueménidas”, in F.M. Simón, F. Pina Polo & J.R. Rodríguez (eds.), Vae Victis! Perdedores en el mundo antiguo (Barcelona): 43–55. Gildenhard, I. et al. (eds.) (2019a). Augustus and the Destruction of History: The Politics of the Past in Early Imperial Rome, Cambridge. Gildenhard, I. et al. (2019b). “Attending to the Past: On the Politics of Time in Ancient Rome”, in Gildenhard et al. (eds), Augustus and the Destruction of History: The Politics of the Past in Early Imperial Rome (Cambridge): 1–36. Ginsberg, L.D. (2017). Staging Memory, Staging Strife: Empire and Civil War in the Octavia, Oxford & New York. Ginsburg, J. (1993). “In maiores certamina: Past and Present in the Annales”, in T.J. Luce & A.J. Woodman (eds.), Tacitus and the Tacitean Tradition (Princeton): 86–103. Gowing, A.M. (2005). Empire and Memory: The Representation of the Roman Republic in Imperial Culture, Cambridge. Grethlein, J. & Krebs, C.B. (eds.) (2012). Time and Narrative in Ancient Historiography: The ‘Plupast’ from Herodotus to Appian, Cambridge & New York. Grethlein, J. (2013). Experience and Teleology in Ancient Historiography: ‘Futures Past’ from Herodotus to Augustine, Cambridge & New York. Griffin, M.T. (1982). “The Lyons Tablet and Tacitean Hindsight”, Classical Quarterly 32, 404–418. Habinek, T.N. (1998). The Politics of Latin Literature: Writing, Identity, and Empire in Ancient Rome, Chichester & Princeton, NJ. Hagen, J. (2017). Die Tränen der Mächtigen und die Macht der Tränen. Eine emotionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung des Weinens in der kaiserzeitlichen Historiographie, Stuttgart. Haimson Lushkov, A. (2013). “Citation and the Dynamics of Tradition in Livy’s AUC”, Histos 7, 21–47. Hau, L.I. (2016). Moral History from Herodotus to Diodorus Siculus, Edinburgh. Havener, W. (2019). “Augustus and the End of ‘Triumphalist History’”, in I. Gildenhard et al. (eds.), Augustus and the Destruction of History: The Politics of the Past in Early Imperial Rome (Cambridge), 111–131. Hinds, S. (1998). Allusion and Intertextuality: Dynamics of Appropriation in Roman Poetry, Cambridge. Hutchinson, G.O. (2013). Greek to Latin: Frameworks and Contexts for Intertextuality, Oxford & New York. Innes, M. (2000). “Introduction: using the past, interpreting the present, influencing the future”, in Y. Hen & M. Innes (eds.), The Uses of the Past in the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge): 1–8.

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Joseph, T.A. (2012). Tacitus the Epic Successor: Virgil, Lucan, and the Narrative of Civil War in the Histories, Leiden & Boston. Joshel, S.R. & Hackworth Petersen, L. (2014). The Material Life of Roman Slaves, Cambridge & New York. Kaster, R.A. (2005). Emotion, Restraint, and Community in Ancient Rome, Oxford & New York. König, A. & Whitton, C. (eds.) (2018). Roman Literature under Nerva, Trajan and Hadrian: Literary Interactions, AD 96–138, Cambridge. König, A., Langlands, R. & Uden, J. (eds.) (2020). Literature and Culture in the Roman Empire, 96–235: Cross-Cultural Interactions, Cambridge. Konstan, D. (2006). The Emotions of the Ancient Greeks: Studies in Aristotle and Classical Literature, Toronto. Kraus, C.S. & A.J. Woodman (eds.) (1997). Latin Historians (Oxford). Kraus, C.S. (2014). “Long Ago and Far Away … The Uses of the Past in Tacitus’ Minora”, in J. Ker & C. Pieper (eds.), Valuing the Past in the Greco-Roman World (Leiden & Boston): 219–242. Kraus, C.S. (2019). “Fabula and History in Livy’s Narrative of the Capture of Veii”, in J. Baines et al. (eds.), Historical Consciousness and the Use of the Past in the Ancient World (Sheffield & Bristol, CT): 345–358. Laird, A. (2009). “The rhetoric of Roman historiography”, in A. Feldherr (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Historians (Cambridge): 197–213. Lange, C.H. & Vervaet, F.J. (eds.) (2019). The Historiography of Late Republican Civil War, Leiden & Boston. Lange, C.H. (2016). Triumphs in the Age of Civil War: The Late Republic and the Adaptability of Triumphal Tradition, London & New York. Langlands, R. (2018). Exemplary Ethics in Ancient Rome, Cambridge & New York. Lendon, J.E. (2009). “Historians without history: Against Roman historiography”, in A. Feldherr (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Historians (Cambridge): 41–61. Levene, D.S. 2010. Livy on the Hannibalic War, Oxford & New York. Low, K. (2013). “Memoriae eximere: AD 41 and the Survival of Republicanism under the Principate”, in A. Powell (ed.), Hindsight in Greek and Roman Historiography (Swansea): 201–221. MacLean, R. (2018). Freed Slaves and Roman Imperial Culture: Social Integration and the Transformation of Values, Cambridge & New York. Marincola, J. (2009). “Historiography”, in A. Erskine (ed.), A Companion to Ancient History (Oxford & Malden, MA): 13–22. Marincola, J. (2010). “The Rhetoric of History: Allusion, Intertextuality, and Exemplarity in Historiographical Speeches”, in D. Pausch (ed.), Stimmen der Geschichte: Funktionen von Reden in der antiken Historiographie (Berlin & New York): 259–289.

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Miller, J.F. & Woodman, A.J. (eds.) (2010). Latin Historiography and Poetry in the Early Empire, Leiden & Boston. Morello, R. (2002). “Livy’s Alexander Digression (9.17–19): Counterfactuals and Apologetics”, Journal of Roman Studies 92, 62–85. Morrell, K., Osgood, J. & Welch, K. (eds.) (2019). The Alternative Augustan Age, Oxford & New York. Nail, T. (2016). Theory of the Border, Oxford & New York. O’Gorman, E. (2006a). “Alternate Empires: Tacitus’s Virtual History of the Pisonian Principate”, Arethusa 39, 281–301. O’Gorman, E. (2006b). “Intertextuality, Time and Historical Understanding”, in A.L. Macfie (ed.), The Philosophy of History (Basingstoke): 102–117. O’Gorman, E. (2009). “Intertextuality and historiography”, in A. Feldherr (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Historians (Cambridge): 231–242. Pausch, D. (2018). “Livy’s Battle in the Forum between Roman Monuments and Greek Literature”, in K. Sandberg & C. Smith (eds.), Omnium Annalium Monumenta: Historical Writing and Historical Evidence in Republican Rome (Leiden & Boston): 279–300. Pelling, C. (1999). “Epilogue”, in C.S. Kraus (ed.), The Limits of Historiography: Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts (Leiden & Boston): 325–357. Pelling, C. (2013a). “Intertextuality, Plausibility, and Interpretation”, Histos 7, 1–20. Pelling, C. (2013b). “Historical Explanation and What Didn’t Happen: the Virtues of Virtual history”, in A. Powell (ed.), Hindsight in Greek and Roman Historiography (Swansea): 1–24. Pelling, C. (2019). Herodotus and the Question Why, Austin. Polleichtner, W. (2010). “Fabius, Scipio, and the Sicilian Expedition: a Practical Lesson on Reading Thucydides”, in W. Polleichtner (ed.), Livy and Intertextuality. Papers of a Conference Held at the University of Texas at Austin, October 3, 2009 (Trier): 67–92. Renehan, R. (1976). “A traditional pattern of imitation in Sallust and his sources”, Classical Philology 71, 97–105. Rich, J. (2014). “The Triumph in the Roman Republic: Frequency, Fluctuation and Policy”, in C.H. Lange & F.J. Vervaet (eds.), The Roman Republican Triumph: Beyond the Spectacle. Analecta Romana Instituti Danici. Supplementum 45 (Rome): 197–258. Rodgers, B.S. (1986). “Great Expeditions: Livy on Thucydides”, Transactions of the American Philological Association 116, 335–352. Roller, M.B. (2018). Models from the Past in Roman Culture: a World of Exempla, Cambridge. Russell, A. (2019). “The Augustan Senate and the Reconfiguration of Time on the Fasti Capitolini”, in I. Gildenhard et al. (eds.), Augustus and the Destruction of History: The Politics of the Past in Early Imperial Rome (Cambridge): 157–186.

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Sailor, D. (2008). Writing and Empire in Tacitus, Cambridge & New York. Sandberg, K. & Smith, C. (eds.) (2018). Omnium Annalium Monumenta: Historical Writing and Historical Evidence in Republican Rome, Leiden & Boston. Scanlon, T.F. (1980). The Influence of Thucydides Upon Sallust, Heidelberg. Scapini, M. (2018). “Echi dalle tragedie tebane nelle storie di Roma arcaica”, in K. Sandberg & C. Smith (eds.), Omnium Annalium Monumenta: Historical Writing and Historical Evidence in Republican Rome (Leiden & Boston): 301–321. Smith, C. (2018). “Introduction”, in K. Sandberg & C. Smith (eds.), Omnium Annalium Monumenta: Historical Writing and Historical Evidence in Republican Rome (Leiden & Boston): 1–13. Soja, E.W. (1996). Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-and-Imagined Places, Malden, MA. Spielberg, L. (2017). “Language, Stasis and the Role of the Historian in Thucydides, Sallust and Tacitus”, American Journal of Philology 138, 331–373. Strunk, T.E. (2017). History after Liberty: Tacitus on Tyrants, Sycophants, and Republicans, Ann Arbor. Thomas, R.F. (1986). “Virgil’s Georgics and the Art of Reference”, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 90, 171–198. Thomas, R.F. (1999). Reading Virgil and His Texts: Studies in Intertextuality, Ann Arbor. Turnbull, D. (2007). “Maps Narratives and Trails: Performativity, Hodology and Distributed Knowledges in Complex Adaptive Systems –an Approach to Emergent Mapping”, Geographical Research 45, 140–149. Wallace-Hadrill, A. (2008). Rome’s Cultural Revolution, Cambridge & New York. West, D.A. & Woodman, A.J. (eds.) (1979). Creative Imitation and Latin Literature, Cambridge. White, H. (1973). Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe, Baltimore, MD. Wiseman, T.P. (1979). Clio’s Cosmetics: Three Studies in Greco-Roman Literature, Leicester. Woodman, A.J. (1979). “Self-imitation and the Substance of History: Tacitus, Annals 1.61–5 and Histories 2.70, 5.14–15”, in D.A. West & A.J. Woodman (eds.), Creative Imitation and Latin Literature (Cambridge): 143–155. Woodman, A.J. (1988). Rhetoric in Classical Historiography: four Studies, London & New York. Woodman, A.J. (transl.) (2004). Tacitus: The Annals, Cambridge & Indianapolis. Woodman, A.J. (2009). “Introduction”, in A.J. Woodman (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Tacitus (Cambridge): 1–14.

Part 1 Coming to Terms with the Principate



Chapter 1

Velleius Paterculus and the Battle of Actium Roberto Cristofoli 1

Introduction

Velleius Paterculus treated the events of Actium and the end of Mark Antony more than fifty years after they had occurred. Essentially, he could find them elaborated in three historical-ideological traditions: firstly, a tradition aligned with Augustan propaganda and ideology, which had been most significantly expressed, even before the princeps’ Res Gestae, in Horace’s Epode 9, Virgil’s description of Aeneas’ shield, and Propertius’ Elegy 4.6; secondly, a tradition hostile to Augustus, which for us is constituted by lost works and which could have been represented best in Seneca the Elder’s Historiae, fragments of which have recently emerged;1 and thirdly, a version of the events that cannot be defined as hostile to Augustus, but which was not aligned with important postulates of the historical (re-)interpretation supported by the Principate: it includes Propertius 2.16 and 3.11, and later a part of Plutarch’s tradition (Ant. 65–77), Florus (Epit. 2.21), and Cassius Dio (50.32–35, 51.5–10). However, to judge from the Livian Periochae 132–133 (which refer to books published only post excessum Diui Augusti,2 perhaps not by accident), it was precisely in the Paduan historian that the most significant elaboration of this version could be found. In Velleius’ historical work, Antony’s eastern period is re-interpreted as a sequence of failures. Velleius also notes, as do other traditions,3 that Antony sold such unhappy results as successes. For instance, Velleius seals the retreat from the Parthian campaign (2.82.3), perhaps not accidentally, by the image of the fuga of Antony from Parthia, which inevitably alluded to that of Actium (cf. 2.85.3: prima occupat fugam Cleopatra. Antonius fugientis reginae quam pugnantis militis sui comes esse maluit, “Cleopatra took the initiative in the flight; Antony chose to be the companion of the fleeing queen rather than of 1 Valeria Piano has discovered (inside Pap. Herc. 1067, first thought to contain a political oration and conserved in the Officina dei Papiri Ercolanensi in Naples) and recomposed fragments of this work: cf. Piano 2018. 2 Mss. N, P, Ry, π. 3 See Flor. Epit. 2.20.10; D.C. 49.32.1–2. For a recent discussion of Velleius’ representation of republican history, see Yakobson 2019. Cowan 2011 covers various aspects of Velleius’ historiographical project.

© Roberto Cristofoli, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004445086_003

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his fighting soldiers”; 2.85.6: qui ad eius arbitrium direxit fugam, “since it was by her will that he had resorted to flight”).4 Octavian, for his part, as we know from other traditions, did not deny the misleadingly triumphant messages of his triumviral colleague. In the period when the final encounter between the two lone triumvirs still active on the scene was deemed inevitable (from 36BC onwards), it was, after all, not advantageous for him to present his soon-to-be opponent as someone who had become a shadow of himself, since this would have diminished the glory of a potential victory. Velleius enters into the details of the Actian events at 2.82.4. Antony, because of his passion for and nearness to Cleopatra, having identified himself with Liber Pater (Father Bacchus), and being, by now, prey to vices, licentiousness, and flattery,5 bellum patriae inferre constituit, “resolved to make war upon his country”. In his designation of the war as civil, then, Velleius for once distances himself from the Augustan propaganda. However, in his negative treatment of Antony’s eastern campaigns and emphasis on his deficient valour and moral integrity, Velleius (whose qualities as an historian should not be diminished, as was done at length in the past)6 reflects claims that must have been introduced into Octavian’s propaganda immediately preceding the conflict and spread in Greece during the last part of 32BC up to September 31BC. These claims appear to have been aimed at convincing his soldiers not to fear an enemy commander who was clearly no longer invincible. 2

The Opposing Forces

At Actium, Velleius puts Octavian at the head of the “Caesarian party” (Iulianarum partium, 2.84.1). The historian – writing when, in the words of Sir Ronald Syme, the young dux had transformed a faction into a government7 – 4 Cf. Woodman 1983, ad loc. Translations of Velleius are by F.W. Shipley 1924, LCL. 5 Cf. also 2.86.3: … post eneruatum amore eius Antonii animum, “after this leader [Antony] had become demoralized by his passion for her [Cleopatra]”. 6 Among the various examples, see esp. Lana 1952 and Syme 1978. However, no less indicative are the opinions of those who, while not considering him a propagandist, nevertheless believed, with Hellegouarc’h, that “Velleius n’est pas un historien […] c’est un écrivain de cour, comme en ont connu tous les régimes de pouvoir absolu” (1964, 684). 7 Syme 1939, 524. The terminus ante quem for the writing of Velleius’ historical work is AD30, the year in which Marcus Vinicius, the dedicatee of the work, was consul (he held the position from January 1 to June 30); according to some, the work was written in just a few months: Sumner (1970, 284) claims that he did not start working on the text before the late summer of AD29. However, the now prevailing opinion posits a long editorial work beforehand, with the references to Marcus Vinicius inserted at the very end, after his election to the consulship.

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already sees in Octavian’s coalition and followers the foundation on which he would place Rome’s “transformation within continuity” into a system of government organised differently, linking it to the legacy of Caesar and the bond with the gens Iulia in the widest sense.8 In light of the premise that Octavian’s actions – which in any case for Velleius do not constitute a substantial break with the Republic, not even in 27BC with the establishment of the Principate9 – were guided if not by the gods, as the poets might imply, then at least by fortuna,10 the historian records, as Plutarch and Dio would do in greater detail, how already the preliminary skirmishes indicated an inevitable and obvious victory for Octavian. Velleius too, then, aligns himself with the interpretation of the battle endorsed by almost all ancient traditions, including those that merged in the accounts of Plutarch and Dio: namely that the victory of Octavian and the defeat of Antony occurred at Actium. Many modern scholars, however, have attentively considered and preferred the possibility (advanced only by an isolated part of the tradition)11 that the events of 2 September 31BC actually constituted a minor success for Antony and Cleopatra, who achieved their (admittedly limited) objective of breaking through the blockade enforced by Octavian and Agrippa, escaping from the Ambracian Gulf, and returning to Egypt, where they would be able to reorganise.12 On the question of chronology in the composition of Velleius’s work, see e.g. Elefante (1999, 21–8), Yardley & Barrett (2011, xxiii–vi), and Rich (2011, 84–7), the latter of whom reaches different conclusions from those of Elefante and Yardley & Barrett. 8 On the ratification of Octavian’s right to consider himself the sole heir of Caesar, see the considerations of Woodman 1983, ad loc. 9 Vell. 2.89.4: prisca illa et antiqua rei publicae forma reuocata, “the old traditional form of the republic was restored”; cf. Christ 2003, 77: Velleius “betont dabei gerade nicht die tiefe Zäsur in der römischen Verfassung sowie in den Strukturen und der Macht verteilung des Imperiums, sondern die Kontinuität”. 10 On fortuna in Velleius’ work, see e.g. Lana 1952, 221–30; Hellegouarc’h 1964, 676–80; Domainko 2015, 77–86. 11 D.C. 50.14.3–15.4, 30.3–4; cf. Tarn 1931, 187–8. 12 Kromayer, in a famous paper (1899, 1–54) giving predominant worth to the accounts of Plutarch, Dio, and the Livian tradition (Florus and Orosius), went so far as to exclude any “betrayal” by Cleopatra (commonly attributed to the queen in all previous investigations of the battle). Based on his reading of a part of the tradition of Dio, Kromayer instead postulated that it was in fact Antony’s plan (at this point demoralised by the failing campaign, the consequent defections, and his fleet’s numerical inferiority) to break through Octavian’s naval blockade (p. 33: “… und konnte froh sein, wenn es gelang, mit Gewalt die Blockade zu sprengen und unter dem Eindrucke dieses Erfolges die hohe See zu gewinnen. Die ganze Schlacht war für Antonius nur ein Ausfalls- und Durchbruchsgefecht”) and leave the Ambracian Gulf, in order to return to and reorganise in Egypt; this theory (with few modifications) has been endorsed, among others, by Holmes (1928, 157), Carter (1970, 214: “… his primary aim remained to escape with as many ships and men

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After detailing at length – through juxtapositions that recall Prop. 4.6 (2.84.1: in hac parte … in illa; hinc … illinc; haec … illa) – the greater tonnage of Antony’s ships13 and the various defections from Antony’s camp, which, however, are as possible”), Huzar (1978, 219), Kienast (1982, 71: “Wahrscheinlich hat Antonius diese Schlacht von vornherein als Durchbruchsschlacht geplant”), Osgood (2006, 374), and Laspe (2007, 520: “Antonius führte bei Actium keine Schlacht um den Sieg, er wollte nur entkommen”: he therefore divided his fleet in an unusual manner into autonomous and unconnected fronts, in order to force Octavian to divide his own fleet in turn and with the result that holes would be created in the formation, allowing Cleopatra to escape with the war-chest; indeed this would have been the sole aim of the battle: “Antonius, Cleopatra und der Kriegskasse das Entkommen aus Octavians Würgegriff zu ermöglichen”, even though this meant sacrificing or actually betraying the fleet; hence, according to Laspe, (p. 521) “die Schlacht bei Actium ist daher das Einzige, was Marcus Antonius in diesem Krieg wirklich geglückt ist”). Ferrabino 1924, in reaction to Kromayer’s reconstruction, focusing on Horace’s Epode 9, and attributing to Antony a clear desire to engage in battle in order to defeat his enemy (470), considered Antony betrayed at Actium, not by Cleopatra, but rather by Sosius, who (like Canidius) advocated a land-battle (p. 471; cf. Plut. Ant. 63.6–7) and for this reason “retrocedette, quasi sconfitto, fin dentro il golfo” at the very moment in which Cleopatra’s sixty ships cut Octavian’s fleet in two between the center and the right wing. In 1931 Tarn put forward the theory that to this day seems to me the most satisfactory, esp. in the light of Plut. Ant. 63.8 and 64.4 (p. 188): “[Antony] had, not one plan, but two alternative plans: to win a victory if possible, but if not possible to make for Egypt”; he would have planned to wait until the wind started to blow north, and then either “[…] turn Octavian’s left, driving him southward before the wind and making his army in turn the besieged”, or, in the case of failure, return to Egypt (p. 195), as he was indeed forced to do, also because most of his soldiers would no longer have had the determination to fight and returned to port; this seems to be reflected at Hor. Epod. 9.19– 20, verses which, according to Kromayer (1933, 361–83), should be referred to previous battles. Murray-Petsas (1989, 131–3) and Lange 2011 take stock of the question, the latter of whom – arguing that Dio’s account is inconsistent and not to be trusted – shrewdly noting (p. 610): “… Kromayer’s view rests on a fundamental perversity: we are asked to believe that Antonius and Cleopatra sought the outcome that in fact led to their destruction and death”. Underlining how Antony’s situation on the eve of Actium was not as disastrous as Kromayer believed, Lange returns to the claim that (p. 611) “at Actium Antonius was fighting for victory”; Cleopatra, however, grabbed the initiative with her sudden, unplanned escape (p. 621): “Cleopatra’s action is therefore best explained by supposing that she panicked and prematurely assumed that the day was lost”. For an appraisal of the significance of the Battle of Actium, see also Fratantuono 2016. 13 Before Velleius, only Propertius (3.11.44; 4.6.47) refers to the tonnage of Antony’s ships as greater than Octavian’s (Murray-Petsas 1989, 143–51). After Velleius, Plutarch reiterates the superior tonnage of Antony’s ships (Ant. 65.7–8; 66.1–2; cf. also Flor. Epit. 2.21.5–7), while Dio on the one hand states that Octavian’s ships at Actium were equal in number to those which he had deployed against Sextus Pompey (50.19.3), but on the other describes Octavian’s ships as bigger than those of Sextus (49.1.2; 3.2; cf. App. BC 5.106): thus, either Octavian modified the ships used previously but left unchanged their number (250–260 ships: cf. Plut. Ant. 61.4 and Oros. 6.19.8–9 against the hyperbolic Flor. Epit. 2.21.5), or – as

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not ascribed to the rifts between the Roman and Egyptian components of the army, Velleius describes the different objectives of the two adversaries: Antony fought for the ruina of the world, Octavian for its salus (2.85.1). He then dwells on the disposition of the respective fleets, underlining how, contrary to the feeble Antony, Octavian ubique aderat, “was present everywhere” (2.85.2; cf. 2.85.3: omnia in altera parte fuere, dux, remiges, milites, in altera parte nihil praeter milites, “on the one side was everything – commander, rowers, and soldiers; on the other, soldiers alone”), guided by the aforementioned fortuna in his movements across the theatre of battle. According to Velleius, “the command of the right wing of Caesar’s fleet was entrusted to Marcus Lurius” (dextrum nauium Iulianarum cornu M. Lurio commissum, 2.85.2), while Plutarch ascribed its command to Octavian himself (Καῖσαρ … αὑτῷ τὸ δεξιὸν κατέλιπε, “Caesar … reserved the right wing for himself”, Ant. 65.2).14 This apparent discrepancy, however, may be, at least partly, resolved in the light of the aforementioned expression ubique aderat: Octavian moved swiftly back and forth between the parts of his fleet that were in the most difficulty. The more significant discrepancy is between Velleius’ claim that Agrippa was entrusted with the general management of the battle (commissum … Agrippae omne classici certaminis arbitrium, “Agrippa had full charge of the entire conflict at sea”, 2.85.2) and Plutarch’s assertation that he commanded only the left wing (see again Ant. 65.2). Thus, whereas in Velleius significant emphasis is put on Octavian’s contribution (yet again in virtue of the ubique aderat), in the tradition followed by Plutarch the roles of both Octavian and Agrippa, placed on each side of their battle-line, are overshadowed by that of Antony, who moves between his ships in a row-boat (έπεφοίτα πανταχόσε κωπήρει, “Antony visited all his ships in a row-boat”, Ant. 65.2). Velleius then attributes the command of Octavian’s left wing to Lucius Arruntius, who by Plutarch is instead placed – not explicitly, but nevertheless in a manner deducible by the combined remarks at Ant. 66.4–5 – at the centre of the battle-line.15 The sources differ also in their reconstructions of the command structure of Antony’s army. Velleius maintains that the fleet was entrusted to L. Gellius Publicola and C. Sosius (2.85.2), the only consulars  – along with P. Canidius, to whom was entrusted the ground troops – who remained faithful to Antony.16 Plutarch instead attributes command of the right wing to Publicola

14 15 16

Dio seems to suggest (50.23.2, 29.1–4) – Antony’s ships at Actium were bigger than those of Octavian, which in turn, years before, had been bigger than those of Sextus Pompey. Translations of Plutarch’s Life of Antony are by B. Perrin 1920, LCL. Cf. Pelling 1988, ad loc. Cf. Syme 1939, 296.

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and Antony himself (Ἀντώνιος μὲν τὸ δεξιὸν κέρας ἔχων καὶ Ποπλικόλας, “Antony had the right wing, with Publicola”, Ant. 65.1), and, unlike Velleius, states that Caelius was put in charge of the left wing, while Marcus Octavius and Marcus Insteius were at the head of the centre. According to Plutarch, it was Caelius’ left wing that initiated the battle by forcing the right wing of Octavian’s fleet to withdraw (Ant. 65.7–8). In Dio’s account (31.4), however, it is Octavian who carries out the first hostile manoeuvre.17 Velleius, for his part, refuses to tackle the problem of establishing which of the two fleets attacked first. 3

The Queen’s Escape and the Inevitability of Octavian’s Victory

Velleius fully endorses the Augustan interpretation of Cleopatra’s escape, which Antony seconded as a deserter (desertor exercitus sui factus est, “[he] became a deserter from his own army”, 2.85.3). He does not portray the escape, as did Horace at Epod. 9.30 and Florus in his Epitome (2.21.8), as the decisive event in a battle that, up to that point, could have gone either way. In Velleius’ account it appears instead as a necessary acknowledgement of the inevitability of Octavian’s victory, who had proven himself stronger. Plutarch, on the other hand, who here follows a tradition not aligned with Augustan propaganda, relates that, “although the sea-fight was still undecided and equally favourable to both sides” (ἀκρίτου δὲ καὶ κοινῆς ἔτι τῆς ναυμαχίας συνεστώσης, Ant. 66.3), Cleopatra – to the amazement of her enemies – ordered her sixty ships to set sail in order to cut through the enemy line and move towards the opening of the gulf (66.6), at which point Antony moved to a quinquereme and followed (66.7–8). Dio’s version is similar: the Severan historian too introduces his narration of Cleopatra’s escape by noting how, until that moment, the battle had been open to any outcome, with neither fleet able to prevail over the other (ἀγχωμάλου οὖν ἐπὶ πολὺ τῆς ναυμαχίας οὔσης καὶ μηδετέρων ὑπερέχειν πῃ δυναμένων τέλος τοιόνδε τι ἐγένετο, “the battle was indecisive for a long time and neither antagonist could get the upper hand anywhere”, 50.33.1);18 Cleopatra’s escape, which occurs suddenly, is here ascribed not to a precise plan – which the historian had indeed mentioned earlier – but to the impatience of a woman, and moreover of an Egyptian woman, in the face of uncertainty. The flight, regarded by other authors (e.g. Josephus) as a

17 Prop. 4.6, as far as can be deduced from the poetic framework, would seem to imply the same; see esp. v. 53. 18 Transl. by E. Cary & H.B. Foster 1917, LCL.

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fully-fledged betrayal,19 breaks the deadlock, and Antony follows the queen. Dio too, then, attributes Cleopatra’s flight and Octavian’s consequent victory not to the latter’s evident and acknowledged superiority, but rather to an error of judgment on the part of Cleopatra, whose flight compromised Antony’s position and determined a battle whose outcome was still hanging in the balance. In Velleius, then, the heroic resistance of Antony’s soldiers, even after their commander’s flight, is not intended to suggest that Antony could have won the battle if he had not fled: as mentioned above, Velleius had already stated clearly that the battle was lost for Antony’s fleet before it began (2.84.1): debellatum apud Actium, ubi longe ante quam dimicaretur, exploratissima Iulianarum partium fuit uictoria, “the decisive battle took place at Actium. The victory of the Caesarian party was a certainty long before the battle”. The dogged resistance of Antony’s soldiers  – denied only by Propertius at 4.6.51–52 in order to glorify Octavian and support the claim that Antony and Cleopatra waged a bellum iniustum – serves rather to contrast the moral integrity of Antony’s soldiers with his own licentiousness. While he did not hesitate to abandon his troops because of his passion for a foreign queen, they remained faithful to their commander-deserter to the very last. Finally, Octavian is portrayed in a most favourable light because he accords clementia to Antony’s soldiers after they have reluctantly surrendered and before they have explicitly asked for it.20 In fact, and in contrast to the portrayals of Octavian as a ruthless winner in alternative traditions (cf. D.C. 51.2), Velleius follows the historical interpretation established in Res Gestae and presents Octavian as a champion of clementia after Actium (2.86.1–2).21 He even suggests that if Octavian had been the only commander at the start of the Triumvirate or the only victor at Philippi, he would have showed the same moderation then.22 The accusation of cruelty is thus turned both implicitly (si sic licuisset, “had he been allowed to do so”, 2.86.2) and explicitly (the deaths of Decimus Brutus and Sextus Pompey, 2.87.2) against Antony: as he had done already at 2.66.1, then, Velleius overturns the tradition later recovered by Suetonius (Aug. 13.1–2), which, by highlighting the respect enjoyed by Antony even among his enemies, condemns Octavian’s ruthlessness towards the vanquished (even while acknowledging the later clemency of Augustus; cf. Suet. Aug. 51). Velleius may here be 19 Joseph. Ap. 2.5.59. 20 Cf. Rohr Vio 2000, 322. 21 Cf. Aug. RG 1.3: uictor omnibus u[eniam petentib]us peperci, “as victor I was merciful to all citizens who asked for pardon” (transl. by Cooley 2009). On Res Gestae and Velleius, see Hellegouarc’h 1980. For the suggestion that Roman historians are more likely to have consulted Augustus’ autobiography than his Res Gestae, see Lange 2019, 198. 22 Cf. Lobur 2008, 121.

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recovering elements belonging to the phase of Octavian’s propaganda immediately prior to Actium: this phase (ca. 33–32BC), in contrast to the preceding, included scathing frontal attacks against Octavian’s former triumviral colleague, though without reaching the furious tones of the speeches delivered to the soldiers during the campaign in Greece. This kind of propaganda, however, was dropped after the victory at Actium, when the retrieval of a more positive memory of Antony served to extoll the glory of the man who had defeated him, open a climate of general reconciliation with Antony’s surviving followers, and end the painful chapter of the civil wars. Velleius, then, aligned himself with the assumptions that Actium had been a battle decided in Octavian’s favour even before it began, and that Cleopatra’s escape was an acknowledgement of the futility of resistance. Both assumptions were introduced and fostered by most of the poetic sources. Horace’s Epode 9, the source chronologically closest to the battle of Actium, is the first to interpret it as a victory for Octavian and a defeat for Antony and Cleopatra: not only does it portray Octavian’s enemies as forced to withdraw by the superior strength of their opponents, it also interprets Cleopatra’s flight as the inevitable consequence of a defeat already sealed. Horace’s version, rather than being ascribed to what Ferrabino defines as an autonomous prehistoriographical version of the battle,23 constitutes in our view not only the first re-definition of the battle by Octavian’s propaganda (in fact, Horace was not even present at the battle), but also the first evidence of the departure, in Octavian’s propaganda, from accusations of licentiousness and feebleness against Antony and Cleopatra. The two adversaries are instead (partially) redeemed as defeated but worthy adversaries who were forced to give up not because of their own shortcomings, but because of the superior and unequalled strength of the future princeps. Horace would provide the same interpretation in Carm. 1.37: Cleopatra, whose fault was her excessively ambitious plans against Rome, is a brave and dauntless woman, who had the courage to face a death that snatched her away from a humiliating triumph. Virgil, in his description of Aeneas’ shield (A. 8.685–688),24 preserves Antony’s reputation untarnished in the moment he headed into battle, exone­ rates Cleopatra from any accusation of cowardice, and portrays the Roman divinities engaged in a theomachy (parallel to the battle between mortals) in which they challenge and defeat their Egyptian counterparts. This

23 Ferrabino 1924, 467–8. 24 This section of the Aeneid was probably among the first, if not the first, to take shape, around 26BC: cf. D’Anna 1957; La Penna 2005, 272, 376; Cristofoli 2008a, 195–6.

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interpretation is brought to its extreme implications in Propertius’ Elegy 4.6 of 16BC:25 Apollo, the patron of civilization and the only divinity by Octavian’s side,26 leads him to victory solely by urging him to follow his arrow, which predestines him to win a battle in which there were no cowards, but only members of a civilisation destined to prevail and members of a civilisation destined to be defeated and re-assimilated into the Roman Empire. Propertius, at this point at the peak of a progressive integration into the ideological-ethical system constituted by Augustus  – who by 20BC had positioned himself at the head of the circle of poets previously overseen by Maecenas –, aligned himself with the latest and most complete account of recent history developed by the Augustan propaganda. Among other things, this account even suggested that the ratification of Caesar’s divinity would depend on the successes of his adoptive son and portrayed the renunciation of the clash with the Parthians and the addition of a Parthian province (another aspect that could create a divergence of views between Augustus and Maecenas) as a consequence of Augustus’ wish to leave glorious endeavours to his grandchildren.27 The assumption about Cleopatra’s cowardice, which discredited her imperial plans as excessive in relation to her moral stature, however, was affirmed in other literary treatments of the Actian events: firstly, by a Propertius not yet aligned with Augustan ideology28 (Cleopatra is a lascivious woman at 3.11.30 and 39; Actium is connected to Pharsalus and presented as a final offshoot of the civil wars at 3.11.33–38), who already in Book 2 had scorned the queen’s flight as the result of a heinous love and as a prelude to plans equally craven,29 and then, at 3.11.51, by means of an effective hypallage, spoke of the fearful Nile as the landing place of the retreating ships. Subsequently, Cleopatra’s 25 Book 4 of Propertius’ Elegies, composed entirely between 20 and 16BC, reflects – both in its choice of themes and in their actual treatment – the context of the substitution of Maecenas at the head of the “Circle of poets” by Augustus himself upon the latter’s return from his eastern expedition: for the possible reasons, see Cristofoli 2014, 203–14. 26 After the battle of Actium, Apollo was honoured by Octavian in many ways, even if the raised tropaeum on the hill where his encampment and praetorium had risen was dedicated to Mars and Neptune, as is understood by the inscription placed on the façade of the lower terrace (confirmed by Suet. Aug. 18.2); see Murray-Petsas (1989, 76) with the revision of the text in Zachos 2003, 76. 27 Prop. 4.6.80–82; cf. Cristofoli 2008b, 195. 28 Books 2 and 3 of Propertius’ Elegies were composed between 28 and 21BC: in more detail, book 2 between 28 and 25BC, and book 3 between 24–23 and 21BC (cf. Fedeli 1985, 29, 157); the dating of some elegies of the latter are lowered even further by several scholars, e.g. Cairns (2006, 404), who dates 3.4 to late 20BC. 29 Prop. 2.16.39–40: hunc infamis amor uersis dare terga carinis / iussit et extremo quaerere in orbe fugam, “a base love made him [Antony] turn his ships in flight and seek refuge at the ends of the world” (transl. by G.P. Goold 1990, LCL).

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cowardice was re-affirmed (and further elaborated) by an historian not so much in opposition to Augustus – in fact, we find no redemption for Augustus’ enemies in his writing, nor is the battle of Actium interpreted any differently than a defeat of Antony –, but (much like Propertius in 2.16 and 3.11) simply an historian not in line with the premises of the victor’s propaganda: Livy. In fact, when Florus (Epit. 2.21.11) attributes the outbreak of the war against Cleopatra – considered civil,30 as in Velleius, and thus in opposition to Octavian’s claim that it had been appointed to him because he had ended the civil wars – to her request to receive Rome as a pledge of love from the lustfully subservient Antony, one may envisage a dependence on his favourite source, i.e. Livy, as attested by Liv. Per. 132 (a passage which stands at the peak of an historical-conceptual development that, as demonstrated, counted poets among its protagonists): cum M. Antonius ob amorem Cleopatrae, ex qua duos filios habebat, Philadelphum et Alexandrum, neque in urbem uenire uellet neque finito IIIuiratus tempore imperium deponere bellumque moliretur quod urbi et Italiae inferret … Marcus Antonius because of his passion for Cleopatra, by whom he had two sons, Philadelphus and Alexander, was unwilling to return to Rome or to lay down his command when his term on the Board of Three ended; he organized a campaign of invasion against Rome and Italy …31 When Florus mentions Cleopatra’s flight and, once back in Egypt, her desperate plans to save her own life by seeking other shores,32 one might think that this not very heroic version of the final phases of the queen’s existence – to 30

After his account of the capture of Alexandria and the death of Cleopatra, Florus remarks (Epit. 2.21.12) hic finis armorum ciuilium, “thus the civil wars came to an end” (transl. by E.S. Forster 1929, LCL). On Florus’ (short) treatment of the battle of Actium and its consequences, see also Love in this volume (p. 160). On the treatment of civil war in the Roman historians of the Late Republic and Early Empire, see the papers collected in Lange & Vervaet 2019. On Actium as a civil war, see also Lange 2016. 31 Transl. by A.C. Schlesinger 1959, LCL. 32 Epit. 2.21.8–9: prima dux fugae regina cum aurea puppe ueloque purpureo in altum dedit. mox secutus Antonius, sed instare uestigiis Caesar. itaque nec praeparata in Oceanum fuga nec munita praesidiis utraque Aegypti cornua, Paraetonium atque Pelusium, profuere: prope manu tenebantur, “the queen led the retreat, putting out into the open sea in her golden vessel with purple sails. Antonius soon followed her, but Caesar was hard upon his tracks. And so neither their preparations for flight into the Ocean, nor their occupation of the two promontories of Egypt, Paraetonium and Pelusium, with garrisons availed

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which a few of the traditions followed by Plutarch (Ant. 69.3–5, 73.3, 76.3–4, 83.4) and Dio (51.6, 10.4–12.5) conform, but from which, as we will see, Velleius distances himself33 – could also, in turn, be traced back to Livy. 4

The Aftermath of Actium

With chapter 87 of Book 2, Velleius moves on to events following Actium. After noting that Octavian went to Egypt immediately after Actium, he inserts the phrase ultimam bellis ciuilibus imposuit manum (“[Octavian] put the finishing touch upon the civil wars”, 2.87.1), which may be understood either as a correction of the slogan reproduced by Augustus himself in the Res Gestae (3.1), according to which he had won not a proelium but rather a bellum at Actium, or as a way of affirming that only a final settlement to a war entirely won at Actium was outstanding. Although the question is still debated among mo­ dern scholars and it has been pointed out more than once that the importance of Actium in the war was probably emphasised in Octavian’s propaganda,34 almost all the ancient traditions agree, as mentioned above, that Octavian’s victory happened at Actium. While aware that the war continued into 30BC, most of them tend to see it as practically concluded on 2 September 31BC: Velleius, for his part, turns to the ambiguous expression bello Actiaco Alexandrinoque (2.88.1), whose meaning is difficult to pin down, either “Actian-Alexandrian war” (considering them as one) or “Actian and Alexandrian war” (considering the battles in Egypt in 30BC as an almost autonomous extension to the Actian battle that had concluded Octavian’s victorious Greek campaign).35 Still, that he introduces the battle of Actium with the expression aduenit deinde maximi them aught; they were almost within Caesar’s grasp” (transl. by E.S. Forster 1929, LCL). Cleopatra’s cowardice is stressed also by Dio (Lange 2011, 619). 33 Livy is counted among Velleius’ sources: the fact that Velleius distanced himself from Livy in his treatment of these events, and already in the general planning of his work moved away from the Paduan historian by choosing to compose a compendium, obviously does not mean that he consistently distanced himself from him in the entire work. On Velleius’ sources, see Hellegouarc’h 1984, 412–7; Yardley & Barrett 2011, xxix–xxxi. 34 Against Syme (1939, 298), see e.g. Ferrabino 1924, 472 (“nulla tuttavia era deciso”); Rohr Vio 2000, 297; Cristofoli 2016, 167. Cf. Roddaz 1984, 178: “La reddition ou la destruction, dans les heures qui suivent, du reste de la flotte orientale, mais surtout, quelques jours plus tard, la soumission de l’armée d’Antoine permettront de faire entrer Actium et ses vainqueurs dans la légende, et à une habile ‘propagande’ de transformer un succès limité en victoire totale, placée, de surcroît, sous le patronage des dieux”. 35 Woodman (1983, ad loc.) affirms convincingly that Velleius “regards the Alexandrian campaign in 30 as a mere ‘mopping up’ operation”.

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discriminis dies (“then came the day of the great conflict”, 2.85.1) is indicative of the importance that he attaches to it.36 Thereafter, Velleius speaks of Antony’s suicide, describing it as carried out non segniter (“not without spirit”, 2.87.1, my translation). In this way, he redeems, at least partially, the figure of Antony the commander and gives back to the triumvir the moral vigour that he had lost.37 The same can be said of Cleopatra, who faces suicide, expers muliebris metus (“untouched by a woman’s fears”, 2.87.2), through the bite of a single asp.38 Thus, as mentioned above, Velleius opts for the version introduced by Horace (Carm. 1.37.21–32) and aligned with the Augustan propaganda: in opposition to the traditions suggesting that she considered renewed flight, he presents Cleopatra’s suicide as carried out with courage. This tradition, which preserves Cleopatra’s internal strength in the same way that it had made no mention of cowardice at Actium, may be found also in a part of Plutarch’s biography of Antony (83–86; cf. 66.3–4) as well as in Dio (51.13–14; cf. 51.6, 10.4–12.5). Velleius does not treat Octavian’s problematic situation in Rome in 30BC within the context of that year’s campaigns, postponing it until after the deaths of Antony and Cleopatra. In this way, he prevents the reader from seeing the full picture, that is, that the future princeps needed to quickly put an end to the Egyptian campaign because of the emergency that demanded his presence in Rome. Furthermore, the historian does not specify the peculiar ways in which the conflicts of 30BC in Egypt were carried out: preceded by negotiations between Octavian and Cleopatra (with the exclusion of Antony), these battles were frequently cut short before they begun because the Egyptian troops surrendered without a fight, as in the case of the decisive encounter at the end of July 30BC, which preceded Antony’s suicide. Finally, Antony’s suicide is completely unrelated to the news, brought to him by Cleopatra, of her analogous decision to take her own life. As far as the queen is concerned, the manner of her suicide is disputed, and her body was never recovered.39 36 See also 2.86.1: quid ille dies terrarum orbi praestiterit, ex quo in quem statum peruenerit fortuna publica, quis in hoc transcursu tam artati operis exprimere audeat?, “Who is there who, in the compass of so brief a work, would attempt to state what blessings this day conferred upon the world, or to describe the change which took place in the fortunes of the state?”. On the conceptualisation of the Actian and/cum Alexandrian War(s) in the ancient sources, see Lange 2009, 90–3. He also (pp. 95–123) discusses the victory monument put up at Actium; cf. Lange 2016, 141–53. 37 On the “cathartic” suicide in Velleius, see Lobur 2011, 214. 38 An ample part of the tradition attests to more than one snake: cf. Hor. Carm. 1.37.27; Verg. A. 8.697; Prop. 3.11.53; Flor. Epit. 2.21.11. 39 For a reconstruction of Antony and Cleopatra’s last year, with a review of the problems, see Cristofoli 2016.

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Conclusions

In this part of Velleius’ work, then, rather than an attempt to synthesise different traditions and provide a summary, one could perhaps speak of a conscious erasure of the causal links between the events. While time and space have precluded a broader analysis in this paper, this does indeed appear to have been one of the main methods used by ancient historians to insert their own leanings and sentiments into their narratives: not so much the alteration of facts, but the negation of the relations and connections between them, in order to deprive the reader of the possibility to identify inopportune links and draw conclusions that were either unwelcome or inconsistent with the historical and class ideology wherein each of the ancient scriptores inevitably inserted himself. Bibliography Cairns, F. (2006). Sextus Propertius: The Augustan Elegist, Cambridge & New York. Carter, J.M. (1970). The Battle of Actium, London & New York. Christ, K. (2003). “Geschichtsbild und Zeitgeschichte bei Velleius Paterculus”, in T. Hantos (ed.), Laurea Internationalis. Festschrift für Jochen Bleicken zum 75. Geburtstag (Stuttgart): 61–80. Cooley, A. (2009). Res Gestae Divi Augusti: Text, Translation, and Commentary, Cambridge & New York. Cowan, E. (ed.) (2011). Velleius Paterculus: Making History, Swansea. Cristofoli, R. (2008a). “Antonio e Cleopatra nell’Eneide e nell’elegia di Properzio”, in C. Santini & F. Santucci (eds.), I personaggi dell’elegia di Properzio: atti del convegno internazionale, Assisi, 26–28 Maggio 2006 (Assisi): 193–212. Cristofoli, R. (2008b). “Properzio, le insegne di Crasso e la politica orientale di Augusto”, Giornale Italiano di Filologia 60, 171–196. Cristofoli, R. (2014). “Properzio e Mecenate”, in G. Bonamente, R. Cristofoli & C. Santini (eds.), Properzio e l’Età augustea: cultura, storia, arte. Proceedings of the Nineteenth International Conference on Propertius, Assisi-Perugia, 25–27 May 2012 (Turnhout): 181–220. Cristofoli, R. (2016). “Dopo Azio: L’ultimo anno di Marco Antonio e la sorte di Cleopatra”, in A. Setaioli (ed.), Apis Matina. Studi in onore di Carlo Santini (Trieste): 167–178. D’Anna, G. (1957). Il problema della composizione dell’Eneide, Rome. Domainko, A. (2015). “The Conception of History in Velleius Paterculus’ Historia Romana”, Histos 9, 76–110.

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Elefante, M. (1999). Velleio Patercolo: I due libri al console Marco Vinicio: introduzione, testo e traduzione, Naples. Fedeli, P. (1985). Properzio: Il Libro Terzo delle Elegie, Bari. Ferrabino, A. (1924). “La battaglia d’Azio”, Rivista di Filologia e di Istruzione Classica 52, 433–472. Fratantuono, L. (2016). The Battle of Actium, 31 BC: War for the World, Barnsley. Hellegouarc’h, J. (1964). “Les buts de l’œuvre historique de Velleius Paterculus”, Latomus 23, 669–684. Hellegouarc’h, J. (1980). “Les Res Gestae d’Auguste et l’Historia Romana de Velleius Paterculus”, Latomus 39, 803–816. Hellegouarc’h, J. (1984). “État présent des travaux sur l’Histoire Romaine de Velléius Paterculus”, Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II.32.1, 404–436. Holmes, T.R. (1928). The Architect of the Roman Empire, vol. 1, Oxford. Huzar, E.G. (1978). Mark Antony: A Biography, Minneapolis, MN. Kienast, D. (1982). Augustus: Prinzeps und Monarch, Darmstadt. Kromayer, J. (1899). “Kleine Forschungen zur Geschichte des Zweiten Triumvirats, VII: Der Feldzug von Actium und der sogenannte Verrath der Cleopatra”, Hermes 34, 1–54. Kromayer, J. (1933). “Actium: Ein Epilog”, Hermes 68, 361–383. La Penna, A. (2005). L’impossibile giustificazione della storia. Un’interpretazione di Virgilio, Rome & Bari. Lana, I. (1952). Velleio Patercolo o della propaganda, Turin. Lange, C.H. (2009). Res Publica Constituta: Actium, Apollo and the Accomplishment of the Triumviral Assignment, Leiden & Boston. Lange, C.H. (2011). “The Battle of Actium: a Reconsideration”, Classical Quarterly 61, 608–623. Lange, C.H. (2016). Triumphs in the Age of Civil War: The Late Republic and the Adaptability of Triumphal Tradition, London & New York. Lange, C.H. (2019). “Augustus, the Res Gestae and the End of Civil War: Unpleasant Events?”, in C.H. Lange & F.J. Vervaet (eds.), The Historiography of Late Republican Civil War (Leiden & Boston): 185–209. Lange, C.H. & Vervaet, F.J. (eds.) (2019). The Historiography of Late Republican Civil War, Leiden & Boston. Laspe, D. (2007). “Actium. Die Anatomie einer Schlacht”, Gymnasium 114, 509–521. Lobur, J.A. (2008). Consensus, Concordia and the Formation of Roman Imperial Ideology, New York & London. Lobur, J.A. (2011). “Resuscitating a text: Velleius’ History as Cultural Evidence”, in E. Cowan (ed.), Velleius Paterculus: Making History (Swansea): 203–218. Murray, W.M. & Petsas, P.M. (1989). Octavian’s Campsite Memorial for the Actian War, Philadelphia.

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Osgood, J. (2006). Caesar’s Legacy. Civil War and the Emergence of the Roman Empire, Cambridge & New York. Pelling, C.B.R. (1988). Plutarch: Life of Antony, Cambridge. Piano, V. (2018). “P.Herc. 1067: alcune considerazioni bibliologiche”, in Atti del XVI Convegno di Egittologia e Papirologia, Siracusa, 29 settembre–2 ottobre 2016 (Siracusa): 89–109. Rich, J. (2011). “Velleius’ History: Genre and Purpose”, in E. Cowan (ed.), Velleius Paterculus: Making History (Swansea): 73–92. Roddaz, J.M. (1984). Marcus Agrippa, Paris. Rohr Vio, F. (2000). Le voci del dissenso: Ottaviano Augusto e i suoi oppositori, Padua. Sumner, G.V. (1970). “The Truth about Velleius Paterculus: Prolegomena”, Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 74, 257–297. Syme, R. (1939). The Roman Revolution, Oxford. Syme, R. (1978). “Mendacity in Velleius”, American Journal of Philology 99, 45–63. Tarn, W.W. (1931). “The Battle of Actium”, Journal of Roman Studies 21, 173–199. Woodman, A.J. (1983). Velleius Paterculus: The Caesarian and Augustan Narrative (2.41– 93), Cambridge. Yakobson, A. (2019). “Velleius Paterculus, imperial ideology and the old Republic”, in C. Rosillo-López (ed.), Communicating Public Opinion in the Roman Republic (Stuttgart): 273–294. Yardley, C.J. & Barrett, A.A. (transl.) (2011). Velleius Paterculus: The Roman History, Indianapolis, IN. Zachos, K.L. (2003). “The tropaeum of the sea-battle of Actium at Nikopolis: interim report”, Journal of Roman Archaeology 16, 65–92.

Chapter 2

In Short, the Republic: Florus and the (Re)Written Republic Rachel Lilley Love 1

Introduction: Beginnings

When Fabius Pictor (FRHist no. 1) wrote the first indigenous history of Rome at the close of the 3rd century BC, he took the entire span of the city’s history as his subject, from its mythic prehistory up until events in his own life.1 Around the same time, Cincius Alimentus (FRHist no. 2) would repeat the procedure, composing a history that spanned almost the entirety of the available Roman timeline, and hence, setting a precedent for those who came after him.2 The war monograph – scholarly tradition holds – was the contribution of L. Coelius Antipater (FRHist no. 15) sometime between 121 and 91BC.3 The 1 The contents of Pictor’s early Rome narration are handily preserved for us on the fragments of a 2nd-century BC dipinto found in the gymnasium at Tauromenium. Initially published in Manganaro 1974, the text reveals that Fabius “recorded the arrival of Heracles in Italy and […] of Lanoios […] by Aeneas and […] much later there were Romulus and Remus, and the foundation of Rome by Romulus […]” (ed. and trans. Battistoni 2006). The exact end point of Pictor’s history is uncertain: the last identifiable fragment (FRHist no. 1, F.23=Peter 27) concerns the losses at Lake Trasimene in 217BC. FRHist (1.167) puts the end point of Pictor’s history between 217 and 213BC. 2 The relative chronology of Pictor and Alimentus is not certain, but convention places Alimentus second in the tradition; see FRHist 1.180. The fundamental evidence on the scope of both Pictor and Alimentus comes from Dionysius of Halicarnassus (1.6.2): ὧν εἰσι πρεσβύτατοι Κόιντός τε Φάβιος καὶ Λεύκιος Κίγκιος, ἀμφότεροι κατὰ τοὺς Φοινικικοὺς ἀκμάσαντες πολέμους. τούτων δὲ τῶν ἀνδρῶν ἑκάτερος, οἷς μὲν αὐτὸς ἔργοις παρεγένετο, διὰ τὴν ἐμπειρίαν ἀκριβῶς ἀνέγραψε, τὰ δὲ ἀρχαῖα τὰ μετὰ τὴν κτίσιν τῆς πόλεως γενόμενα κεφαλαιωδῶς ἐπέδραμεν, “of these [the early Roman historians] the oldest are Q. Fabius and L. Cincius, both of whom flourished during the Punic Wars. Each of these men recorded in detail the events he witnessed because he had personal experience of them, but gave cursory treatment to the ancient material that happened after the founding of the city.” All translations are my own, unless otherwise noted. 3 Principal studies of Coelius Antipater are listed at FRHist 1.256. More recently, on the significance of Antipater’s title and its relation to historiographic modes, see Krebs 2015. On the dates of Antipater’s composition, see Badian 1966, 15–7: 91BC is the accepted terminus ante quem, as this is the dramatic date for Cicero’s de Oratore, which mentions the maior sonus of Antipater’s historiae (2.54), see FRHist 1.257.

© Rachel Lilley Love, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004445086_004

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historian’s Bellum Punicum took the Hannibalic War (218–201BC) as its subject and circumscribed its chronological limits accordingly.4 In doing so, the history broke new ground: almost all prior Latin historians, it would seem, designed their histories according to a model that considered Roman origins relevant to every historical narrative; Antipater, however, introduced a reconfiguration of just how much of the Roman timeline a work needed to cover in order to include all relevant historical information.5 The scope of Antipater’s revision should not be overstated. Certainly Polybius had familiarised Greek-literate Roman audiences to the concept of the war monograph roughly 30 years earlier.6 Moreover it is possible that Antipater’s earlier contemporary, C. Fannius, had already introduced exclusively contemporary history at Rome.7 Nor is it reasonable to assume that Roman historians prior to Antipater and Fannius were insulated from Greek traditions of historiography, which had long since incorporated diverse chronological limits. Presuming they were exposed in any degree to non-Roman traditions of historical documentation, early Roman historians were well aware that they need not begin a primordio, but the available evidence suggests that they preferred to stick to Fabius’ original chronological scope all the same. It would be only 200 years after Fabius, however, that this mode of historiography would find its greatest exponent: Livy. The chronological limits of Livy’s history – in particular the beginning – are so integral to the work that it shares its very title with its point of departure: ab Vrbe Condita.8 That title has also 4 On chronological limits as a categorical identifier for modes of historiography, see Marincola 1999a, 304–5. 5 Or at least a renegotiation of where foundational history must fall within the narration, as Antipater includes embedded digressions on material outside the assumed scope of his work (e.g. FRHist no. 15, F. 48 on the Latin War of the 5th century, and FRHist no. 15, F. 49 on the quaestorship of Gaius Gracchus in 126BC). 6 If they had not already encountered the format in any number of earlier Greek historians, most notably Thucydides; see Rood 2007. On Polybius’ Roman audience, see Champion 2004, 173–203; Pelling 2007, 244–58. 7 On the scope of Fannius’ history, see Badian 1966, 14. Fannius’ exact dates are unknown, though he is uncontestably located within the last two decades of the 2nd century BC. On the problems with securely identifying the historian Fannius, see Shackleton Bailey 1968, 400. Cornell (2018, 182–201) has recently brought to light how widespread the issue of overlapping or geminated nomenclature is within Republican historiography, and the degree to which the automatic association of historian with known politicians further obscures the picture. 8 The best evidence for the title under which Livy’s history circulated in antiquity is (or was) preserved in an early 5th century palimpsest, rewritten at the start of the 8th century at the Abbey of Luxeuil. The explicit to Book 5 on folio 274 v. reads ti liui b urbe ndita

  • b. V exp. c. lib. VI (Mommsen 1868, 144, cf. Conway and Walters, edd. 1914, ad loc). The text of the palimpsest was revealed and published in 1868 by Mommsen, but the chemicals

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    become synonymous with type, as modern scholarship has adopted ab urbe condita or “auc” to label what during the Republic was an “extremely common” manner of composition.9 The designation auc is closely connected with the annalistic mode, or history structured by consular year.10 This is in part a relationship that comes across as intuitive to modern audiences given the association between consular dating as a form of annual designation and ab urbe condita as annual calculation.11 Naturally, consular dates cannot occur before the office of consul is established in 509BC, and so any Roman history told from its origins cannot be fully annalistic, at least in respect to eponymous dating. This is obvious, but not particularly problematic. More troublesome, however, is that there is little consensus as to when and with what consistency consular dating appeared as a structuring device in early Roman history: the application of consistent and systematised eponymous dates is unlikely to have appeared already fully realised in the history of Fabius, and our access to the evolution of that practice between the 3rd and 1st centuries BC is irreparably hindered by the state of the evidence.12 It is worth keeping in mind, as well, that Sisenna and Sallust used in the process soon rendered the text unreadable (Ogilvie 1974, vi). That this title was also current as early as the late 4th century is evidenced by the Nicomachean subscriptions, as arranged by Zetzel 1980, 44, see esp. note 19. 9 Marincola 2009, 17; see e.g. Pelling, OCD (5th ed.) s.v. “historiography, Roman”; cf. North­ wood 2007, 97–9. 10 On matters of definition in relation to annales and annalistic writing, see Verbrugghe 1989; Scholz 1994; Northwood 2007. Cornell’s entry in the OCD (5th ed.) s.v. “annals, annalist” provides much needed clarity on the source of confusion among modern scholars in defining the term. 11 Feeney (2007, 140–1) is instructive on ab urbe condita as a purely literary form of dating: “Unwary students can sometimes get the impression that the Romans in general used an era ‘A.U.C.,’ ab urbe condita, ‘from the foundation of the city.’ In fact, this is not the case, not least because agreement was never reached on a precise foundation date … These apparent era dates [used by Republican historians] are not, however, part of an understood dating system that exists independently outside the text, but rather symbolic exploitations of … pervasive interval-based chronographic systems.” 12 This is the discussion taken up by Rich 2018, who advocates Piso as the first prose historian to (p. 57) “provide a narrative organised by magistrate years for the whole of the Republic. His example was followed on a greatly expanded scale by Cn. Gellius and by their first-century successors”; see also Wiseman 1979, 12–9; cf. Forsythe 1994, 42. That earlier historians and Ennius likely did not organise their narratives by consular year until the events of the early third/late fourth century is argued by Gelzer (1934; 1954), who excludes Fabius from the ranks of annalists; cf. Fornara (1983, 23–5), who identifies Cassius Hemina as the first annalist, and Frier (1999, 266–84), who contends that Fabius used annalistic dating from the origins of the Republic, but not consistently. Northwood 2007 summarises the arguments made by scholars prior to Rich 2018, dismissing most who

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    were both perfectly capable of writing annalistic history stricto sensu, despite restricting themselves to contemporary affairs only;13 within the Imperial period, Tacitus could do the same, starting not from the beginning of Rome, but rather ab excessu Diui Augusti. Evidently – or perhaps eventually – annalistic history did not have to begin ab urbe condita; and barring a sharper picture of the structures adopted by Fabius and his immediate successors, there is perhaps room to assume vice versa.14 Nevertheless, the association between annalistic structure and auc chronological limits cannot be dismissed; rather, it is reinforced in the well-known testimony of Cicero (de Orat. 2.51–53): ‘atqui, ne nostros contemnas’, inquit Antonius, ‘Graeci quoque sic initio scriptitarunt, ut noster Cato, ut Pictor, ut Piso. erat enim historia nihil aliud nisi annalium confectio, cuius rei memoriaeque publicae retinendae causa ab initio rerum Romanarum usque ad P. Mucium pontificem maximum res omnes singulorum annorum mandabat litteris pontifex maximus efferebatque in album et proponebat tabulam domi, potestas ut esset populo cognoscendi; iique etiam nunc annales maximi nominantur. hanc similitudinem scribendi multi secuti sunt, qui sine ullis ornamentis monumenta solum temporum, hominum, locorum, gestarumque rerum reliquerunt. itaque qualis apud Graecos Pherecydes, Hellanicus, Acusilas fuit, aliique permulti, talis noster Cato, et Pictor, et Piso …’ ‘But still’, said Antonius, ‘to keep you from thinking badly about our historians, the Greeks at first also used to write just like our Cato, Pictor, and Piso did. For there was no historia beyond the compiling of annals, on account of which, and for the perpetuation of a public record, starting from the earliest Roman events all the way down to Publius Mucius’ tenure as Pontifex Maximus, the Pontifex Maximus used to record all the information for each year, copy it onto a noticeboard, and publish the board at his home so that the people could stay informed; and these are still today called the Annales Maximi. Many have followed a similar mode of composition, those who have left us bare accounts of dates, names, places identify later historians as the first annalist (p. 111): “I have attempted to show the weakness of the arguments often used by those who would deny Fabius was an annalist. This does not mean that I am committed to a belief that Fabius indeed wrote annalistically.” 13 Rich 2011a, 22–9. 14 On various scholars’ position on Fabius, see Rich 2018, 39 n.59; 40 nn.60–1; Northwood 2007, 99 n.8. Few, including Rich himself, endorse a fully annalistic structure in Fabius; Northwood (2007, 100–7) is invaluable for understanding the nature of the aporia.

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    and events without a shred of embellishment. And so, Cato, Pictor, and Piso occupy the same place for us as Pherecydes, Hellanicus, Acusilas, and many others did among the Greeks …’ Cicero, through the mouth of Antonius,15 likens the earliest Roman histories to an annalium confectio, which he further elaborates  – the annals, not the confectio – as public records maintained ab initio rerum Romanarum: “these are still today called the Annales Maximi. Many have followed a similar mode of composition …” The passage is confusing and fraught. It muddies the relationship between the pontifical record and the Annales Maximi and ultimately offers little insight on how Fabius, Cato, and Piso utilised and/or emulated the annales available to them.16 Yet looking beyond what Cicero has to offer us on the exact modes of interaction between the various texts, the passage is useful in its collocation of the primary traits that Cicero and his milieu attributed to the inaugural generation of Republican historiography: unadorned (sine ullis ornamentis monumenta), annalistic, and ab initio rerum Romanarum. This final point is worth emphasising: writing history that “began at the beginning” was a distinct characteristic that belonged in equal measure to the constellation of properties that Roman audiences from the 1st century BC onwards associated with the earliest manifestations of the genre.17 Yet while significant observations have been made concerning the fortunes of annalistic structuring after the Republic – how it was developed by Livy, employed by Tacitus, and finally reinvented (or continued) by early Christian and Medieval chroniclers – the later developments of auc historiography as a similarly distinguishing characteristic of early Roman historiography are largely unexplored.18 15 16

    17 18

    Antonius’ use by Cicero here and elsewhere as a mouthpiece for a particular understanding of Roman historical practice that is not necessarily shared by Cicero is articulated by Fox 2007, 134–41. After all, Cato famously rejected the Annales Maximi as source (model?) for his own histories (Gell. 2.28.6=FRHist Annales Maximi T1, Cato no. 5, F80): uerba Catonis ex originum quarto haec sunt: non lubet scribere quod in tabula apud pontificem maximum est, quotiens annona cara, quotiens lunae aut solis lumine caligo aut quid obstiterit (“Cato’s words from the fourth book of the Origins are as follows: I do not care to write what is on the tablet at the house of the Pontifex Maximus, how often grain was high in price, how often darkness, or whatever, obscured the light of the moon or sun”, transl. by Cornell et al. 2013). On the complications of Cicero’s assessment, see Rich 2018, 20–6; but cf. Frier 1999, 179–200. Cf. Wiseman 1979, 18–9: “Another distinguishing feature of annales is that they began at the beginning.” Burgess & Kulikowski (2013, 12–20) consider annales – or works distinguished by annalistic structuring – as a constitutive type of a larger chronicle genre, the development of which they trace through late antiquity to the high middle ages. The most comprehensive

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    This is regrettable, but perhaps understandable when considered in light of the fact that the practice of writing full-scale auc histories largely disappears from the Latin tradition with the arrival of the Principate.19 Or almost. Despite its great popularity with historians writing under the Republic, the production of continuous, chronologically inclusive histories of Rome comes to be dominated by short-form prose works, otherwise known as historical epitomes:20 after the apex of Livy, the only Latin historians that we can be certain adopted auc chronological limits are Florus, Eutropius, Festus, and the Livian Periochae.21 There is no secure record of Latin historians under the Principate producing ab urbe condita histories on the scale of Republican authors, let alone on the scale of Livy himself.22 The availability of evidence is treatment of Livy’s annalistic structuring is Rich 2011a. On Tacitus, see Ginsburg 1981; Henderson 1998, 257–300. 19 Full-scale auc histories appear to find a new home among Greek writers of the 2nd century (Baldwin 1986). Among Greek writers who composed auc histories under the Principate, fragments remain from Asinius Quadratus [BNJ 97=FRHist no. 102] and Chryseros [BNJ 96], both of whom appear to have written on a much-reduced scale, ca. 15 books in the case of Quadratus. Cassius Dio is Livy’s closest emulator at 80 books. On Dio’s place within Roman historiographical traditions, see Flach 1973, Aalders 1986, and Cordier 2005. On the inherent “outsiderness” of Greek historiography of Rome, see Pelling 2007. Livy began his project – and so selected his starting point – as a Republican author (Burton 2000). 20 An admittedly broad use of the term epitome, which here is justified by the noted methodological and formal pluralism that is characteristic of the type; see Dubischar 2016, 431; see also Horster & Reitz 2010, 8: “[T]here is in fact no such thing as an independent genre of abridgement and compilation [in antiquity].” Such a broad view of the form paints over the occasionally observed distinction between epitome and breuiarium; cf. Woodman 1975, 282–8. 21 Livy seems to have had contemporaries who wrote on an expanded scale, though exact chronologies are impossible to reconstruct: e.g. Fenestella [FRHist no. 70], likely writing under Tiberius and of uncertain scope (FRHist 2.491–3). Velleius Paterculus’ history is an interesting case, which, although a type of epitome, is omitted from the list from an excess of caution: its beginning is not extant, though it is evident that the history was concerned not only with Roman origins, but with primordial ones, and so it is unclear to what extent Velleius considered his work as a strictly Roman history; see Yardley & Barrett 2011, xxi; Rich 2011b, 76–80. Granius Licinianus, who is the author of a compendium of Roman history derived from Livy is worth consideration, too: although the extant fragments of his work suggest a large-scale work (e.g. Book 36 covers events of 77BC), the beginning is entirely lost and the work’s close reliance on Livy often merits it the title “epitome”. 22 Beyond these extant texts with secure beginnings, there remains a significant number of authors who are credited with short-form histories ab initio rerum Romanarum in testimonia only. On speculation, one might add Vibius Maximus, Apuleius, and Aemlius Sura. Maximus is credited by Statius (Silv. 4.7) with a short compendium of world history (likely aligning him more with Velleius than Livy) that is in some form of conversation with both Sallust and Livy, though rejected by Coleman as an epitome of Livy (1982, 195–7). Apuleius

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    always an obstacle: we lack almost all history produced in the decades between Livy and Tacitus. Moreover, concerning those authors for whom fragments and testimonia do exist, we must be mindful of citation biases that inevitably skew our picture of a work’s scope and distribution of material.23 Although we cannot say definitively that large-scale auc narratives withdraw from Latin historiographic traditions, the overwhelming survival and attestation rate of auc epitomes in their place indicates a sea change in the way history was produced after Livy and in the wake of the establishment of the Principate: authors who sought to present a timeline consistent with the traditional practices of Roman history began to turn primarily to abbreviated means. It is a phenomenon that deserves attention.24 History ab urbe condita was not only a grand tradition of Republican historiography, it was by necessity the story of the Republic. An Imperial author would not have been able to write from the beginning of Rome without providing an account of the establishment, development, successes, and failures of the Republic – or at least not without being periphrastic to the point of suspicion. Epitome thus emerges as an effective tool for historians writing about the Republican past under the Principate, and so, it is necessary to consider the ways in which epitome participates in (re)constructing that past.

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    is the author of an epitome of Roman or world history, though the extant fragments deal with Roman history only. Sura’s de annis populi Romani (FRHist no. 103, F1) is known only from a gloss at Velleius 1.6.6 that calculates the time between the reign of King Ninus and the defeat of Carthage and Macedonia. Of the Greek authors who take on auc chronology, Asinius Quadratus restricts 1,000 years of Roman history into 15 books (Suda s.v. Κοδράτος K1905 (3.143 Adler)); the size of Chryseros’ history is unknown. A valuable lesson is provided by Elliott 2013, 1–18. Yet it is worth noting that even quotation bias can teach us something about how receptive audiences from the 1st century AD on were towards new histories that presumed to treat the foundation of Rome. Where the scope of a work is uncertain, but only fragments of contemporary history are preserved (e.g. Fabius Rusticus, who is paralleled with Livy at Tac. Agr. 10.3, but whose reliquae deal exclusively with Neronian events, FRHist no. 87), we might not have a clear sense of the chronological limits of the history, but a sharp image emerges of the value attributed to particular portions over others. As a literary phenomenon and not as a symptom of decline, as the proliferation of epitomes within certain eras has often been treated, see first and foremost, Galdi 1922, 288: “In general, epitomes mark the stagnation (segna una stasi) in the development of thought, both among the Greeks and among the Romans; and however you judge it, it is undeniable that they rise and take priority in preference (ch’essa sorge e si svolge a preferenza) in the age of decay.”

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    Florus as Imperial Author

    Since the reign of Nero, Imperial authors had been slowly coming around to the idea that they were, in fact, Imperial authors. It is Seneca who first suggests that the establishment of the Principate was something new, a mutatio, and not merely the extension of the Republic that previous authors had endorsed; Lucan, on the other hand, made this hard change an ideological pillar of his Pharsalia.25 However, it was only after the downfall of the Flavian dynasty, and in particular the catastrophic rule of Domitian, that the finality of the Republic and the devastation of its institutions became ingrained in the public consciousness as merely a description of circumstance as opposed to a political call to action.26 And although this was the same period that introduced the refrain libertas reddita to hail the coming of Trajan and the end of tyranny, the focus on the idea that freedom had been restored – or at least some semblance of it – bolstered the belief that the time from Tiberius to Domitian had witnessed if not the end of most Republican institutions, then at least their irreversible metamorphoses.27 After all, the ideals of the Republic could be reborn only if their deaths were acknowledged, defined, and integrated into the fabric of Roman memory in the first place.28 For Tacitus, processing the new world order involved meditating on how the loss of the Republic and changes within the state had irreparably changed public discourse, particularly historiography. Early in the Agricola, the historian famously characterises the years under Domitian as a deep and painful silence, one which at the time of the biography’s composition, writers are only just beginning to learn how to break (Agr. 2.3–3.1): 25 Sen. Ep. 71.12: quidni ille mutationem rei publicae forti et aequo pateretur animo? quid enim mutationis periculo exceptum?, “Why should he not suffer, bravely and calmly, a change in the government? For what is free from the risk of change?”, transl. by R.M. Gummere 1920, LCL. Cf. Sion-Jenkis 2000 on instances of acknowledging the change in government in early Imperial authors. On revolution as a theme in Lucan, see Gowing 2005, 82–4. 26 E.g. in opposition to Lucan’s Pharsalia, where the theme of Republicanism is often still read with a dash of subversion, or even revolution; see Bartsch (1997, 5) on historically subversive readings of Lucan. 27 Plin. Pan. 58.3; 66.2–4, passim; see Morford 1992; Gowing 2005, 121–2. König & Whitton 2018 has done much to illuminate the character of the Latin literary landscape under Nerva, Trajan, and Hadrian; in particular, the contributions of Rimmel, Buckley, and Morello explore programmed differentiation in Post-Domitianic writing. 28 Such is the force and intent behind certain phrases from Pliny’s Panegyricus, e.g. 57.4 ­(exspirante … libertate, “with liberty extinguished”) and 66.4 ( erat autem omnino res publica?, “for was the republic anywhere to be found?”).

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    dedimus profecto grande patientiae documentum; et sicut uetus aetas uidit quid ultimum in libertate esset, ita nos quid in seruitute, adempto per inquisitiones etiam loquendi audiendique commercio. memoriam quoque ipsam cum uoce perdidissemus, si tam in nostra potestate esset obliuisci quam tacere. nunc demum redit animus; et quamquam primo statim beatissimi saeculi ortu Nerua Caesar res olim dissociabiles miscuerit, principatum ac libertatem, augeatque cotidie felicitatem temporum Nerua Traianus … natura tamen infirmitatis humanae tardiora sunt remedia quam mala … Indeed we were an excellent lesson in submission; just as the uetus aetas had witnessed the extent of what freedom could be, so we witnessed the extent of slavery, when the informer robbed us of even the business of talking and listening. Our very memory should have disappeared with our voices, if we had been as ready to forget as to stay silent. Now, finally, our courage returns. And although in the first days of this most felicitous age, Nerva Caesar found harmony between the once discordant philosophies of principatus and libertas, and although Trajan daily improves our fortunes […] Nevertheless, it is the nature of human frailty that recovery is always a slower process than falling ill in the first place. Later, when Tacitus moves on to the preface of his Histories, he leans even further into his portrayal of Roman public discourse as an institution that has ceased to function since the uetus aetas, an age no longer associated merely with the time before Domitian, but now with the last generation of Republican historians (Hist. 1.1.1):29 initium mihi operis Seruius Galba iterum Titus Vinius consules erunt. nam post conditam urbem octingentos et uiginti prioris aeui annos multi auctores rettulerunt, dum res populi Romani memorabantur pari eloquentia ac libertate: postquam bellatum apud Actium atque omnem potentiam ad unum conferri pacis interfuit, magna illa ingenia cessere; simul ueritas pluribus modis infracta, primum inscitia rei publicae ut alienae, mox libidine adsentandi aut rursus odio aduersus dominantis: ita neutris cura posteritatis inter infensos uel obnoxios. To begin my work: Servius Galba, again, and Titus Vinius were consuls. Many authors had treated the eight hundred and twenty years after the 29 On the association of the uetus aetas with the Republican period, see Marincola 1999b, 401–3.

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    founding of the city that made up the previous era during which time the affairs of the Roman people were treated with equal eloquence and independence. After the battle of Actium and when, for the sake of peace, all power was bestowed on one man, those great intellects dried up: at the same time, historical fact was fractured in a variety of ways; at first, through ignorance of the affairs of governing, from which people were alienated, but soon, by a hunger for flattery or even just hatred for those in charge; and so neither the hateful nor the servile were concerned for posterity. Tacitus positions himself as inheritor of a discontinuous tradition: historiography, he claims, has been broken since Actium.30 The disastrous reign of Domitian had only exacerbated a crisis of public expression that had never been fully resolved since it had first been triggered by the destruction of the Republic (Tac. Ann. 1.4.1–2, 4.32–35; cf. D.C. 53.19.1–5).31 As a result, Tacitus has little time or concern for the work of the Imperial historians who had fruitlessly labored within a flawed system; his condemnation of the historiography practiced since the reign of the Julio-Claudians is both total and brief.32 Rather, his attention and aspirations are focused entirely on the historians of the prius aeuum: “Tacitus is using [his] preface as a way of indicating in which tradition he wishes to be seen [… He] suggests that his own work will now treat events of the Empire in a way consonant with those magna ingenia of old.”33 Tacitus was not alone in his efforts to reconnect with the idealised Republican roots of his tradition. The literature of the 2nd century, as Freudenburg puts it, is obsessed with the trauma of the first.34 When Trajanic authors begin to shape their authorial personae in a post-Domitianic world, they present themselves as survivors of a great devastation and their art as still suffering the consequences.35 Pliny is dismayed to find the recitation halls sparsely attended (Ep. 1.13) and the patronage of poets all but dried up (3.21).36 Oratory, declared 30 Strunk 2017, 1–3. 31 Moles 1998; Sailor 2008, 119–82. 32 Tacitus’ anonymous dismissal of almost all Latin historians after Livy is echoed in the modern literature on early Imperial historians, e.g. Gowing 2010, 29: “To return to Tacitus’ bookshelf, we might find there cherished and well-thumbed copies of Cato, Sallust and Livy, with the later historians occupying a dingy corner of the bottom shelf – texts his craft required him to own, but which he rarely read for pleasure.” 33 Marincola 1999b, 403. 34 Freudenburg 2001, 215–32. 35 The degree to which their self-presentation, however, reflected actual, historical changes in the production of literature at Rome is discussed by Coleman 1990/2000. 36 Cf. Strunk 2012, 181: “Pliny is suggesting that, although writers now have the freedom to write what they please, Roman literary society has been so diminished that no mature

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    dead in letter 2.14, has begun once again to resemble its old self by letter 3.16. Juvenal, too, shows a sympathy with Tacitus’ use of silence to signify the death of a tradition when he associates his own inability to speak with a punitive former age (Juv. 1.1): semper ego auditor tantum?, “will I ever get my chance to speak?”.37 Also like Tacitus, Juvenal seems to attempt to align himself with an earlier tradition of his genre. Only Lucilius and Horace are mentioned as worthy predecessors in satire, as examples he is attempting to emulate.38 He leapfrogs over any satirist working after the reign of Augustus. Imperial authors on a whole are dismissed as inadequate, or terrible in a myriad of other rude ways. Even Persius, whose influence is routinely observed among Juvenal scholars, does not receive an explicit mention in the genealogy Juvenal builds for himself.39 Tacitus and Juvenal both purport to despise their immediate predecessors, and seek instead to distinguish themselves and elevate their works by re-forging a continuity with Republican modes of expression that had been lost in the intervening years. The perception of this loss triggered reflection: “Ours is a period [i.e. literature under Nerva, Trajan, and Hadrian] of remembering, associating and aligning; but it is also one of hardcore oblivion, of wiping certain slates clean.”40 The

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    audience exists. It appears that he is attempting to praise the new age that the regimes of Nerva and Trajan have ushered in, but his frustration at literary society reveals the difficulty of a meaningful and lasting revitalization of society after Domitian’s reign, a theme that persists throughout Pliny’s letters.” Uden (2015, 24–50) and Geue (2017, 32–71) are indispensable for understanding Juvenal’s literary response to the “the existence of a lingering cultural trauma brought about by the experience of living and speaking during the ‘grim times’ of Domitian’s reign” (Uden 2015, 24). Both Uden and Geue fixate on Juvenal’s programmed anonymity as a response to the threat of political (so Geue) or ideological (so Uden) disenfranchisement inherent to the production of public literature within the broken system of the 2nd century: “Anon’s [sc. Juvenal’s] depressing picture of tumbleweeds rolling through this once mighty industrial landscape must bear on his own clapped-out machinery … Sat. 7 offers yet another rationalization of Juvenal’s unremarkable mediocrity by making him, too, an inevitable consequence of the broken system he versifies” (2017, 54). Lucilius is understood to be the alumnus aruncae at Sat. 1.18–9: cur tamen hoc potius libeat decurrere campo per quem magnus equos Auruncae flexit alumnus, “Yet why I choose to charge across the same plain where the great protégé of Aurunca steered his chariot”, transl. by S.M. Braund 2004, LCL; Horace is the referent of Venusia … lucerna at Sat. 1.51: haec ego non credam Venusina digna lucerna, “These outrages – can’t I think they merit the Venusian lamp”, transl. by S.M. Braund 2004, LCL; cf. Cucchiarelli 2012. Braund 1996, 13–5. Geue 2018, 370. Or loss is the prerequisite of reflection, as is the case for philology (re)articulated by Heller-Roazen 2002, 151: “There could be no philology were tradition not broken, no field of textual interpretation, criticism, and study were the transmission of texts not already obscure, altered, and interrupted: the immediacy and transparency of

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    first quarter of the 2nd century stands out as a time of deep literary introspection as authors under Trajan, and eventually Hadrian, began to explore the limits of public discourse under the pretense of renewed access to it. As they grappled with the challenge of reintroducing meaningful and authoritative public writing in the era of principatus ac libertas, Tacitus, Pliny, and Juvenal set the stage for another Imperial writer experimenting with the same questions: L. Annaeus Florus, author of the Epitome, a short prose history of Rome written ab urbe condita. Florus’ biography – and the assignation of his work to a definitive milieu – is tricky.41 We do have a biographical sketch for a Florus, which opens the surviving fragment of the Vergilius Orator an Poeta, uncovered in the early 19th century at the Royal Library of Belgium in Brussels (MS 10615–729).42 Within this sketch, we are given the story of a man named P. Annius Florus, the narrator of a dialogue taking place in Hispania Terraconensis, who has been treated scandalously by Domitian (1.3): inquam, Florum uides; fortasse audieris si tamen in illo orbis terrarum conciliabulo sub Domitiano principe crimini nostro adfuisti, “you are looking at Florus, I said. Perhaps you were in the audience, provided you were present at our scandal under Emperor Domitian in that quarter of the world”.43 The crimen, it turns out, is the denial of the victor’s crown at Domitian’s second Certamen Capitolinum in 90.44 A defiant Domitian (inuito quidem Caesare et resistente, “with Caesar unwilling, even, and resisting”, 1.4) snatched the crown from Florus’ head, despite the young man from Africa winning the unanimous support of the crowd (1.4): et Baeticus: tune es, inquit, ex Africa quem summo consensu popiscimus?, “then the Spainard asked: are you the man from Africa whom we called out for in total agreement?”. When asked by his Baetican interlocutor why, now that Domitian has been done away with, such a singular and gifted poet has not yet returned to Rome, that city “where your verses are sung by lectores and in every forum that famous ‘Triumph Over the Dacians’ resounds” (ubi uersus tui a lectoribus concinuntur et in foro omni clarissimus ille de Dacia triumphus exultat, 1.6), Florus claims not to have

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    understanding would forbid the constitution of a discipline of the study of the language of the past. Philology nourishes itself on the erosion of history; it erects itself over the grave of that which it recovers, dwelling, with necrophilic enthusiasm, on everything in its past that has grown opaque and can no longer present itself as it once was.” The pertinent questions regarding Florus’ identity are covered in detail by Baldwin 1988. Originally ed. Ritschl 1842, but see the very recent edition of Verweij 2015, with an introduction to the text’s history and an argument not to associate uncritically the Florus of the Brussels’ biography and our Florus, the historian (pp. 83–92). I accept Verweij’s (2015, 97) emendation of crimini for certamini. On Florus’ supposed “Triumph Over the Dacians” at the Certamen Capitolinum, see Nauta 2002, 328–31.

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    the words to explain why he must stay away (1.8): mihi quoque ipsi hoc idem mirum uideri solet quod non Romae morer. sed nihil est difficilius quam rationem reddere actus tui, “it is often a wonder even to me that I do not remain in Rome. But nothing is more difficult than to give an account of your behavior”. Instead he asks that his interlocutor cease to revisit old injuries (1.8): quare desine me in memoriam priorem reducendo uulnus dolorum meorum rescindere, “therefore, stop reopening the wound of my anguish by dragging me back into bygone memories”. Wounded and silenced, this Florus is not ready to use his voice.45 Still, it is important to keep in mind that the character in the dialogue is not necessarily the author of our Epitome, and  – more importantly  – that this Florus is a character in the first place. As Verweij warns, the Florus who begins to tell his life story is prefacing a dialogue, and as such is more concerned with establishing his narrator within particular Latin literary traditions than with providing an accurate autobiography.46 Yet just as the author of the Vergilius Orator an Poeta seems set on establishing himself as a very particular type of author – a wary writer in the model of the other gun-shy Post-Domitianics – the Florus behind the Epitome (who is very likely the same Florus)47 is equally interested in casting his work within the context of the same specific moment (Flor. Praef. 8):48 a Caesare Augusto in saeculum nostrum haud multo minus anni ducenti, quibus inertia Caesarum quasi consenuit atque decoxit, nisi quod sub Traiano principe mouit lacertos et praeter spem omnium senectus imperii quasi reddita iuuentute reuirescit. From Caesar Augustus down to our own age, there have been not much less than two hundred years, during which, because of the dormancy of the Caesars the Roman people seemed to grow old and waste away, except that under Trajan’s rule, they stretched their limbs and, against all expectations, the ancient empire recovers its strength as if its youth had been restored. Even lacking a unified identity for the two Floruses, the mention of a resurgent Trajan in the wake of torpid and diminished predecessors is a strong argument 45 46

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    On silence as wound in Juvenal, see Larmour 2004. For example, Verweij (2015, 86, 97) notes that Florus’ introductory mention of a crimen is a parallel of Ovid’s carmen-crimen, and the subsequent description of his wanderings (2.5: quo usque uagabimur? an semper hospites erimus? “How far must we wander? Or are we always to be strangers?”) as a form of self-imposed exile evokes Ovid’s real exile. Baldwin 1988, 136–7. Text is the edition by Jal 1967.

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    for reading the Epitome as a product of the same Zeitgeist – or at least as a text that wished to be associated with the energy of cultural renaissance embraced by other writers of the Trajanic period. And like his (perhaps slightly earlier)49 contemporaries, Florus is engaged in literary introspection concerning what his form of public expression  – historiography – ought to look like. Unlike Tacitus, however, who splices his own brand of historiography onto earlier traditions by retrofitting Imperial history with the distinctly Republican annalistic structure, Florus takes a different approach to the (re)generation of a continuous tradition: he goes back to the beginning and starts fresh. In adopting the chronological limits of the oldest variety of Roman historiography, Florus revitalises and reshapes an inherited tradition with a similar Republican pedigree for his decidedly Imperial needs, i.e. rewriting the history of the Roman Republic in a way that adheres to the limitations and sensibilities of the Principate. At the same time, by rewriting the story of Rome from the beginning he opens a novel avenue by which he can navigate the trauma of discontinuity that is so central to the 2nd-century literary imagination. 3

    Rupture and Reboot

    Florus’ approach may be different from Tacitus’, but it is not unique within the ancient world. The capacity of “restarting” or “rewriting” to repair a ruptured tradition had already been experimented with in Jewish literature of the late 1st century AD, particularly by the author of a text known as 4 Ezra, an apocryphal book that centers on the biblical figure of Ezra, a priest of the Second Temple in Jerusalem.50 4 Ezra describes a sequence of the eponymous figure’s divine encounters and conversations with the angel Uriel in the wake of the destruction of the First Temple and the Jewish people’s exile and enslavement under a foreign tyrant in Babylon in the 6th century BC. The text is pseudepigraphic and is dated to the final decade of the 1st century AD, so the acute circumstances of its production are associated with the later Roman destruction of the Second Temple in Jerusalem of 70AD, the very temple that Ezra is

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    On Florus’ dates, see Baldwin 1988, 140–2. For introduction to the text, see Stone & Henze 2013, 1–19; Ossandón Widow 2018, 87–97. 4 Ezra no longer exists in its putative Hebrew or Greek original. The text survives in Latin, Syriac, and six other tertiary translations, all of a Greek translation of a Semitic original (Stone & Henze 2013, 4–5). On 4 Ezra as a traumatic text, see Daschke 2010, 103–40.

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    remembered as having been instrumental in re-establishing in the canonical Hebrew Bible (i.e. Ezra-Nehemiah).51 4 Ezra processes the loss of the Second Temple by revisiting the trauma associated with the destruction of the First. That trauma, particularly the way it manifests itself in later Second Temple traditions, bears striking similarities to how Latin authors of the early 2nd century remember their own recent sufferings at the hands of a domestic tyrant: The destruction of the Second Temple intensified the crisis that had been brought on by the destruction of the first, a crisis that had never been fully resolved. Now that crisis became a full-blown trauma. Nothing could happen – nothing of any significance, because the basis of significance had collapsed. Even scripture itself seemed inaccessible, because its meaningfulness was tied so intimately to the continuation of God’s covenant with Israel, which was exemplified by God’s presence in the Temple [… T]he recovery of the future would require radical imagination and radical hope.52 The loss of the First Temple was remembered in the wake of Second’s destruction in terms of a crisis of scripture: the Temple was the manifestation of the Jewish people’s covenant with God, and so was the institution that facilitated and safeguarded the production of authentic scripture. Such concerns echo those of the Imperial Roman historians who fretted about their own ability to produce meaningful and authoritative historical accounts in the absence of the traditional institutions (i.e. the Republic) that had enabled and protected the efforts of their predecessors. Within both traditions silence becomes a powerful metaphor, with Najman identifying the destruction of Second Temple as occasioning a paralytic silence (“Nothing could happen – nothing of any significance, because the basis of significance had collapsed”) in which the Jewish community found itself displaced from its own traditions.53 Writing 51 Ezra 7:25–26 (NIV): “And you, Ezra, in accordance with the wisdom of your God, which you possess, appoint magistrates and judges to administer justice to all the people of Trans-Euphrates – all who know the laws of your God. And you are to teach any who do not know them.” 52 Najman 2014, 128–9. 53 Najman (2014, 12–6), discussing Psalm 137: 1–3 (NIV): “By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion. There on the poplars we hung our harps, for there our captors asked us for songs, our tormentors demanded songs of joy; they said, ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’ How can we sing the songs of the Lord while in a foreign land?”; cf. Daschke 2010, 4: “For some, the immediate loss of their home threatens to become

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    in the aftermath of this traumatic rupture, 4 Ezra – much in the same way that Tacitus and Florus attempt to do so – seeks to re-establish its connection to a scriptural tradition rooted in the authority of a now-lost institution. To accomplish this, the text takes a rather direct approach: it rewrites the past. While canonical accounts of Ezra privilege his role as rebuilder and founder of the Second Temple after the destruction of the First, 4 Ezra shies away from emphasising his participation in its reestablishment. Najman likens this strategy to the modern process of “rebooting” a comic book or television franchise: “The purpose of this reboot [is] to imagine an alternative past. It is a past in which the Second Temple was never built. Thus, the entire Second Temple period never occurred, along with all its perceived inability to capture the glory of its predecessor, and the second destruction, with all its traumatic consequences, never happened”.54 Hence, 4 Ezra also provides us with a model that helps us to understand Florus as more than just a poor man’s Livy. That model offers, also, an opportunity to return Florus to the literary context of the 2nd century and to read him as being shaped by the same forces and impulses that are so prevalent in his contemporaries’ works.55 The Epitome is a rewrite aimed at revitalising an established tradition to suit the present moment; it re-remembers narratives of past loss (i.e. the destruction of the Republic) in order to address fresh trauma (i.e. Domitian’s reign). Whether or not one decides to interpret Florus permanent not through the actions of their conquerors but due to their inability to remember through cultural expression what defines them”; cf. Tac. Agr. 2.3. 54 Najman (2003, 1–20, citation on p. 17) rejects the term “rewritten” in favor of “reworked” because of insufficient evidence of the centrality of text to First and Second Temple periods in Jewish literature. The term “Rewritten Bible” was initially introduced in 1961 by Geza Vermes, but has since been reconfigured a number of times; most significantly, the use of “bible” has recently been rejected in favor “scripture” on the understanding that a canonical Bible had not yet emerged in the Second Temple period (Brooke 2002, 31–2; Petersen 2007, 286–8). For an overview of the scholarship on Rewritten Bible/Scripture, see Campbell 2014, 49–81. 55 Although I do not suggest that 4 Ezra exerts any direct influence on Florus, it is interesting to note that the destruction that informed the experiences of late 1st and early 2nd-century AD Jewish writers came at the hands of the Flavians, too. At 4 Ezra 11–2, the narrator describes his vision of a three-headed eagle that “reign[s] over the earth and over those who dwell in it” (4 Ezra 11:5, transl. by Stone & Henze 2013), which is conventionally associated with the three Flavians (Ossandón Widow 2018, 90–1). I take the texts as comparable yet independent from one another, but cautiously consider, also, König & Whitton’s (2018, 12–3) model of “literary interactivity” as a way to account for the “synchronic but seemingly independent convergences in theme and content … for the ‘elements in the ether’ or ‘extratextuality’, the shared tropes/memes/schemata floating between texts in the oral culture of the period”.

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    as specifically a rewrite of Livy, his work is still an attempt to rewrite, or reboot, an already heavily textualised tradition: the history of Rome, ab urbe condita.56 The decision to rewrite this particular portion of Roman history gives Florus room to “imagine an alternative past” in which the destruction of the Republic fails to effect the traumatic rupture that his contemporaries entertain, to structure his history of the Republic in a way that attempts to alleviate or even to overwrite any sense of discontinuity between the Republican and Imperial eras. In this aim, the Epitome’s short format works to its advantage. The simplest way to shorten a narrative is to omit material, and the material Florus omits is primarily the res domi, i.e. the material that makes up the political history of the city of Rome.57 The basic structure of the work reinforces this: the history is not arranged by consular year, but rather by the various military conflicts in which Rome was involved, first external and then internal. The emphasis on the res militaris is at the expense of the political and diplomatic background to any given war. Unlike Livy, Florus rarely takes us into the forum or the senate house; it is a feature of Florus to omit speeches, elections are all but forgotten, and there is surprisingly little investment in localising political or deliberative authority in any body or person beyond the Populus Romanus vaguely defined.58 Thus, at Flor. 1.22.54, it is the Populus Romanus itself that, with Scipio at the helm, turns its sights to Carthage in order to avenge the destruction of Italy.59 Meanwhile, our narrator spares us the details of Scipio’s 56

    The idea that Florus’ work was derived from Livy is an ancient one (e.g. Malalas Chron. 8, p. 211 Bonn: σοφώτατος Φλῶρος ὑπεμνημάτισεν ἐκ τῶν Λίβιου συγγραμμάτων, “The sophist Florus wrote an aide-memoire from writings of Livy”), and the work was transmitted for centuries under the title Epitome de Tito Livio (Jal 1967, xxi–xxii). In general, the Epitome is treated as an independent work that is heavily reliant on the text of Livy, as opposed to a summary, but as recent scholarship embraces a broader view of ancient forms of summary literature (see note 20 above) there are compelling reasons to reimagine the relationship between the two works. On Florus’ self-conscious “rewritteness”, see Hudson 2019. 57 On the related practices of omission in Velleius Paterculus, see also Cristofoli in this volume. 58 Similar observations regarding Florus’ account from the early Republic to the late Republic, particularly since individual actors are portrayed solely as agents of imperial expansion and not as political agents, have recently been made by ten Berge 2019, 419: “So in the first part of his Late Republican narrative, he continues to omit reference to internal politics, sacrificing both causality and characterization. Like their early Republican predecessors, men like Marius, Sulla, Pompey, and Caesar are presented as positive characters who expand Rome’s imperium in glorious campaigns.” 59 Flor. 1.22.54: iam certum erat Hannibalem etiam ipsius confessione posse uinci: sed tot rerum prosperarum fiducia plenus populus Romanus magni aestimabat asperrimum hostem in sua Africa debellare. duce igitur Scipione in ipsam Africam tota mole conuersus imitari coepit Hannibalem et Italiae suae clades in Africa uindicare, “Now it was certain that it

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    appointment to Africa: how he was actually denied the province by the senate after a contentious debate, appointed instead to Sicily – but only after his threat to enlist the Tribunes of the Plebs to his side is neutralised – and given permission to cross into Africa only for the defense of the state (cf. Liv. 28.45). This omission would perhaps not seem so purposeful were it not for the fact that on two separate occasions the Livian Periochae – a work of far more reduced scale – are at pains let us know that Scipio’s role in Africa is entirely contingent upon the senate’s approval (Liv. Per. 29.12): Scipio in Africam permissu senatus traeicit, “Scipio crossed into Africa with the permission of the Senate”. It would not be accurate, however, to say that Florus simply ignores half of all Roman history, i.e. the domestic half. The obligatory developments in the state under particular kings are mentioned (e.g. Romulus’ creation of the tribes and senate, 1.1.15; the institution of the census under Servius Tullius, 1.6.3), but after the Regal Period it is as if the Roman state becomes politically and institutionally static, a condition made all the more arresting by the Epitome’s programmatic preoccupation with speed.60 Florus includes a short, compulsory note on the birth of the Republic at 1.3 and closes the first book with a discussion of the decline of the Roman political system and its effect on military matters at 1.48. But in both cases, the discussion is synchronic: we are offered static snapshots of Rome’s political situation at individual, significant moments rather than a diachronic reflection on the developments of the Roman state in parallel with its rapid territorial expansions. The result is a seemingly awkward disunity between the civil and martial narratives of Roman history, with the latter clearly emerging as the primary vehicle by which the narration moves forward.61 was possible to defeat Hannibal  – even by the man’s own confession: but the populus Romanus was so full of hope in their current prosperity that they judged it important to defeat their direst enemy in Africa his homeland. So with Scipio at the helm and with the whole force set against Africa itself, they began to mimic Hannibal and to take vengence on Africa for the devastation of their own Italy.” 60 Hudson 2019, 60: “Speed, an inevitable feature of a text that manages to cover seven hundred-odd years of amply documented wars in two concise books of eighty-one compressed headings, turns up emphatically in the representation of events themselves. Or, to put it another way, we could say that Florus’ swift narration is the truest means of conveying the hurtling gallop of Roman imperial conquest.” 61 The complex relationship between the development of the state and the success of Rome’s military is typified by Livy’s treatment of the institutions of pay for soldiers and winter quartering, which are introduced at Liv. 4.59.10 and 5.2.1 respectively, and are consistently revisited as a source of civic unrest and an obstacle to Rome’s imperial progress throughout the first half of Book 5. In Florus, the episode is rendered in one, concise sentence (Flor. 1.6.8) with no mention of the role the change played in further poisoning relations between plebian tribunes and the senate (cf. Liv. 5.2). Again, the Livian

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    Further breaking with chronology, the Epitome sums up four plebeian secessions  – which spanned two centuries  – in one chapter (Flor. 1.17), cramming them between the Volsinian Rebellion (264BC) and the First Punic War (246–241BC). The political gains made by the plebs in the various secessions are corralled and segregated from the events for which they were gravely consequential, the most jarring example being the creation of the Tribunate, the significance of which Florus barely indicates (1.17.6): prima discordia ob inpotentiam feneratorum. quibus in terga quoque seruiliter saeuientibus, in sacrum montem plebs armata secessit aegreque, nec nisi tribunos impetrasset, Meneni Agrippae, facundi et sapientis uiri, auctoritate reuocata est. The first discord was on account of the outrages of the money-lenders. When they began taking out their savagery on the back of people like they were slaves, the plebs took up arms and left for the sacred mountain, and it was a hard job to bring them back – and not until they had procured the Tribunes – which was managed by the auctoritas of Menenius Agrippa, a wise and eloquent man. This is not only the story of the creation of the tribuni plebis, but also the first appearance of the office in the entire work, and it comes just before the narration of the First Punic War. To Florus, it seems, the Tribune of the Plebs is not an essential figure in the history of Rome from the foundation of the Republic to its first conflict with Carthage; for comparison, a reader may imagine the entire first decade of Livy without mention of the tribunes.62 Moreover, the lack of emphasis on the creation of the Tribunate within the larger narrative of plebeian secessions does little to suggest the awesome political power the tribunes would use to shape Rome both before and after the First Punic

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    Periochae do not fail to note the political consequences (Liv. Per. 5.1–2): in obsidione Veiorum tabernacula militibus facta sunt. ea res cum esset noua, indignationem tribunorum plebis mouit querentium non dari plebi, nec per hiemem, militiae requiem, “During the siege of Veii, winter camping was instituted for the soldiers. Since this was a new development, it incited the tribune of the plebs to complain that rest from military service was not ­afforded to the plebs even in winter.” Essentially, any mention of the so-called “Conflict of the Orders” is omitted from the narration of the Republic’s first two-and-half centuries. On the centrality of this conflict to Livy’s first decade, see Oakley 1997, 365–76; on the conflict as a literary structuring device, see Kraus 1994, 24–7.

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    War.63 In the same chapter, Florus goes on to provide the causes of a second (decemuiratus libido conflauit, “the Decemvirate was inflamed with lust”, 1.17.8), third (matrimoniorum dignitas, “the dignity of marriages”, 1.17.11), and fourth (honorum cupido, “greed for public office”, 1.17.12) discordia between the plebs and the senate, but there is no desire to anchor these events, either by the names of consuls or by synchronisms, into the chronology of the history that has been told up until this point. When we move to the beginning of Book 2, which turns to the narration of Rome’s domestic conflicts, we find that Florus once more asks us to depart from the timeline we have been following to back-track chronologically, introducing yet again the sensation of narrative displacement, as if our forward momentum has stalled.64 Book 1 ended with the Parthian campaigns of Crassus in the mid-1st century BC, but the beginning of Book 2 takes us back to the Gracchan agrarian reforms of the late-2nd, and proceeds via a haphazard chronology through Rome’s civil, servile, and piratical wars. In fact, over the course of Book 2 – the smaller of the two books – we find that Florus is no longer shy about tracking Roman political history alongside military history: only now that the state and its functions are acknowledged as contributing to the historical narrative, Florus takes the opportunity to show us just how ineffectual or even downright harmful the Republican government is, e.g. at 2.1.5–7: sed haec ipsa in perniciem redibant, et misera res publica in exitium sui merces erat. nam et a senatu in equitem translata iudiciorum potestas uectigalia, id est imperii patrimonium, subprimebat, et emptio frumenti ipsos rei publicae neruos exhauriebat, aerarium. Yet these measures [the Gracchan reforms] pushed Rome to the brink, and the wretched State became a bargaining chip in its own destruction. Transferring the judicial power from the senate to the equestrian order cut tax profits, the ancestral wealth of the empire, while the purchase of corn dried up the treasury, the life force of the State.

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    On the importance of the tribunate for the development of the Roman state, see Bleicken 1955, Smith 2012, and Cornell 1995, 242–72. Oakley (1997, 367 n.129) provides fuller bibliography on the history of the tribunate. The break in chronological order can be put down to Florus’ choice to divide Roman history across internal and external wars, a decision explained only at the end of the narration of the external conflicts (1.48). Book 1 ends in 53BC with the death of Crassus and Book 2 resumes ca. 130BC with the revolution of T. Gracchus and continues to roughly 2BC, when Augustus is named Pater Patriae.

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    The Roman state and its various magistrates are finally given the screen time we might expect in a narration of the Roman Republic, but they consistently appear as bunglers, botchers, or malefactors whose actions engender and perpetuate only the lowest forms of war.65 Indeed, the political activities of the state are narrated with a singular enthusiasm that Florus restricts to the chapters of the Epitome dedicated to Rome’s civil wars and which contribute nothing to the territorial expansion of Rome. As if to reinforce the sense that we have deviated from our main narrative, these chapters are marked off in the history as a formal – if extended – digression: at the end of Book 1, Florus announces that he will now move on to struggles at home (1.47.14): hos igitur omnis domesticos motus separatos ab externis iustisque bellis ex ordine persequemur, “we shall therefore narrate all these domestic struggles, in order and separated from external and just wars”.66 At 2.21.2, he formally closes the digression with Octavian’s victory over Antony at Actium: hic finis armorum ciuilium; reliqua aduersus externas gentes, “this is the end of civil conflicts; what remain are those against external peoples”. Florus does not linger here on the political consequences of Augustus’ victory. With Actium in the rear-view mirror, he immediately returns to the story he has been trying to tell all along: the external wars and imperial expansion of the Populus Romanus.67 It is after this point that we see, once again, a precipitous decline in the historical details regarding the actions of the state. This is particularly distinct in the Epitome’s handling of the figure of Augustus. To omit the introduction of one-man rule in Rome would be a step too far, and Florus in fact does pause over the state of affairs in Rome now that Augustus is that helm (2.14.4–8): nam aliter saluus esse non potuit, nisi confugisset ad seruitutem. gratulandum tamen ut in tanta perturbatione est, quod potissimum ad Octavium Caesarem Augustum summa rerum redit (“For there was no other way to be safe, except to flee to servitude. It was to be celebrated, however, that in such an upheaval, 65

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    See also 2.9.6: initium et causa belli inexplebilis honorum Marii fames, “the origin and cause of war was Marius’ insatiable hunger for political office”; and 2.12.7: consul habito senatu in praesentem reum perorauit; sed non amplius profectum, quam ut hostis euaderet seque tum palam ac professe incendium suum restincturum ruina minaretur, “the consul [Cicero] spoke against the accused to the gathered senate, those who were present; but nothing else happened except the enemy [Catiline] escaped and openly and boldly threatened that his fire would only be put out by ruin”. ten Berge (2019, 434) argues convincingly that Florus’ treatment of Rome’s internal conflicts presents the civil wars of the Late Republic as a single, aberrant and “circumscribed historical period … Florus’ reconstruction suggests that, with the removal of luxury and vice, Rome returned to pre-146BC standards”. On Florus’ treatment of Actium vis-à-vis those of Livy, Velleius, and Propertius, see also Cristofoli in this volume.

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    the government fell to none other than Octavian Caesar Augustus”). However, the reflection comes a beat too soon; summa rerum revert to Octavian Caesar Augustus before even the triumvirate is introduced at 2.16, indeed even before Octavian and Caesar Augustus are the same man. Yet with such little focus on the political and institutional history of Rome throughout, it follows that the Epitome runs roughshod over the particulars of Octavian’s ascension as they relate to details of offices and titles. In the final chapter, where Florus wraps up the state honours decreed to Augustus following 27BC, the text displays no attempt at precision or at making connections between the young leader’s various accolades and the Roman institutions to which they pertain (2.34.5–6): ob haec tot facta ingentia dictator perpetuus et pater patriae. tractatum etiam in senatu an, quia condidisset imperium, Romulus uocarentur; sed sanctius et reuerentius uisum est nomen Augusti, ut scilicet iam tum, dum colit terras, ipso nomine et titulo consecraretur. For all these great achievements he was named Dictator Perpetuus and Pater Patriae. It was also discussed in the senate whether he should be called Romulus, because he had established the empire but the name of Augustus seemed holier and more venerable, so that, while he was still alive, he might be sacrosanct in both his name and his title. Augustus was never dictator perpetuus; Julius Caesar was voted the title in 44BC. Moreover, the arrangement of the honours is haphazard, recorded with little care for how or when they were originally bestowed, giving the impression that Octavian became Dictator, Pater Patriae, and Augustus all in one whirlwind senate session, or at least that the offices came before the title. The reverse is the case. Twenty-five years passed between Octavian first assuming the title Augustus in 27BC and then accepting the title Pater Patriae in 2BC, but a reader would never know that from Florus’ account alone. This hyper-simplified retelling of Augustus’ political achievements is the only reckoning the Epitome provides of Augustus as a creature of the senate house – and still it fails to contain a single mention of the consulship.68 Florus’ desultory approach to Augustus as an actor and shaper of the state is an extension of his minimal interest in how the changing shape of that state contributes 68 Compare this with the Res Gestae Diui Augusti, which, even if it is not a constitutional history per se (see Rich 2012; Lange 2019), is meticulous in crafting a palatable  – if sanatised – political identity for Augustus that validates his military actions both domestic and foreign (Cooley 2009).

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    to the narrative of Roman history. All that is needed for Florus’ purpose is the information that Augustus is now in charge of a vast, pacified empire (2.34.61): omnibus ad occasum et meridiem pacatis gentibus, ad septentrionem quoque … item ad orientem, “now that all peoples to the west and south and the north and again to the east were subjugated …” His political identity is simplified almost to the point of nonexistence. What readers should care about, Florus seems to suggest, is Augustus’ success in redirecting Rome’s military fury away from itself and back towards the gentes externae: the last quarter of the second book occupies itself with the external wars waged under Augustus (2.22–34), with a near-complete lack of consideration for res domi that is familiar from Book 1. 4

    Conclusion: The (Un)Written Principate

    Yet the most significant omission of the Epitome is of everything that happens between the reigns of Augustus and Trajan, roughly eighty years of history. This ought to be read as a true omission and not just an early finish, since in his preface Florus promises that the Epitome will be a complete history of Rome (Praef. 3): faciam quod solent qui terrarum situs pingunt: in breui quasi tabella totam eius imaginem amplectar, nonnihil ut spero, ad admirationem principis populi conlaturus, si pariter atque in semel uniuersam magnitudinem eius ostendero. I will do what those who depict the condition of the world do: I will encompass a complete – yet brief – representation as if in a sketch so that some small addition, I hope, might be made towards the celebration of the foremost populace by showing its singular greatness in its totality all at once. That the period from Augustus to Trajan belongs to this tota imago is evidenced by Florus’ inclusion of the period within his “Ages of Man” metaphor (Praef. 5–8): the regal period marks Rome’s infancy, the birth of the Republic to the consulship of Appius Claudius is the city’s adolescence, the empire grows to maturity under Augustus, and the end of his reign introduces Rome’s senility.69 Just as his contemporaries do, Florus distinguishes the period from 69 On Florus’ use of the biological metaphor, see Bessone 2008 and ten Berge 2019. It is worth noting, too, that the ages of man as they are listed have no explicit correspondence

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    Tiberius to Domitian as one of decline and stagnation, with a period of resurgence under Trajan (Praef. 8). It is precisely this span of time – the period which Tacitus associates with the ultimate representation of the Principate’s discontinuity with the ideals of the Republic – that Florus chooses to leave out of his narrative. But this is the prerogative of the reboot: to reshape and reinvent the relevant elements of a tradition. Florus does not take us through the consequences of a despot like Domitian rising to power in a post-Republican Rome because Florus has made a conscious effort not to define Rome by any political system; the Roman Republic, as a collection of institutions and political actors, does not contribute to the narrative of Rome’s development, which Florus imagines as a purely territorial process (Praef. 2): ita late per orbem terrarum arma circumtulit, ut qui res illius legunt non unius populi, sed generis humani facta condiscant, “so widely throughout the world have the [Roman people] born their weapons that anyone who reads of their affairs would be learning about the deeds not of a single people, but of the human race in its entirety”. Instead, the political history of Rome is relegated to a series of digressions that consistently fall out of step with the primary chronology of the narration: it interrupts Florus’ narrative, butts in when it cannot be held off any longer, and perhaps most tellingly, often finds itself miles away from the events for which it held the most relevance. By rewriting a new version of Roman history that minimises the contribution of the state to development of that history, Florus mitigates the trauma of the Republic’s destruction. By extension, Florus minimises the significance of the state to the nature of Roman public discourse and, in the process, undoes many of the more horrific imaginings of Domitian’s literary impact. This is a radical departure from the judgment of Tacitus who considers his craft as always already impeded by the loss of the Republic: where Tacitus envisioned himself a prisoner of the monotonous “smallness” of imperial history (pleraque eorum quae rettuli quaeque referam parua forsitan et leuia memoratu uideri non nescius sum, “I am not ignorant of the fact that many of the things which I have reported back and which I shall report perhaps seem small and slight in the commemoration”, Ann. 4.32.1; obuia rerum similtudine et satietate, “an obvious obstacle by similarity and saturation of things”, 4.33.3, transl. by Moles 1998), Florus imagines his own project as almost too large and too exciting (Praef. 3):

    to developments of the state, but rather are correlated with the territorial expansion of Rome: city, Italy, world, and then territorial loss.

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    qua re cum, si quid aliud, hoc quoque operae pretium sit cognoscere, tamen quia ipsa sibi obstat magnitudo rerumque diuersitas aciem intentionis abrumpit, faciam … Therefore, if there is anything worth the effort to learn, it is especially this [sc. the history of Rome], yet because its own vastness gets in its way and the diversity of information disrupts the attention, I shall do … Florus thus offers readers a new path from the earliest days of Rome, from the earliest histories of Rome to the present. That path may be a little shorter than we are used to, but it is one that manages all the same to revitalise – or perhaps reboot – the tradition of ab urbe condita history for a new, post-Republican age.

    Acknowledgements

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    Rich, J. (2018). “Fabius Pictor, Ennius and the Origins of Roman Annalistic Historiography”, in K. Sandberg & C. Smith (eds.), Omnium Annalium Monumenta: Historical Writing and Historical Evidence in Republican Rome (Leiden & Boston): 17–65. Rood, T.C.B. (2007). “The Development of the War Monograph”, in J. Marincola (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography (Oxford & Malden, MA): 147–158. Sailor, D. (2008). Writing and Empire in Tacitus, Cambridge & New York. Scholz, U. (1994). “Annales und Historia(e)”, Hermes 122, 64–79. Shackleton Bailey, D.R. (1968). Cicero, Letters to Atticus, vol. 4, Cambridge. Sion-Jenkis, K. (2000). Von der Republik zum Prinzipat: Ursachen für den Verfassungs­ wechsel in Rom im historischen Denken der Antike, Stuttgart. Smith, C.J. (2012). “The origins of the tribunate of the plebs”, Antichthon 46, 101–125. Stone M. & Henze, M. (2013). 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch: Translations, Introductions, and Notes, Minneapolis, MN. Strunk, T.E. (2012). “Pliny the Pessimist”, Greece & Rome 59, 178–192. Strunk, T.E. (2017). History after Liberty: Tacitus on Tyrants, Sycophants, and Republicans, Ann Arbor. ten Berge, B.H. (2019). “Epitomizing Discord: Florus on the Late Republican Civil Wars”, in C.H. Lange & F. Vervaet (eds.), The Historiography of Late Republican Civil War (Leiden & Boston): 411–438. Uden, J. (2015). The Invisible Satirist: Juvenal and Second Century Rome, Oxford & New York. Verbrugghe, G.P. (1989). “On the Meaning of Annales, on the Meaning of Annalist”, Philologus 133, 192–230. Vermes, G. (1961). Scripture and Tradition in Judaism: Haggaic Studies, Leiden. Verweij, M. (2015). “Florus and his Vergilius orator an poeta: the Brussels manuscript revisited”, Wiener Studien 128, 83–105. Wiseman, T.P. (1979). Clio’s Cosmetics: Three Studies in Greco-Roman Literature, Leicester. Woodman, A. (1975). “Questions of Date, Genre, and Style in Velleius: Some Literary Answers”, Classical Quarterly 25, 271–306. Yardley, J.C. & Barrett, A.A. (transl.) (2011). Velleius Paterculus: The Roman History, Indianapolis, IN. Zetzel, J.E.G. (1980). “The Subscriptions in the Manuscripts of Livy and Fronto and the Meaning of Emendatio”, Classical Philology 75, 38–59.

    Chapter 3

    Principatus ac Libertas!? Tacitus, the Past and the Principate of Trajan Kai Ruffing 1

    Introduction: Intentional Historiography

    Tacitus and his thoughts about politics have been of interest for a variety of thinkers since the times of humanism.1 Over the centuries in which Tacitus’ political thought has been evaluated, different ways of accommodating his writings with his own (highly successful) career in the service of first the Flavians and then Nerva and Trajan have been suggested. Thus, Tacitus has been seen as a Machiavellian-realist, the “Black Tacitus”, or a as revolutionaryrepublican, the “Red Tacitus”; even the label “Pink Tacitus” can be found, which describes the historiographer as an author, who “…  centres on the cultivation of prudence and learning to navigate the murky and dangerous waters of a political world that is neither wholly free nor wholly servile.”2 This “Pink Tacitus” is also how Strunk reads Tacitus in his recently published monograph on the historian’s conceptualisation of liberty, which is then used to revive the “Red Tacitus”.3 This briefly sketched discussion regarding Tacitus’ colours is connected to a key question in modern scholarship, namely how much weight should be placed on his own biography and his own career when judging his stance towards republicanism and monarchy. Whereas there was once something like a communis opinio that Tacitus was a moderate monarchist, which is, according to Strunk, a modern version of the “Black Tacitus”, this view has recently been questioned. Scholars have become increasingly sceptical towards what they perceive to be a “biographical fallacy”, that is, that Tacitus’ biography and, hence, his political career cannot be taken as evidence of his own political thought, which consequently is to be found exclusively in his works. In

    1 Kapust 2012; Strunk 2017, 4–5. For a discussion of Tacitus’ political relevance in our own times, see Günther 2018; cf. also Walter 2012. 2 Kapust 2012, 524–5; see also Schmal 2016, 160–2. 3 Strunk 2017, 5–6.

    © Kai Ruffing, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004445086_005

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    this view, the moderate line of thinking about Tacitus’ political thoughts is a fallacy too.4 This paper aims to have a look at Tacitus, his work, and his times from another perspective. The point of departure is the basic assumption that ancient writing about the past is to be seen as “intentional historiography”, or “intentionale Geschichtsschreibung”, as Hans-Joachim Gehrke has called it.5 The concept of intentional historiography has two consequences, which should be kept in mind for every analysis of historiographical writing and its connection to real life in the moment of its making. Firstly, every kind of history is a construct, which is shaped by the social and political frameworks of the relative present.6 Secondly, ancient (as well as modern) historiography uses the past as an argument for political and other claims in the present.7 History, or better historiography, thus becomes the reading of the past from the present point of view and serves certain political purposes of the present. When used for the purpose of writing history, however, the past is neither unchangeable nor true reality.8 Indeed, the narration of the past – which by itself is a fact-based narrative fiction of coherence, as illustrated by Bichler9 – as well as other forms of commemorating the past in the very moment of their creation are shaped by artistic conventions, by social, cultural, economic and political backgrounds, and, last but not least, by the intentions of their creators.10 Thus, while historiography might be said to be a mirror of the past, it is necessarily (to a higher or a lower degree) a fun house mirror. This is, obviously, where the biographical approach comes into play again. If the basic assumptions mentioned so far are correct, it is impossible to consider Tacitus’ political thoughts without taking his biography and his political career into consideration, at least as far as the real person is concerned. And since both are shaped also by the political circumstances of his own times, the same is true for the imperial reigns under which he lived, since they provided the framework for Tacitus’ private as well as public life. A final point should be made before entering into the discussion of these issues. Historiography had a clear political dimension also under the conditions 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

    Strunk 2017, 7–22. Gehrke 1994; Gehrke 2004; Gehrke 2014. Gehrke 2004, 65. Gehrke 2004, 67–8. On the importance of written accounts for shaping the views of future generations, see Ash 2019, 353. What I would like to stress here is that such accounts – by promoting specific versions of the past – were intended also to exercise influence in the present. Bichler 2009/2016, 43. Niggemann & Ruffing 2011, 12–7.

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    of the Principate,11 not least because the leading class of the empire comprised the audience of the writings of an author such as Tacitus. This means nothing else than that his writings were mainly directed towards the members of the ordo senatorius and the higher levels of the ordo equester. A good example in this regard is Pliny the Younger, who was in touch with Tacitus and shared his literary ambitions as well as his social position (cf. e.g. Plin. Ep. 9.23).12 This is the reason for the political dimensions of historiography. Both ordines served in the military and the administration of the empire. Even though the power of the Roman emperors was first and foremost based on the military,13 the acceptance of this military-based autocracy was of vital importance for the emperors. What is more important, however, is the fact that the political, economic, and, hence, social position of each member of the leading social classes of the Empire depended on the emperor and his goodwill as they competed with one another for political positions, money, and honours.14 Consequently, writing history for such an audience is necessarily political, since historiography provides a picture of the past that has strong connections to the relative present. The fact that Tacitus was fully aware of this political dimension of historical writing is demonstrated, for instance, through his report on the burning of books in the forum and the comitium (Agr. 2.1–3) and through his rather idiosyncratic version of the murder of Domitian in the lost part of the Histories, which was the source both of Cassius Dio’s description of the events (D.C. 67.17) and – through the posited Nerva-Vita of Marius Maximus15 – for late antique historiography.16 2

    Tacitus, the Past, and the Principate of Trajan

    That Tacitus himself was part of the events that led to accession of Nerva and then of Trajan is demonstrated by his ratification as consul suffectus in November/December 97AD.17 Due to the turbulent circumstances of the time 11 12 13 14

    Syme 1958, 88–90. Syme 1958, 59–85; Fein 1994, 142–51; Whitton 2018, esp. 57–62. Ruffing 2010; Strobel 2010, 304, 309–23. Alföldy 2011, 158–61; Eck 2009. On the relationship between Trajan and his fellow senators, see Strobel 2010, 328–9. Alföldy (2011, 155–6) rightly underlines the loyalty of homines noui in the ordo senatorius, which is why they were particularly fostered by the emperors. 15 Cf. FRHist 1.605. 16 Strobel 2010, 141–2, 174–5. 17 Strobel (2010, 174), with a list of the consuls between 97 and 100AD. See further Syme 1958, 70; Fein 1994, 212; Birley 2000, 238; Schmal 2016, 17.

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    and to the impending accession of Trajan, who was the emperor desired by those who were part of the conspiracy against Domitian,18 it is unlikely that Tacitus became consul because he was already nominated by Domitian.19 It is more likely that he was an exponent of the new regime and that the circle of conspirators surrounding Nerva and Trajan confided in the homo nouus.20 This interpretation is corroborated by Tacitus’ entrustment with the oratio funebris for L. Verginius Rufus, who became consul ordinarius with Nerva as his colleague in 97AD. Verginius Rufus’ importance for the exponents of the new regime is underlined not only by his appointment as Nerva’s consular colleague, but also by the fact that this was his third consulship.21 They would hardly have chosen a man with unclear political sympathies to deliver his funeral oration. 2.1 Agricola Tacitus’ position as a consul suffectus – and thus as an exponent of the new regime  – is clearly of relevance for the interpretation of his first work. The Agricola was evidently written after his consulate, “before many months have elapsed …”, as Sir Ronald Syme put it.22 He seems to have published it in 98AD, i.e. after the death of Nerva in January of that year and the following accession of Trajan. Philological scholarship has had some problems in defining the genre of the Agricola,23 underlining that the work is primarily “an organ of praise and blame.”24 As such the Agricola has a highly political function.25 However, Tacitus used his first work not only to blame Domitian and praise Agricola. He also develops the moral and political ideals of the new aristocracy of the Roman Empire,26 which makes the Agricola “a manifesto for the Emperor Trajan and the new imperial aristocracy”, as Syme put it.27 Moreover, by conceding that he himself, as well as other members of the senatorial order, remained patient and tolerated the servitude (Agr. 2.3),28 he paved the way for all senators standing outside the group of conspirators for an arrangement with the new regime. 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

    Strobel 2010, 141–2. Birley 2000, 138; Sailor 2012, 24. Syme (1958, 70) regards this as far from certain; but see also Beck 1998, 96–7. Strobel 2010, 142–3. Syme 1958, 19. On the date of the Agricola, see Schmal 2016, 22. Sailor 2012, 37–9; Schmal 2016, 22–3. Syme 1958, 125; Sailor 2012, 39. Schmal 2016, 27; but see also Beck 1998, 69–71. Syme 1958, 26. Syme 1958, 125. Cf. Schmal 2016, 27.

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    It is evident already in chapters two and three that the Agricola is in line with the self-staging of the new emperors. Tacitus underlines the lack of freedom in the times of Domitian by mentioning the fates of Arulenus Rusticus and Herennius Senecio, whose writings were burned on the comitium and the Forum (Agr. 2.1). According to Tacitus, Arulenus Rusticus was killed by Domitian because he published the laudes of Paetus Thrasea, while Herennius Senecio had been put to death because he published a laus of Helvidius Priscus.29 For Tacitus, both men are examples that freedom existed only in the remote past (uetus aetas) and that until Domitian was killed, he and his contemporaries had experienced servitude (seruitus). At the end of the chapter he summarises these circumstances by mentioning that they would have lost also their memory, if it had been possible to forget as well as to be silent (Agr. 2.4). The next chapter is dedicated to a praise of the new regime of Nerva and Trajan. Nerva is said to have mixed two once incompatible things, principatus ac libertas, which is why his reign is the starting point of a beatissimum saeculum.30 Trajan, accordingly, is said to enhance every day the felicitas imperii as well as the securitas publica (Agr. 3.1). Now, the libertas publica is a central issue of Nerva’s coinage between AD 96 and 98. The slogan is mentioned in the obverse legends and found as an image on coins mentioning on the obverse Nerva as consul designatus as well as consul.31 The same holds true for felicitas in the reign of Trajan, which is often represented visually on his coins.32 Furthermore, felicitas is mentioned in two different Trajanic legends: FELICITAS AUG(USTI) CO(N)S(UL) III33 and 29 30

    Kroll 1918, 1084; Strobel 2010, 123. Of course, with libertas is meant the freedom of the members of the ordo senatorius: cf. Wiegels (2018, 21), who focuses on legal equality and the absence of despotism in trials. Given that the notion of libertas could accommodate different (indeed opposing; cf. Arena 2012, 1–13) political ideologies, it is not impossible that Tacitus here intended his readers to envisage principatus as a guarantee of libertas, since it freed the senators from the alleged tyranny of Domitian. This, at least, was how Cicero justified the pre-eminence of Octavian; that he fought against the tyranny of Mark Antony: cf. Arena 2012, 266–76. On the use of libertas by the political players of the Late Republic as a way to legitimate their political positions and justify their actions, see Arena 2012. As noted by Arena, around the 40s BC the term – in addition to its basic meaning of “a state of non-domination” – had acquired also (p. 11) “a moral and universalistic dimension, centred round the iudicium of individual men”; cf. pp. 261–2, 266. On the conceptualisation of the reign of Trajan as an age of libertas reddita and the self-staging of the authors of the period, see the contribution of Love in this volume. 31 RIC II Nerva 7; 19; 31; 36; 39; 43; 64; 65; 76; 86; 87; 89; 100; 101; 106. 32 RIC II Trajan 3; 13; 120; 121; 172; 173; 174; 175; 268; 271; 272; 273; 301; 332; 333; 343; 344; 345; 346; 498; 499; 624; 625; 626; 634; 635; 671; 672; 673; 674; 735. 33 RIC II Trajan 735.

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    figure 3.1 RIC II Nerva 86. Archaeological Museum of the University of Münster. M2086. Photo: Robert Dylka: Av. IMP(erator) NERVA CAES(ar) AVG(ustus) P(ontifex) M(aximus) TR(ibunicia) P(otestate) CO(n)S(ul) III P(ater) P(atriae). Head of Nerva. Rv. LIBERTAS PVBLICA S C. Figure of Libertas, holding a pileus in the right hand and a sceptre in the left hand. http://archaeologie.uni-muenster.de/ikmk/object?id=ID379

    VIRTUTI ET FELICITATI,34 respectively. Thus, felicitas was undoubtedly a key feature of Trajan’s imperial propaganda.35 Visual representations of securitas are also attested in his coinage.36 Thus, it is clear that Tacitus took over key words of the imperial self-staging in the opening chapters of the Agricola. The felicitas temporum was indeed of the highest importance in Trajan’s propaganda, as rightly underlined by Strobel: “In der Idee der felicitas temporum wird der Princeps zu einem fast messianischen Herrscher als Bringer des goldenen Zeitalters von Frieden und Gerechtigkeit.”37 Tacitus’s vicinity to the imperial self-staging becomes visible also in the final chapters of the Agricola. He speaks of Nerva’s succession as “the dawn of this most fortunate age” (beatissimi saeculi lucem, 44.5), which is separated sharply from the darkness of Domitian’s reign.38 After having summarised the crimes and misdeeds of the last Flavian emperor, Domitian is said to have been worse than Nero, since the latter committed his crimes in secret, whereas the Flavian emperor committed his in public and, even worse, in the presence of the senators (Agr. 44.5–45.2). Thus, one has to draw the conclusion that Tacitus 34 35 36 37 38

    RIC II Trajan 268. Strobel 2010, 185. RIC II Trajan 19 (?); 415; 433; 517; 518. Strobel 2010, 185. Transl. by Birley 1999.

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    figure 3.2 RIC II Trajan 343. Archaeological Museum of the University of Münster. M2129. Photo: Robert Dylka: Av. IMP(eratori) CAES(ari) NER(vae) TRAIANO OPTIMO AVG(usto) GER(manico) DAC(ico). Bust of Traian. Rv. P(ontifici) M(aximo) TR(ibunicia) P(otestate) CO(n)S(uli) VI P(atri) P(atriae) S(enatus) P(opulus)Q(ue) R(omanus). Figure of Felicitas, holding a caduceus in the right and cornucopiae in the left hand. https://archaeologie.uni-muenster.de/ikmk/object?id=ID412

    is perfectly in line with the imperial propaganda, as well as the general politics of this period, when he tears into Domitian’s person and reign.39 A similar narrative may be observed in a letter of Pliny the Younger to Trajan, who, when he thanks the emperor for having been given the ius trium liberorum, qualifies the reign of Domitian as the “saddest era” (tristissimo saeculo), whereas he portrays the new reign as a time in which he will be “both safe and prosperous” (et securus et felix, Ep. 10.2.2–3). The fact that Tacitus’ historiographic efforts are in close alignment with the imperial propaganda, that the audience of his writing was the imperial elite, and that he himself was a homo nouus who depended to a high degree on the goodwill and benevolence of the members of the imperial elite in order to advance his own career clearly demonstrates the relevance of his political biography for his political thought. The author of the Agricola is, without any doubt, not only an exponent of the new regime, but also a man on whom the members of its inner circle relied and in whom they had a great deal of confidence. His subsequent career can accordingly be seen as a reward for the services that he provided during the troubled period from the assassination of Domitian to the succession of Trajan. Evidently, he spent a longer period of time outside 39 Strobel 2010, 185. See also Marincola (1999, 400), who stresses that Trajan and Hadrian were often praised through criticism of their predecessors.

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    Rome. At least this is the conclusion that has been drawn in modern research, since one gets that impression in a letter sent by Pliny the Younger to Tacitus in 104 or 105AD (Ep. 4.13.1).40 Thus, it is not impossible that Tacitus spent a period of up to five years in the service of the emperor somewhere in the Roman Empire, since in 100AD he was active in Rome, where, together with Pliny, he prosecuted Marcus Priscus, a former proconsul of Africa.41 There are different proposals for how he spent his time in the period between 101 and 104/5AD. Birley, on the one hand, proposed that he might have been the governor of a consular province, e.g. Germania inferior or Germania superior.42 For Syme, on the other hand, this is only one possibility among other positions for which he would have been eligible as a consular.43 He appears to have remained a loyal partisan of Trajan, since he was rewarded in 112/113AD with one of the posts that brought with it the highest social prestige in the career of senator: he became the proconsul of Asia, as is shown by a remarkable inscription from Mylasa.44 Since he made the finished version of the Histories available to his audience around 109/110AD,45 the emperor and his inner circle were obviously not displeased by his authorial efforts and evidently did not see any reason not to reward him with this prestigious governorship. 2.2 Histories Indeed, it is not impossible to see the Histories as an effort to blacken Domitian and his Principate. Vespasian is characterised in a rather positive manner, as his initially ambiguous reputation is said to have improved with time (Hist. 1.50.4; 2.5; 4.3.3–4). Titus, too, is described in a positive manner (Hist. 4.52; 5.1.1). Domitian, however, is styled in a different way. In his description of the events in Rome that led to the end of Vitellius’ reign, Tacitus mentions how Domitian behaved: at first concealed in the room of a temple attendant (aedituus), a freedman (libertus) then had the idea to dress the young Flavian in a linen vestment, so that he could mix in with the devotees and make his way to the house of one of his father’s clients. After Vespasian took over the imperial authority, Domitian is said to have torn down the temple attendant’s lodging and built in its place a small chapel dedicated to Jupiter the Preserver, including an altar with a marble relief depicting his escape. After he became emperor, he built a vast temple for Jupiter the Guardian, which was decorated with an 40 41 42 43 44 45

    Schmal 2016, 18. Syme 1958, 70; Birley 2000, 240; Schmal 2016, 17. Birley 2000, 241. Syme 1958, 71–2. I. Mylasa 365 = OGIS 487 = I. Erythrai 125a = SEG XXVII 721. Birley 2000, 241; Schmal 2016, 19.

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    image of the god carrying Domitian in his arms (Hist. 3.74.1). Book Four of the Histories starts with a vivid description of the awful behaviour of the Flaviani in Rome after Vespasian’s victory over Vitellius (Hist. 4.1). Of course, there is also the short, but telling mention of Domitian, that he received the name and the residence of a Caesar, but lacked interest in governing, since his sole desire was lechery and adultery (Hist. 4.2.1). Domitian’s first appearance in the senate is admittedly described in a positive manner, but Tacitus immediately drops a hint about his bad character, which was yet to be revealed (Hist. 4.40.1). Later in the same book, Tacitus mentions again the bad character of Domitian, including his ability to hide it through a pretended love of poetry and devotion to literature (Hist. 4.86.2). Thus, the continuation of the efforts to blacken Domitian and his reign is obvious. But there are more issues that can be taken as a hint of Tacitus’ role as a propagandist of Trajan’s Principate. Firstly, a more general observation: if the Histories did indeed consist of twelve books,46 it is quite striking that Tacitus in Books 1–5 dedicated so much space to the civil war after the death of Nero and the uprising of the Batavians as well as to the Jewish revolt. Certainly, as far as we can see, not much happened during the period of 71–81AD.47 Tacitus, however, appears to portray the Flavian dynasty as a chaotic and bloody contrast to the alleged felicitas temporum of Trajan’s reign.48 He clearly states at the beginning of the Histories that he is going to describe a dark age of Roman history (Hist. 1.2): opus adgredior opimum casibus, atrox proeliis, discors seditionibus, ipsa etiam pace saeuom. quattuor principes ferro interempti; trina bella ciuilia, plura externa ac plerumque permixta; prosperae in Oriente, aduersae in Occidente res: turbatum Illyricum, Galliae nutantes, perdomita Britannia et statim missa: coortae in nos Sarmatarum ac Sueborum gentes, nobilitatus cladibus mutuis Dacus, mota prope etiam Parthorum arma falsi Neronis ludibrio. iam uero Italia nouis cladibus uel post longam saeculorum seriem repetitis adflicta: haustae aut obrutae urbes, fecundissima Campaniae ora; et urbs incendiis uastata, 46 Syme 1958, 686–7; Master 2012, 85; Schmal 2016, 50, 86–7. 47 Syme 1958, 686. 48 But see Master 2016, who argues that Tacitus is engaged in a portrayal of the danger of provincial soldiers for the empire. By way of comparison, a similarly bleak – or perhaps even bleaker – impression was created in the Annals, which in addition to revolts depicts the fatality of imperial power during the Julio-Claudian dynasty. On the fatality of imperial power in Tacitus, see Schmal 2016, 150–3. For a Tacitean digression on the role of power in Roman history, see Hist. 2.38.

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    consumptis antiquissimis delubris, ipso Capitolio ciuium manibus incenso. pollutae caerimoniae, magna adulteria: plenum exiliis mare, infecti caedibus scopuli. atrocius in urbe saeuitum: nobilitas, opes, omissi gestique honores pro crimine, et ob uirtutes certissimum exitium. nec minus praemia delatorum inuisa quam scelera, cum alii sacerdotia et consulatus ut spolia adepti, procurationes alii et interiorem potentiam, agerent uerterent cuncta odio et terrore. corrupti in dominos serui, in patronos liberti; et quibus deerat inimicus, per amicos oppressi.49 The story I now commence is rich in vicissitudes, grim with warfare, torn by civil strife, a tale of horror even during times of peace. Four emperors slain by the sword. Three civil wars: often entwined with these, an even larger number of foreign wars. Successes in the East, disaster in the West, disturbance in Illyricum, disaffection in Gaul. The conquest of Britain, immediately given up; the rising of the Sarmatian and Suebic tribes. Dacia had the privilege of inflicting and receiving defeat at our hands, and a pretender claiming to be Nero almost deluded the Parthians also into declaring war. Now too Italy was smitten with new disasters, or disasters it had not witnessed for a long period of years. Towns along the rich coast of Campania were swallowed by the earth or buried from above. The city was devastated by fires, her most ancient temples were destroyed, and the Capitol itself was fired by Roman hands. Sacred rites were grossly profaned, and there was adultery among the great. The sea swarmed with exiles, and cliffs were red with blood. Worse horrors reigned in the city. To be rich or well born, to hold office or refuse it, was a crime: merit of any kind meant certain ruin. Nor were the informers more hated than for their prizes: some carried off a priesthood or the consulship as their spoil, others won administrative office and a place at the heart of power: the hatred and fear they inspired worked universal havoc. Slaves were bribed against their masters, freedmen against their patrons, and, if a man had no enemies, he was ruined by his friends.50 Indeed, the contrast to the implied Golden Age of Trajan’s reign could not be more acute. To this one can add a further observation which demonstrates that Tacitus is perfectly in line with the imperial propaganda also in the Histories. In the first book he refers to a speech of Galba, in which the emperor justifies the adoption of Piso and gives an account of the advantages of adoption 49 50

    Text of the Histories is from Heubner 1978. Translations of the Histories are from Fyfe & Levene 1997.

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    as a way to choose future emperors (Hist. 1.15–16). The key argument of the speech runs as follows: since the Roman Empire has to be governed by one person, its elite (nos) had been, so to speak, the property of the Julio-Claudian dynasty. Because the house of the Julio-Claudians had come to an end, emperors will from now on be chosen. This choice will be a surrogate for freedom and the very best man (optimus quisque) will be chosen as emperor by means of adoption (Hist. 1.16.1). It is certainly not accidental that Tacitus here took over a key feature of Trajan’s imperial propaganda. While Trajan officially accepted the name Optimus first in 114AD, the legend S(ENATUS) P(OPULUS) Q(UE) R(OMANUS) OPTIMO PRINCIPI is found on the reverse of the imperial coinage since 103AD.51 Moreover, Tacitus’ positive portrayal of Galba and his Principate is all but casual, because it is a common feature in the literature and especially imperial propaganda of the time after the assassination of Domitian. Nerva in particular made use of certain issues of the imperial propaganda of Galba, as the coin legends LIBERTAS PUBLICA, AEQUITAS PUBLICA, FIDES, CONCORDIA EXERCITUUM, VICTORIA AUGUSTA, ROMA RENASCENS and PAX AUGUSTA demonstrate.52 Again one has to draw the conclusion that Tacitus acts as a partisan of Trajan and a propagandist for his Principate. His tool? Historiography. 2.3 Annals One of the questions frequently discussed in research on Tacitus and his works is why he did not keep his promise – made in the preface of his Histories – to write an account of the happy reigns of Nerva and Trajan (Hist. 1.1.4):53 quod si uita suppeditet, principatum diui Neruae et imperium Traiani, uberiorem securioremque materiam, senectuti seposui, rara temporum felicitate ubi sentire quae uelis et quae sentias dicere licet. I have reserved for my old age, if life is spared to me, the reigns of the deified Nerva and of the Emperor Trajan, which afford a richer and a safer theme: for it is the rare fortune of these days that you may think what you like and say what you think. Although modern scholarship has often maintained that the reason Tacitus did not write such a history was his disappointment with the subsequent 51 52 53

    Strobel 2010, 204. Morelli 2014, 246–8. Beck 1998, 115–23; Schmal 2016, 20.

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    behaviour of Nerva and Trajan, there is absolutely no proof of such a frustration.54 Syme is certainly right in maintaining that writing a history of Trajan’s Principate was impossible, since it was excruciatingly difficult to tell the truth about the events of 97AD without coming into conflict with the official Trajanic version.55 The Annals, I would argue, can be seen as a continuation of the aims and efforts of Tacitus’ earlier writing. Indeed, he had already given a negative view of the Julio-Claudian dynasty in the Histories in the speech of Galba on the occasion of the adoption of Piso. As a matter of consequence, the Annals can be seen as a critical account, a darkening of the Julio-Claudian dynasty, by means of which the contemporary reigns of Nerva and Trajan shone forth even more brightly. Indeed, the overall impression that is evoked when reading the Annals is a very dark one: cruel, incapable emperors stifling the freedom of the res publica and of the members of the ordo senatorius in particular. And, as in the Histories, Tacitus pays significant attention to revolts within the Empire and to the constant threat of civil war.56 Furthermore, Tacitus draws a distinct line between what is usually called the Republic and the Principate (Ann. 1.4.1): igitur uerso ciuitatis statu nihil usquam prisci et integri moris: omnes exuta aequalitate iussa principis aspectare, nulla in praesens formidine, dum Augustus aetate ualidus seque et domum et pacem sustentauit.57 The country had been transformed, and there was nothing left of the old fine character. Equality was a thing of the past, all eyes watched for imperial commands. Nobody had any immediate worries as long as Augustus retained his physical powers, and kept himself going, and his House, and the peace.58 Of course, this passage could be read as a basic criticism of the Principate as the new constitution of the Roman State. It is often conceived as such in contemporary scholarship, which usually claims that towards the end of his life Tacitus became rather pessimistic regarding the behaviour of Trajan or even Hadrian. If the Annals, or at least a part of them, were composed under the 54 Beck 1998, 123. 55 Syme 1969, 200; but see O’Gorman (2000, 178–83), who interprets this statement as an (p. 182) “… ironic commentary on the new regime and on the position of the historian.” 56 On the centrality of civil war in Tacitus’ historiographical project, see Ash 2019, 353–6. 57 Text of the Annals is from Heubner 1994, unless otherwise noted. 58 Translations of the Annals are from Grant 1996, here with some modifications.

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    Principate of Hadrian,59 this could be an attractive interpretation, because in the Historia Augusta Hadrian is said to have killed four consulars immediately after his accession (D.C. 69.2.5; HA Hadr. 7.1–2; 9.3).60 However, it seems unlikely that Tacitus would use the history of the Julio-Claudian dynasty in order to make general statements about the Principate of his own lifetime; even more so considering Tacitus’ personal position and career, since he – as a homo nouus – owed both to the protection of the emperors and the recommendations of members of their inner circles. A more likely interpretation seems to be that he praised the emperor of his own lifetime by casting shadows on previous emperors.61 There are some hints which might support such an interpretation in the extant parts of the text. Firstly, Tacitus evidently began the account of the deeds of each new emperor with a statement about the first misdeed committed by him. At least this is true for Tiberius (Ann. 1.6.1: primum facinus noui principatus fuit Postumi Agrippae caedes, “The new reign’s first crime was the assassination of Agrippa Postumus”) and Nero (Ann. 13.1.1: prima nouo principatu mors Iunii Silani proconsulis Asiae, “The first casualty of the new reign was the governor of Asia, Marcus Junius Silanus”), the only emperors whose successions are preserved in the extant part of the Annals. Whether he did the same with respect to the other emperors in the lost parts of the Annals is of course unknown, but the negative portrayal of Tiberius is indeed striking against the background that he treated the senate very respectfully.62 Furthermore, Tacitus maintains that there are positive examples not only in the past but also in his own present, examples which should be imitated and are in competition with the past (Ann. 3.55.5): nec omnia apud priores meliora, sed nostra quoque aetas multa laudis et artium imitanda posteris tulit. uerum haec nobis maiores certamina ex honesto maneant, “Not, however, that earlier times were better than ours in every way – our own epoch has produced moral and intellectual achievements for our descendants to copy. And such honourable rivalry with the past is a fine thing”. In addition, Tacitus distinguishes, at least in my view, three temporal stages. The first is his own lifetime (nostra aetas), the second is the past about which he gives an account in his work, and finally there is the remote past, which is the time before the fall of the Republic and establishment of the Principate.63 59 60 61 62 63

    Benario 2012, 104–5. Premerstein 1908; Christ 2002, 318–9; Fündling 2006, 457–65; 524. For Tacitus’ staging of Tiberius, see Baar 1990, 201–24. Ruffing 2010, 203–4. On the transformation of the Roman state and its implications for historiography, see Marincola 1999.

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    This remote past is described by means of adjectives like uetus, “of old”, (e.g. Ann. 4.32.1: ueteres populi Romani res) and priscus, “ancient”, (e.g. Ann. 1.4.1: prisci et integri moris). By attributing the behaviour of the emperor and the elites – the ordo senatorius and the ordo equester – to specific temporal stages, he makes a distinction between past(s) and present. This is the same mechanism that he used already in the Agricola, as demonstrated above. With this in mind, it becomes possible to regard his descriptions of the elites and the emperors of earlier times as related only to their specific past and not to his own experience under Trajan and Hadrian. For instance, his praise of the deeds accomplished during the Roman Republic serves to characterise the times of Tiberius in particular, as seen in a longer passage in book four of the Annals (4.32–33): pleraque eorum quae rettuli quaeque referam parua forsitan et leuia memoratu uideri non nescius sum: sed nemo annales nostros cum scriptura eorum contenderit, qui ueteres populi Romani res composuere. ingentia illi bella, expugnationes urbium, fusos captosque reges aut, si quando ad interna praeuerterent, discordias consulum aduersum tribunos, agrarias frumentariasque leges, plebis et optimatium certamina libero egressu memorabant: nobis in arto et inglorius labor; immota quippe aut modice lacessita pax, maestae urbis res, et princeps proferendi imperi incuriosus erat. non tamen sine usu fuerit introspicere illa primo aspectu leuia, ex quis magnarum saepe rerum motus oriuntur. nam cunctas nationes et urbes populus aut primores aut singuli regunt: delecta ex iis et consciata rei publicae forma laudari facilius quam euenire, uel, si euenit, haud diuturna esse potest. igitur ut olim, plebe ualida uel cum patres pollerent, noscenda uulgi natura et quibus modis temperanter haberetur, senatusque et optimatium ingenia qui maxime perdidicerant, callidi temporum et sapientes credebantur, sic conuerso statu neque alia re Romana quam si unus imperitet,64 haec conquiri tradique in rem fuerit, quia pauci prudentia honesta ab deterioribus, utilia ab noxiis discernunt, plures aliorum euentis docentur. ceterum ut profutura, ita minimum oblectationis adferunt. nam situs gentium, uarietates proeliorum, clari ducum exitus retinent ac redintegrant legentium animum: nos saeua iussa, continuas accusationes, fallaces amicitias, perniciem innocentium et easdem exitii causas coniungimus, obuia rerum similitudine et satietate. tum quod antiquis scriptoribus 64 Or, with Heubner 1994, sic conuerso statu neque alia rerum quam si unus imperitet. salute add. Bringmann. On the passage, see Moles 1998.

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    rarus obtrectator, neque refert cuiusquam Punicas Romanasue acies laetius extuleris: at multorum, qui Tiberio regente poenam uel infamias subiere, posteri manent, utque familiae ipsae iam exstinctae sint, reperies qui ob similitudinem morum aliena malefacta sibi obiectari putent. etiam gloria ac uirtus infensos habet, ut nimis ex propinquo diuersa arguens. I am aware that much of what I have described, and shall describe, may seem unimportant and trivial. But my chronicle is quite a different matter from histories of early Rome. Their subjects were great wars, cities stormed, kings routed and captured. Or, if home affairs were their choice, they could turn freely to conflicts of consuls with tribunes, to land- and corn-laws, feuds of conservatives and commons. Mine, on the other hand, is a circumscribed, inglorious field. Peace was scarcely broken – if at all. Rome was plunged in gloom, the ruler uninterested in expanding the empire. Yet even apparently insignificant events such as these are worth examination. For they often cause major historical developments. This is so whether a country (or city) is a democracy, an oligarchy, or an autocracy. For it is always one or the other  – a mixture of the three is easier to applaud than to achieve, and besides, even when achieved, it cannot last long. When there was democracy, it was necessary to understand the character of the masses and how to control them. When the senate was in power, those who knew best its mind – the mind of the oligarchs – were considered the wisest experts on contemporary events. Similarly, now that Rome has virtually been transformed into an autocracy, the investigation and record of these details concerning the autocrat may prove useful. Indeed, it is from such studies – from the experience of others – that most men learn to distinguish right and wrong, advantage and disadvantage. Few can tell them apart instinctively. So these accounts have their uses. But they are distasteful. What interests and stimulates readers is a geographical description, the changing fortune of a battle, the glorious death of a commander. My themes on the other hand concern cruel orders, unremitting accusations, treacherous friendships, innocent men ruined – a conspicuously monotonous glut of downfalls and their monotonous causes. Besides, whereas the ancient historian has few critics – nobody minds if he over-praises the Carthaginian (or Roman) army  – the men punished or disgraced under Tiberius have numerous descendants living today. And even when the families are extinct, some will think, if their own habits are similar, that the mention of another’s crime is directed against them. Even glory and merit make enemies – by showing their opposites in too sharp and critical relief.

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    The passage deals with the Julio-Claudian dynasty in general and the age of Tiberius in particular. It seems very unlikely that it is to be interpreted as a general observation on how the emperor behaved in Tacitus’ own time. Another point, which might confirm this interpretation, is the styling of the imperial elite of the past. Indeed, the members of the senate and their actions are described in a very negative manner by Tacitus, e.g. when he describes the actions of the senate regarding the murders committed by Nero (Ann. 14.64.3): dona ob haec templis decreta que ad finem memorabimus? quicumque casus temporum illorum nobis uel aliis auctoribus noscent, praesumptum habeant, quotiens fugas et caedes iussit princeps, totiens grates deis actas, quaeque rerum secundarum olim, tum publicae cladis insignia fuisse. neque tamen silebimus, si quod senatus consultum adulatione nouum aut patientia postremum fuit. How long must I go on recording the thank-offerings in temples on such occasions? Every reader about that epoch, in my own work or others, can assume that the gods were thanked every time the emperor ordered a banishment or murder; and, conversely, that happenings once regarded joyfully were now treated as national disasters. Nevertheless, when any senatorial decree reaches new depths of sycophancy or abasement, I will not leave it unrecorded. It seems quite impossible that this passage is meant as a criticism of his own times, because the senators were his audience and he himself held a prominent position among the ranks of the senate as consular and former proconsul of Asia. If this is true, the question arises why and how he was able to distinguish the imperial past from his own imperial present, in which the Roman state was also in the hands of an emperor. One reason, I believe, is the presumed mixture of principatus ac libertas, which, according to Tacitus, was achieved by Nerva (Agr. 3.1). Trajan, instead, presented himself as a ciuilis princeps from the very beginning of his Principate, as a citizen among others and sharply distinguished from Domitian.65 This change in how the emperor treated the senatorial elite is visible also in the correspondence of Pliny the Younger. The senators could have the impression that the senate made decisions, although 65

    Strobel 2010, 193–207; esp. p. 204: “Der Kontinuität im Faktischen stand nur der Wandel im Atmosphärischen gegenüber. Doch dieser war für die Senatoren und damit für die Elite des Reiches in ihrer Wahrnehmung entscheidend.”

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    in reality they were made by the emperor himself and his entourage.66 This point, which is stressed by Strobel, is an important one, because “der Wandel im Atmosphärischen” made another self-staging possible: Trajan became the Optimus Princeps. The styling of Trajan as the Optimus Princeps obviously changed the relationship between the senators and the emperor, since it portrayed him as the opposite of a citizen among other citizens. Indeed, his selfstaging changed in this period and, due to his role as imperator inuictus, he became a living god, which is clearly shown on Trajan’s column, the triumphal arc in Beneventum, and the forum Traiani in Rome.67 Even though this development was visible at an earlier stage of his reign, there is no sign that Tacitus criticised Trajan. On the contrary, he remained a propagandist of the regime who harnessed the rewards for his loyalty, although – as he was certainly no political novice – he must have seen and understood what was going on. Pliny the Younger, too, in spite of whatever misgivings he might have had about the development of the emperor’s position, clearly understood that Trajan was to be presented as the source of all good things. Furthermore, the senators had some freedom to decide within certain realms, did not have to fear for their own lives, and were not under strict imperial surveillance regarding the administration of the provinces, as they had been under Domitian.68 However, when looking at the extant Annals it becomes evident that the atmospheric change – at least in contrast to the Julio-Claudian dynasty as sketched by Tacitus – was also a historical reality. Thus, his latest work can be seen as an yet another effort to brighten his own times. 3

    Conclusions: The Tacitean Colour Scheme Revisited

    If the interpretation offered in this paper has some merit, Tacitus is to be seen neither as a Machiavellian-realist, a “Black Tacitus”, nor as a revolutionistrepublican, a “Red Tacitus”, nor as a pragmatic “Pink Tacitus”. He was a newcomer within the senatorial elite who gained the highest positions in a period that saw major changes in the political landscape of the Roman Empire. Evidently, he was able to collect enough social and political capital to have a successful career, which for a newcomer and under the conditions of the time was possible only through the goodwill of the emperor and the support of leading senators within the emperor’s closest circle. His literary efforts are also to be 66 67 68

    Eck 2017, 8. Strobel 2010, 304–37. Eck 2017, 8–9.

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    seen in this context, since writing was one way to demonstrate his belonging to the imperial elite. This is all the more true, since he used historiography (and as a consequence the past) as a medium with which to promote an understanding of the new regime as a time of freedom, although the members of the elite were evidently perfectly aware that the emperor was the only source of political and social power. However, Trajan and, to a certain degree, also his faithful partisan Tacitus gave them the possibility to conceive of the new reign as a new era of senatorial freedom, even though Nerva’s successor reinforced the autocratic elements of the Principate to a much higher degree than his predecessor Domitian had ever done.69 Trajan was in fact extremely successful in corroborating this form of imperial autocracy, as seen by the fact that from his reign onwards imperial acclamations in the senate were made through the words felicior Augusto, melior Traiano (“more fortunate than Augustus, more virtuous than Trajan”, Eutrop. 8.5.3). In order to acquire and maintain a high position within the senatorial elite, Tacitus had to be a supporter of the system, not a critic. That he went so far as to use the keywords of imperial propaganda in his usage of the past gives every reason to believe that he was a propagandist of the new regime. Thus, if it is appropriate to use a colour code for the historiographer, one should add a further, fourth code, namely the “Purple Tacitus”.

    Acknowledgements

    I would like to express my gratitude to Rachel Lilley Love, Arne Jönsson, and Aske Damtoft Poulsen for their critical comments, hints and, last but not least, for improving my English. Bibliography Alföldy, G. (2011). Römische Sozialgeschichte, 4th ed., Wiesbaden. Arena, V. (2012). Libertas and the Practice of Politics in the Late Roman Republic, Cambridge & New York. Ash, R. (2019). “Civilis rabies usque in exitium (Histories 3.80.2): Tacitus and the Evolving Trope of Republican Civil War during the Principate”, in C.H. Lange & F.J. Vervaet (eds.), The Historiography of Late Republican Civil War (Leiden & Boston): 353–375. Baar, M. (1990). Das Bild des Kaisers Tiberius bei Tacitus, Sueton und Cassius Dio, Stuttgart. 69

    Strobel 2010, 304–5; Eck 2017, 3–4.

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    Beck, J.-W. (1998). Germania – Agricola. Zwei Kapitel zu Tacitus’ zwei kleinen Schriften: Untersuchungen zu ihrer Intention und Datierung sowie zur Entwicklung ihres Verfassers, Hildesheim. Benario, H.W. (2012). “The Annals”, in V.E. Pagán (ed.), A Companion to Tacitus (Oxford & Malden, MA): 101–122. Bichler, R. (2009/2016). “Probleme und Grenzen der Rekonstruktion von Ereignissen am Beispiel antiker Schlachtbeschreibungen”, in R. Rollinger & K. Ruffing (eds.), Reinhold Bichler. Historiographie – Ethnographie – Utopie. Gesammelte Schriften, Teil 4. Studien zur griechischen Historiographie (Wiesbaden): 43–66. (orig. published as “Probleme und Grenzen der Rekonstruktion von Ereignissen am Beispiel antiker Schlachtbeschreibungen. Zur Fragestellung im Rahmen des Generalthemas der Tagung”, in M. Fitzenreiter (ed.), Das Ereignis. Geschichtsschreibung zwischen Vorfall und Befund (London): 17–34). Birley, A.R. (transl.) (1999). Tacitus: Agricola and Germania, Oxford & New York. Birley, A.R. (2000). “The Life and Death of Cornelius Tacitus”, Historia 49, 230–247. Christ, K. (2002). Geschichte der römischen Kaiserzeit: von Augustus bis zu Konstantin, 4th ed., Munich. Eck, W. (2009). “Vespasian und die senatorische Führungsschicht des Reiches”, in L. Capogrossi Colognesi & E. Tassi Scandone (eds.), La Lex de Imperio Vespasiano e la Roma dei Flavi (Atti del Convegno, 20–22 novembre 2008) (Rome): 231–257. Eck, W. (2017). “Traian: Bild und Realität einer großen Herrscherpersönlichkeit”, in F. Mitthof & G. Schörner (eds.), Columna Traiani: Traianssäule – Siegesmonument und Kriegsbericht in Bildern (Vienna): 3–13. Fein, S. (1994). Die Beziehung der Kaiser Trajan und Hadrian zu den litterati, Stuttgart. Fündling, G. (2006). Kommentar zur Vita Hadriani der Historia Augusta Bd. 2, Bonn. Fyfe, W.H. & Levene, D.S. (transl.) (1997). Tacitus: The Histories, Oxford & New York. Gehrke, H.-J. (1994). “Mythos, Geschichte, Politik – antik und modern”, Saeculum 45, 239–264. Gehrke, H.-J. (2004). “Was ist Vergangenheit?”, in Ch. Ulf (ed.), Der neue Streit um Troja: Eine Bilanz (Munich): 62–80. Gehrke, H.-J. (2014). Geschichte als Element antiker Kultur: Die Griechen und ihre Geschichte(n), Berlin & Boston. Grant, M. (transl.) (1996). Tacitus: The Annals of Imperial Rome, rev. ed., London. Günther, S. (2018). “In die Falle getappt!? Die Tacitus-Falle als Diskursphänomen in Volksrepublik China”, Gymnasium 125, 57–62. Heubner, H. (1978). P. Cornelii Taciti libri qui supersunt – Tom. II, Fasc. 1: Historiarum libri, Stuttgart. Heubner, H. (1994). P. Cornelii Taciti libri qui supersunt – Tom. I: Ab Excessu Divi Augusti, rev. ed., Stuttgart & Leipzig. Kapust, D. (2012). “Tacitus and Political Thought”, in V.E. Pagán (ed.), A Companion to Tacitus, (Oxford & Malden, MA): 504–528.

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    Kroll, W. (1918). “Iunius (149)”, Realencyclopädie der Classischen Altertumswissenschaft, vol. 10.1, 1083–1084. Marincola, J. (1999). “Tacitus’ Prefaces and the Decline of Imperial Historiography”, Latomus 58, 391–404. Master, J. (2012). “The Histories”, in V.E. Pagán (ed.), A Companion to Tacitus (Oxford & Malden, MA): 84–100. Master, J. (2016). Provincial Soldiers and Imperial Instability in the Histories of Tacitus, Ann Arbor. Moles, J. (1998). “Cry Freedom: Tacitus Annals 4.32–35”, Histos 2, 95–184. Morelli, U. (2014). Domiziano: Fine di una dinastia, Wiesbaden. Niggemann, U. & Ruffing, K. (2011). “Einleitung”, in U. Niggemann & K. Ruffing (eds.), Antike als Modell in Nordamerika? Konstruktion und Verargumentierung 1763–1809 (Munich): 5–21. O’Gorman, E. (2000). Irony and Misreading in the Annals of Tacitus, Cambridge. Premerstein, A. von. (1908). Das Attentat der Konsulare auf Hadrian im Jahre 118 n. Chr., Leipzig. Ruffing, K. (2010). “Der römische Kaiser im 3. Jh. n. Chr.”, in G.B. Lanfranchi & R. Rollinger (eds.), Concepts of Kingship in Antiquity: Proceedings of the European Science Foundation Exploratory Workshop Held in Padova, November 28th–December 1st, 2007 (Padua): 197–208. Sailor, D. (2012). “The Agricola”, in V.E. Pagán (ed.), A Companion to Tacitus (Oxford & Malden, MA): 23–44. Schmal, S. (2016). Tacitus, 4th ed., Hildesheim. Strobel, K. (2010). Kaiser Traian: Eine Epoche der Weltgeschichte, Regensburg. Strunk, T.E. (2017). History after Liberty: Tacitus on Tyrants, Sycophants, and Republicans, Ann Arbor. Syme, R. (1958). Tacitus, 2. vols., Oxford. Syme, R. (1969). “Tacitus und seine politische Einstellung”, in V. Pöschl (ed.), Tacitus (Darmstadt): 177–207. Walter, U. (2012). “Über Tacitus zu sich selbst: Golo Mann und die römische Antike”, Antike und Abendland 58, 1–15. Whitton, C. (2018). “Quintilian, Pliny, Tacitus”, in A. König & C. Whitton (eds.), Roman Literature under Nerva, Trajan and Hadrian: Literary Interactions, AD 96–138 (Cambridge): 37–62. Wiegels, R. (2018). “Sine ira et studio? – Germanicus und die Germanenkriege in der antiken Überlieferung”, in S. Burmeister & S. Ortisi (eds.), Phantom Germanicus: Spurensuche zwischen historischer Überlieferung und archäologischem Befund (Rahden): 11–30.

    Part 2 Intertextuality and Intratextuality



    Chapter 4

    “Making History”: Constructive Wonder (aka Quellenforschung) and the Composition of Caesar’s Gallic War (Thanks to Labienus and Polybius) Christopher B. Krebs 1

    Introduction Cäsar schlug die Gallier. Hatte er nicht wenigstens einen Koch bei sich?

    The customary shorthand, both ancient and modern, notwithstanding, Caesar did not conquer Gaul all by himself, as Bertold Brecht queried with his typically realistic pith.1 Amongst those evidently playing a major role in the conquest, none outranks Titus Labienus, who served Caesar as legatus pro praetore from 58 until 50 (all dates will be BC), distinguished himself time and again as his most dependable commander, and was, in consequence, perhaps, put in charge of Gallia Cisalpina in 50.2 “Evidently”, because, unlike the cook – or cooks, rather – virtually all legionaries, (often equestrian) administrators, and many legati even, Labienus’ deeds during the Gallic war shine off several pages of the Gallic War.3 On more than one occasion, he alone, far from his proconsul, won the day: hoc negotio confecto Labienus reuertitur Agedincum … inde 1 B. Brecht, “Fragen eines lesenden Arbeiters”. On Brecht’s Caesar, see Christ 1994, 252–5. The practice originates in Caesar’s self-presentation (e.g. BG 2.20.1): Caesari omnia uno tempore erant agenda: uexillum proponendum, … signum tuba dandum; ab opere reuocandi milites; … acies instruenda, “Caesar had to do all at once: to display the banner, … to sound the trumpet; to call back the soldiers from the fieldwork; … to array the battle line”. Riggsby (2006, 197–202) offers the necessary contextualisation. All translations are my own unless otherwise noted. 2 Labienus is first mentioned at BG 1.10.3; but the two men may have served together some twenty years before under P. Servilius in Cilicia (Syme 1938, 119; Gelzer 1921/1968, 45; Tyrell 1970 is sceptical). His appointment in Gallia Cisalpina: Hirt. 8.52.2. Welch (1998, 98–102) surveys his accomplishments, which Stringer 2017 reexamines with regard to his relationship to Caesar. Tyrell 1970 still provides the most comprehensive biography. 3 Caesar rarely acknowledges administrators such as G. Fufius Cita (BG 7.4.3; cf. Labisch 1975, 115–21). On his preference for knights in administrative positions of significance, see Malitz 1987, 5–7; on his representation of the legati, see Welch 1998. It will matter little for my purposes that Labienus may have earned more credit even than is given him, as Plut. Caes. 18.2 suggests (with Pelling 2011, ad loc., to which add Ebert 1909, 24–5). I shall use “Gallic war” in

    © Christopher B. Krebs, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004445086_006

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    cum omnibus copiis ad Caesarem peruenit (“Upon completion of this operation, Labienus returned to Agedincum … from there he reached Caesar with all his troops”, 7.62.10). Caesar’s separation from Labienus and others, such as Sulpicius Galba (3.1–6), Quintus Cicero (6.35–42), and Gaius Curio (BC 2.23–30, 33–7), whose deeds he recounts in the Gallic and Civil Wars, has naturally raised the question of the sources behind his narrative.4 He himself provides a clue in the context of Cotta and Sabinus’ catastrophic loss to Ambiorix during the fifth year of the Gallic war (5.47.4): Labienus interitu Sabini et caede cohortium cognita  … litteras Caesari remittit quanto cum periculo legionem ex hibernis educturus esset; rem gestam in Eburonibus perscribit; docet omnes equitatus peditatusque copias Treuerorum tria milia passuum longe ab suis castris consedisse. When Labienus learned of Sabinus’ death and the slaughter of the cohorts, he wrote back to Caesar a letter detailing how great would be the danger of leading the legion out of its winter quarters; he gave an account of the developments among the Eburones; and he informed him that all the troops of the Treveri, both cavalry and infantry, had set up camp three miles away from his own camp. Such communiqués routinely served as the means of communication not only within the field of operations between legates and their commanders but also between the latter and the senate in Rome, as the Gallic War itself testifies (2.35.4, 4.38.5, 7.90.7).5 They were quickly and plausibly identified as Caesar’s source, and all the more so for Asinius Pollio’s accidental attestation (apud Suet. Iul. 56.4): parum diligenter parumque integra ueritate compositos putat (sc. commentarios), cum Caesar pleraque et quae per alios erant gesta temere reference to the campaigns, “Gallic War” (as well as commentarii) in reference to his account; all unspecified numerical references are to the Gallic War. 4 Rambaud (1966, 51–6) helpfully lists the various episodes in the commentarii. 5 Cf. the famous opening (1.7.1): Caesari cum id nuntiatum esset, eos per prouinciam nostram iter facere conari, maturat ab urbe proficisci, “As soon as it was reported to Caesar that they were trying to march through our province, he hastened his departure from the city”. Evidence is collated in Riepl (1913, 430–7), and amplified and discussed with regard to Caesar by Rambaud (1966, 45–96). Osgood 2009 reflects on the military implications of Roman means of communication, on which, generally, see Kolb 2000.

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    crediderit et quae per se, uel consulto uel etiam memoria lapsus perperam ediderit. He believed [the commentarii] to be composed with too little care and insufficient regard for the truth, since Caesar repeatedly either believed rashly what others had done or gave a mistaken account of what he himself had done, be it intentionally or also from lapse of memory. But if the commentarii include parts composed from reports by members of the entourage, did Caesar write his war accounts – to misappropriate the famous dictum – in the same way as he fought his wars?6 Or, put with the help of a nineteenth-century dissertation that addresses the Gallic War in particular (on which I shall focus too): C.J. Caesar num in bello Gallico enarrando nonnulla e fontibus transscripserit? (“Did Caesar in writing the Gallic War transcribe any parts from his sources?”). Often translated as “the study of sources”, Quellenforschung came into its own during the nineteenth century both as a historical and a philological method. The former ultimately investigates the historical veracity of any given source (and is therefore also referred to as “source criticism”). To that purpose, it often relies on the latter, which inquires into a text’s genesis, its underlying source(s). The philological method was, back in its heyday, carried forward partly by its “parasitic similarity” to the stemmatic method in textual criticism, partly by the long breath of the Romanticist (and Phil-Hellenic) passion for the recovery of the allegedly superior original.7 Both interests came to dominate Caesarian scholarship soon enough: the veracity of the commentarii as a historical source had been a concern ever since Pollio’s sceptical remarks quoted above; it moved front and centre, however, during the second half of 6 Quint. 10.4.114: tanta in eo (sc. Caesare) uis est, id acumen, ea concitatio, ut illum eodem animo dixisse quo bellauit appareat, “There is so much vigour in him (sc. Caesar), such acuteness, such energy, that it seems he spoke with the same mind as he fought”. The nineteenthcentury dissertation is Petersdorff 1879. 7 Muhlack 1988 investigates the intersection of the philological and historical methods, tracing the beginnings of the “historisch-kritische Methode der Quellenforschung” (p. 154) back to Humanistic times; Bloch’s discussion of La Critique in his Apologie pour l’Histoire is still illuminating and inspiring (1952, 48–79). Mansfeld & Runia (1997, 87–105) offer a superb discussion of the philological method in its parts and origins: they establish its parallel to the stemmatic model (87–9; elucidated further by Most 2016 [the quotation on p. 947]), highlight the centrality of the synopsis, and hint at the (Romanticist) infatuation with the “original” (99–101). Blumenberg, delicately sounding out the connotations of the imagery of the source, remarks (2012, 18): “Das Wasser der Quelle ist lauter; wer aus ihr schöpft, trübt sie”; cf. note 12 below.

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    the nineteenth century, as indicated by Rice Holmes’ 1899 discussion of “The Credibility of Caesar’s Narrative”, and it ultimately culminated in Rambaud’s brilliant 1953 study of L’art de la déformation historique dans les Commentaires de César.8 Others, partly intersecting with the inquiry into the historical accuracy, sifted Caesar’s writings along with the other texts of the so-called Corpus Caesarianum (the eighth book of the Gallic War by Hirtius and the three anonymously transmitted bella) in search of linguistic patterns that would allow for the identification of the anonymous authors (is the beginning of the Bellum Alexandrinum by Caesar’s hand?) and of any alien elements within Caesar’s own texts, such as the reported episodes mentioned above.9 They ultimately aimed at restoring to Caesar what was Caesar’s and excising from his texts whatever was not; and they joined forces with a similarly spirited form of textual criticism that questioned and emended any deviation from Caesar’s general practice (as extrapolated from those parts indubitably by his own hand).10 The shortcomings of this practice of Quellenforschung appeared only too quickly: its methodology plagued by arbitrariness (as the case below will exemplify), its claims often exaggerated or misguided, its goals narrow – “ein Irrweg”, thundered Schanz-Hosius, a little too harshly, perhaps.11 Consequently, many valuable contributions notwithstanding, Quellenforschung, inside as much as outside of Caesarian studies, fell out of favour, and some interesting questions along with it; and the latter were not asked again even when studies of intertextuality resumed much of the work of its predecessor, albeit in the name of artistry instead of authenticity.12 More recently, however, it has enjoyed a moderate comeback; and it is in the spirit of the New Quellenforschung that I shall revisit Labienus’ battle near the Seine (7.57–62) and more particularly the relation between (1) what (may have) happened on the ground, (2) its communication to Caesar, and (3) its ultimate

    8 Holmes 1899, 211–56. I review the scholarship on veracity in Krebs 2018a, 29–31. 9 Rambaud’s overview of Caesarian Quellenforschung (cf. note 5 above) is exemplary. On the Bellum Alexandrinum, see the equally learned discussion by Gärtner & Hausburg 2013. 10 For brief remarks on this attitude, which Rambaud piquantly styles “hypercritique pointilleuse” (1966, 9), see Grillo & Krebs 2018, 2–3. 11 “Es war ein Irrweg, wenn man wörtliche Berichte von Legaten aus den Commentarien herausschälen wollte” (Schanz-Hosius 1979, 339). 12 Note Pasquali’s 1942 Arte allusiva; Farrell (2005, 98–9 nn.2–3) shows the persistence of aestheticism in subsequent contributions. On the two methods: Conte (1981, 147), reviewing the seminal volume edited by West & Woodman in 1979, points (in unflattering terms) to the continuity. A detailed comparison of the two methods within classical philology would seem well worth the undertaking; Munari 2019, which came out after this paper was more than less completed, partly points the way.

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    transformation into a historical event within the Gallic War.13 My argument employs both the historical and the philological kind of Quellenforschung, the latter of which I shall call “constructive wonder”: not only to differentiate it from its next-of-kin source criticism, but also, and more significantly, to designate an open-minded (non-judgmental) inquiry into a (historical) text’s assembly of its constitutive elements that does not suffer from the typical flaws of Quellenforschung as outlined above. I shall begin with a reading of 7.57–62 that investigates its historicity and ultimately discerns echoes of Labienus’ voice. But, as the second part argues, it contains evidence of another “past” as well, viz. of Hannibal on the banks of the Rhone as narrated by Polybius (3.42– 43). The final part will explore Caesar’s different uses of these pasts – Polybius’ serving as a “source of inspiration” against Labienus’ report as a “source of facts” – and propose that “Labienus by the Seine” be read as paradigmatic of the composition of the commentarii in general and perhaps even the “making of history” as set out by Cicero in his de Oratore. 2

    A Battle by the Seine Reported by Labienus, Caesar’s Source of Facts

    Any interest in the historicity of Labienus’ campaign begins and ends with Caesar’s narrative; it is ultimately our only source for it.14 None of the later accounts of the Gallic war as much as mention it except for Cassius Dio; and he, in equal measure hasty and sketchy, cannot stir the historian’s heart (40.38.4): ὁ δὲ δὴ Λαβιῆνος τὴν νῆσον τὴν ἐν τῷ Σηκουανῷ ποταμῷ οὖσαν, τούς τε προκινδυνεύσαντας ἐν τῇ ἠπείρῳ κρατήσας καὶ τὴν διάβασιν πολλαχῇ ἅμα κατά τε τὸν ῥοῦν καὶ ἀνάπαλιν, ὅπως μὴ καθ᾽ ἓν περαιούμενος κωλυθῇ, ποιησάμενος, κατέσχε. 13 See the rigorous discussion with sharp terminology in Mansfeld-Ruina (1997, 64–120, esp. 106–9; see further Mansfeld 2010) and Levene (2010, 82–163, on “Sources and Intertexts”). The section “New Quellenforschung” on Diodorus Siculus in Hau, Meeus & Sheridan 2018 does not offer much by way of methodological reflection. The following develops ideas merely adumbrated in the pertinent section of my forthcoming commentary on BG 7. 14 Following Mansfeld-Ruina (1997, 108–9), I differentiate between (our) “source(s) for” the reconstruction of the campaign, the “source(s) of   ” Caesar in composing his episode, and (independent) “witnesses to” the campaign (e.g. the material record). For surveys of the ancient tradition of the Gallic conquest, see Sihler 1887, Gelzer 1955, and Le Bohec 1998, 86–9; more specifically on Cicero’s letters, see Sternkopf 1909.

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    Labienus, meanwhile, held the island in the river Sequana, after he had conquered its defenders on the nearer bank and crossed the river at many points at once, both downstream and upstream, so that he might not be prevented from crossing it at one spot. Nor is there any independent witness to much of it, what with the archaeological record consisting in no more than a sling-ball of lead inscribed with “T.Labi” found near Sens (Agedincum).15 What facts may then be gleaned from the Commentarius? After the first major battle of 52 over Avaricum, Caesar had dispatched his second-incommand along with four legions to deal with the tribes of the Senones and Parisii (7.34.2). Once there, Labienus marched from his base at Agedincum on the town of the Parisii, Lutetia, only to find himself blocked in the swamps by the Gallic leader Camulogenus (7.57): Lutetiam proficiscitur. id est oppidum Parisiorum, quod positum est in insula fluminis Sequanae  … [Camulogenus] cum animaduertisset perpetuam esse paludem, quae influeret in Sequanam atque illum omnem locum magnopere impediret, hic consedit nostrosque transitu prohibere instituit. He marched to Lutetia. This is a town of the Parisii, which is located on an island in the river Seine … When [Camulogenus] realised there was a continuous marsh that merges with the Seine and renders the whole place very difficult to pass, he encamped there and set about preventing our men from crossing. He then marched back the same way he had come, seized Metiosedum, another town on an island in the Seine, with the help of boats, crossed a speedily restored bridge, and then moved “downstream” on Lutetia again (eodem quo uenerat itinere Metiosedum peruenit … secundo flumine ad Lutetiam iter facere coepit, 7.58). Meanwhile, Lutetia was burned to the ground by Gallic hands, and Gallic troops moved in step with the Romans: profecti a palude ad ripas Sequanae e regione Lutetiae contra Labieni castra considunt (“advancing from the marsh to the banks of the Seine, they set up camp directly opposite to Lutetia against Labienus’ camp”, 7.58). Labienus then decided that it was imperative to return to his base at Agedincum. If the sack of Lutetia had been the objective of his campaign (as 15

    Sievers 2001, 238 (nr. 727); for a possible more recent find in Paris, see Poux & Guyard 1999.

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    some have suspected), its loss may well have figured in his reasoning. Caesar, however, proffers other reasons: that news of his own retreat from Gergovia and the defection of Rome’s heretofore staunchest ally, the Aedui, was making the rounds, emboldening others, such as the Bellovaci to the north(-east); that Labienus feared he might find himself wedged in between the latter and Camulogenus’ troops, and separated from his camp and baggage train by a “mighty river” (maximum flumen) to boot. To traverse the river once more he devised a diversionary stratagem (7.60): dividing his troops, he sent one small contingent stealthily four miles downstream with the boats from Metiosedum (quattuor milia passuum secundo flumine silentio progredi ibique se exspectari iubet); five cohorts were to stay at the camp; and another five cohorts were to march upstream as noisily as possible to suggest heedless flight (quinque eiusdem legionis reliquas de media nocte cum omnibus impedimentis aduerso flumine magno tumultu proficisci imperat). He himself then marched with three legions in silence to where he had sent the ships. If Labienus hoped to distract the Gallic army from his crossing with his three legions, he was disappointed; if he hoped to gain numeric superiority by confronting with his three legions a Gallic army that had been divided equally, he was disappointed once more. For the Gauls learned not only of the Romans’ three contingents but also of their respective strengths, so that, when they divided their army into three parts, they dispatched the largest contingent against Labienus (reliquas copias contra Labienum duxerunt, 7.61). The ensuing battle was fierce, uncertain of outcome, and long; but Labienus, helped by a fortuitous storm, carried the day in the end, headed back to Agedincum, thence to Caesar. Neither the site of the battle nor the site of the Roman camp has been located securely; but by and large, the topography around the Seine accommodates the narrative (cf. the map by Eugène Stoffel), as can be gleaned from modern retellings that supply additional information, such as the initial Roman route downstream along the Seine’s left bank and the position of the “swamp” some twenty miles to the south of Paris, known as the Essonne, and the identification of Metiosedum with Melun.16 There is no topographical detail that cries 16 I follow the most commonly accepted reconstruction. There has been a “long-standing disagreement about the questions (a)  on which bank of the Seine L[abienus] initially marched and ultimately battled Camulogenus, (b) by which swamp he was blocked, and (c) which maximum flumen … he had to overcome (Holmes 1911, 775–85, reviewing the various scenarios, favours (a)  the left bank, (b)  the confluence with the Essonne, and (c) the Seine; but the right bank and other confluences have continued to draw support, and the debate, reviewed by Morel 1984, has carried on)” (Krebs Forthcoming: note on 7.57–62). It is not more than tangential to the interests I pursue here.

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    figure 4.1 Map of Labienus’ Campaign by the Seine, by French officer and archaeologist Eugène Georges Henri Céleste Stoffel (1821–1907)

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    out for an eyewitness, or any other information, for that matter; but the sketch of Camulogenus, “who had been called up to this leadership position because of his exceptional knowledge of military affairs, his being worn-out by age notwithstanding” (qui prope confectus aetate tamen propter singularem scientiam rei militaris ad eum est honorem euocatus, 7.57.3), indicates the kind of plausible intelligence obtained in loco.17 At this point of the examination, the historical criticism fully merges with the philological kind, as one may wonder whether Caesar’s narrative contains any linguistic evidence of his source(s). Petersdorff shared that wonder back in 1879 when he asked the question quoted (and translated) above: C.J. Caesar num in bello Gallico enarrando nonnulla e fontibus transscripserit. In the course of his investigation, he assembles all those passages “wherein not the deeds of Caesar but of his legates are treated in rich detail” (quibus res non a Caesare, sed a legatis eius gestae uberrime tractantur),18 and then presents all those expressions “which run counter to Caesar’s general style” (quae a Caesaris scribendi genere ualde abhorrent). In the case of “Labienus by the Seine”, he identifies thirteen expressions of note.19 Unfortunately, almost as many are variously problematic: be it that there are possible and sometimes preferable variants (iniectis [impositis], progrediatur [progrederetur], praesen­ tem adesse [adesse]), be it that they are merely unparalleled in Caesar’s works (in sense: suis aderat; in construction: proficisci imperat, praesentem adesse; or tout court: infideles, adquireret, tumultuari, etiamnunc). As for this latter group, not only are some instances attested elsewhere in Caesar;20 but even those that lack a parallel cannot arbitrarily be credited to Caesar’s source, since they might as well be Caesar’s, as are so many unparalleled expressions in indubitably “Caesarian” passages.21 But three instances meriting further attention remain: 57.4 (transitu), 58.2 (confieri), and 59.4 (ut … reduceret cogitabat); to which I shall find occasion to add 62.2 (secundissumorum proelium) and 62.3 (primo concursu). There are five expressions, of sliding significance, that occur repeatedly in the Labienus passages in books V, VI, and VII – but not elsewhere: The noun 17 18

    On intelligence in the BG, see Ezov 1996. Petersdorff (1897, 3) specifies them as 3.1.4–6.5, 17.1–19.5, 20.1–27.2; 5.26.1–37.6, 38.1–45.5, 48.8–49.4, 55.1–58.6; 6.7–8, 35.3–41.4; 7.57–62. 19 They are (1879, 14–5): 57.4 transitu, 58.2 confieri, 4 iniectis, 59.2 infideles, 4 ut … reduceret cogitabat, 4 acquireret, 60.3 proficisci imperat, 61.3 tumultuari, 5 progrediatur, 62.2 praesentem adesse, 4 concidissent, 5 suis aderat, 6 etiamnunc. 20 7.62.6 etiamnunc is, as Petersdorff knows (1879, 13), attested also at 6.40.6, but in a passage that he deems equally non-Caesarian. The same applies to the sense of concidere in 6.40.7 and 7.62.4. Both cases border on a petitio principii. 21 Petersdorff is aware of the problem (1879, 15): quamuis ibi (sc. the indubitably Caesarian parts) non desint offensiones.

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    transitus is employed in all three (5.55.2, 6.7.5, 7.57.4), and in the corpus as well; but not in any of the “Caesarian” parts.22 Similarly, the expression primo concurso is found only in the second and third episode, at 6.8.6 and 7.62.3, respectively,23 just as the construal of cogitare with ut occurs nowhere but in the first and third episode, at 5.57.1 and 7.59.4.24 The latter two expressions are all the more noteworthy, as they are exceedingly rare (which makes their iteration in the commentarii more significant). And all three cases differ from the phrases id est oppidum and magno sonitu, both of which are also attested twice, but in one and the same episode (7.57.1, 58.3; 60.4, 61.3); this makes them “local repetition[s]”, instances of which can be found in the “Caesarian” parts too.25 Then there are two noteworthy forms. In 7.58.2 the MSS all but unanimously report the elsewhere rarely but securely attested infinitive confieri, to which Caesar everywhere else prefers confici.26 It should be noted that in all those other instances of the infinitive (3.28.1, 6.34.5, 7.66.5) no significant variants are preserved: confieri might therefore well reflect the source’s choice, which 22 They are: neque tamen ulli ciuitati Germanorum persuaderi potuit ut Rhenum transiret, cum se bis expertos dicerent, Ariouisti bello et Tencterorum transitu: non esse amplius fortunam temptaturos (“Nor could he (sc. Indutiomarus) persuade any Germanic tribe to cross the Rhine; for they said that they had risked it twice, in the war of Ariovistus and in the context of the passage of the Tencteri; they were not going to tempt fate again”, 5.55.2); erat inter Labienum atque hostem difficili transitu flumen ripisque praeruptis (“Between Labienus and the enemy there was a river difficult of passage and of rugged banks”, 6.7.5); …  hic consedit nostrosque transitu prohibere instituit (“There he stopped and set about preventing our men from passing”, 7.57.4). In the corpus: Hirt. BG 8.13.1, 20.1, B. Alex. 14.5, 29.2, 40.2, 60.5. 23 illi, ubi praeter spem quos fugere credebant infestis signis ad se ire uiderunt, impetum modo ferre non potuerunt ac primo concursu in fugam coniecti proximas siluas petierunt (“When, contrary to their expectation, they saw those whom they believed to be fleeing, coming against them on the attack, they could not resist the assault at all and, forced to flee at the first charge, headed towards the woods nearby”, 6.8.6); primo concursu ab dextro cornu, ubi septima legio constiterat, hostes pelluntur atque in fugam coniciuntur (“With the first charge on the right wing, where the seventh legion had stopped, the enemies were driven away and turned to flee”, 7.62.3). It is overall very rare (TLL 4.0.116.28–30 [Burger]), but Livy has a penchant for it (“a military cliché”, Ogilvie on Livy 5.32.3). 24 Labienus … de suo ac legionis periculo nihil timebat; ne quam occasionem rei bene gerendae dimitteret, cogitabat (“Labienus … feared no danger for himself or his legion; (rather) he was thinking not to lose an occasion for a good operation”, 5.57.1); … neque iam, ut aliquid adquireret proelioque hostes lacesseret, sed ut incolumem exercitum Agedincum reduceret, cogitabat (“And by now he was not pondering anymore how he could gain anything or harm the enemy in battle; but how he could bring the army back safe to Agendicum”, 7.59.4). The construction is very rare: TLL 3.0.1473.20–30 [Elsperger]. 25 On “local repetitions”, see Frese 1900, 21. 26 TLL 4.0.194.61–68 [Hoppe].

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    escaped Caesar’s normally so watchful eye. Lastly, according to Varro (reported by Cassiod. de Orth. 7.150.10), Caesar advocated ‘i’ where usage vacillated between ‘i’ and ‘u’, and he made it standard. The manuscripts of the Gallic War support this largely.27 It is noteworthy, then, that in the Labienus episodes for four out of six pertinent words the alternative form is attested: 5.55.3 α finitumis, 57.1 α munitissumis (the spelling varies insignificantly), 57.3 α finitumas, and 6.8.6 α proxumas against 5.56.2 nouissimus and 58.1 finitimarum. This might, on balance, intimate that Caesar’s source did not share Caesar’s morphological predilection and that some of his forms made it into Caesar’s narrative. The second group, comprising confieri and secundissimorum, is variously problematic, and arbitrariness looms: for confieri might just be Caesar’s in a moment of inattention (quandoque bonus dormitat  – Caesar); and orthographical observations are notoriously liable to doubt, not the least because of the likely interference of secretaries and copyists. In consequence, neither anomaly would count for much by itself (or in tandem, even); but both gain in significance, if (a)  the criterion of distribution is taken into account (as I have done variously above), and if (b) they are viewed in conjunction with the first group.28 For the three expressions in the first group possess special significance due to their “distributive multiplicity”.29 While it is true, as Marc Bloch has reminded us,30 that “l’innocence d’une coïncidence” cannot ever be precluded, it is just as true that “la recherche historique … croise sa route avec la grande voie royale de la théorie des probabilités”: given that Labienus must have informed Caesar of his activities and most probably in writing, given further that Caesar’s style is characterised by idiosyncrasies that members of his staff did not share, the most economical explanation of the phrases that occur repeatedly and only in the Labienus episodes is as faint echoes of Labienus’ own voice. It is, paradoxically perhaps, their very faintness that increases that probability, as otherwise they might not have escaped Caesar’s sharp eyes and ears in his thorough rewriting of the episode (for Caesar’s voice, in this episode just as much as in others such, dominates, as Ehrenfried was right to insist).31 27

    By the most generous count, there are 37 instances in all of BG: curiously, virtually none occur in BG 1–4, their highest number by far is in BG 5, and most of the ‘u’ variants are attested in the α family (I am grateful to Didier Natalizi Baldi for help with accumulating the data); secundissumorum, however, is attested in the β family. 28 Farrell (2005, 104) calls this the “principle of reinforcement”. 29 Petersdorff is aware of its significance too (1879, 16–7). 30 Bloch 1952, 72. 31 Caesarem autem suo usum dicendi genere legatorum res gestas descripsisse, “but Caesar made use of his own style in describing the deeds of the legates” (Ehrenfried 1888, 7). The second part of his study offers a synopsis of the many parallels between the “Caesarian” parts and those owed to his legati.

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    These philological findings possess historical implications: first, they identify with near certainty Labienus as the source of Caesar when he was writing “Labienus by the Seine”; this, in turn, would seem to enhance, however minimally, the value of Caesar’s narrative as a source for the events, as they take us one man (and several steps) closer to the actual events in 52 near the Seine. 3

    With Help from Polybius, a Source of Inspiration

    There is no knowing, but one may (continue to) wonder, just how detailed and elaborate was Labienus’ communication; just as one may wonder whether Caesar, in composing this Einzelerzählung, relied on any other source – if not for facts then perhaps for inspiration. The latter is strongly suggested by a set of close parallels, linguistic as well as thematic, to Polybius’ narrative of Hannibal’s crossing of the Rhone river early in the Second Punic War: he too was confronted with Celtic tribes; he too resorted to a diversionary tactic. In more detail (3.42–43): Hannibal arrived in the vicinity of the Rhone river intending to cross (ποιεῖσθαι τὴν διάβασιν, 42.1). He acquired from the locals canoes and boats (ἐξηγόρασε παρ᾽ αὐτῶν τά τε μονόξυλα πλοῖα πάντα καὶ τοὺς λέμβους, 42.2), while also ordering logs to be made into additional canoes; every man worked hard “to depend upon himself for the chance of passage” (ἐν αὑτῷ δ᾽ ἔχειν τὰς τῆς διαβάσεως ἐλπίδας, 42.3). In the meantime, a large force of barbarians gathered on the opposite bank to prevent their crossing (πλῆθος ἡθροίσθη βαρβάρων χάριν τοῦ κωλύειν τὴν τῶν Καρχηδονίων διάβασιν, 42.4). Hannibal in consequence reasoned (συλλογιζόμενος ἐκ τῶν παρόντων) that crossing was impossible, and so was staying, as otherwise he would have to face the enemy on all sides (μὴ πανταχόθεν προσδέξηται τοὺς ὑπεναντίους, 42.5). On the third night, then, he sent off a portion of his army: advancing up the river bank for two hundred stades they reached a place where the river split and formed an island; there they waited (οἳ ποιησάμενοι τὴν πορείαν ἀντίοι τῷ ῥεύματι παρὰ τὸν ποταμὸν ἐπὶ διακόσια στάδια, παραγενόμενοι πρός τινα τόπον ἐν ᾧ συνέβαινε περί τι χωρίον νησίζον περισχίζεσθαι τὸν ποταμόν, ἐνταῦθα κατέμειναν, 42.7). They built pontoons and crossed over safely, and no one resisted (διεκομίσθησαν ἀσφαλῶς οὐδενὸς κωλύοντος, 42.8). There they rested and readied themselves as ordered (κατὰ τὸ συντεταγμένον, 42.9). On the fifth day, just before dawn (ὑπὸ τὴν ἑωθινὴν, 43.1), they snuck up on the Celts, while Hannibal prepared his own crossing. When the Celts noticed his maneuver, “they poured forth

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    from their camp, in no order and scattered, convinced they could handily prevent the Carthaginians’ landing” (ἀτάκτως ἐκ τοῦ χάρακος ἐξεχέοντο καὶ σποράδην, πεπεισμένοι κωλύειν εὐχερῶς τὴν ἀπόβασιν τῶν Καρχηδονίων, 43.5). Hannibal then ordered his secretly dispatched troops – informed of their arrival by smoke-signals, as ordered (κατὰ τὸ συντεταγμένον, again) – to attack the Celts on their blind side, and encouraged (παρεκάλει, 43.11) those with him to join the fight. The Celts, overwhelmed, quickly turned to flight (ταχέως τραπέντες ὥρμησαν πρὸς φυγήν, 43.12). Read against the account of Labienus’ battle by the Seine, the following parallels (some more, some less close) can be listed in typically synoptic fashion (and in order of appearance in Caesar’s account): 57.2 magnae copiae … conuenerunt (πλῆθος ἡθροίσθη βαρβάρων, 42.4); 57.4 nostros transitu prohibere (κωλύειν τὴν τῶν Καρχηδονίων διάβασιν, 42.4); 58.3 oppidum Senonum in insula Sequanae positum (περί τι χωρίον νησίζον περισχίζεσθαι τὸν ποταμόν, 42.7); 58.4 sine contentione oppido potitur (διεκομίσθησαν ἀσφαλῶς οὐδενὸς κωλύοντος, 42.8); 58.2 id difficilius confieri animaduertit + 59.3 longe aliud sibi consilium capiendum (συλλογιζόμενος ἐκ τῶν παρόντων, 42.5); 59.5 altera ex parte Bellouaci … instabant  … alteram Camulogenus tenebat (μὴ πανταχόθεν προσδέξηται τοὺς ὑπεναντίους, 42.5); 59.6 ab animi uirtute auxilium petendum (ἐν αὑτῷ δ᾽ ἔχειν τὰς τῆς διαβάσεως ἐλπίδας, 42.3); 60.1 ut ea quae imperasset diligenter industrieque administrarent (κατὰ τὸ συντεταγμένον, 42.9  +  43.6); quattuor milia passuum secundo flumine silentio progredi ibique se exspectari iubet (οἳ ποιησάμενοι τὴν πορείαν ἀντίοι τῷ ῥεύματι παρὰ τὸν ποταμὸν ἐπὶ διακόσια στάδια, παραγενόμενοι πρός τινα τόπον,  … , ἐνταῦθα κατέμειναν, 42.7); 60.3 conquirit etiam lintres (ἐξηγόρασε … τά τε μονόξυλα πλοῖα πάντα καὶ τοὺς λέμβους, 42.2); 61.3 sub lucem hostibus nuntiatur in castris Romanorum praeter consuetudinem tumultuari (οἱ μὲν προδιαβάντες ἐκ τοῦ πέραν ὑπὸ τὴν ἑωθινὴν προῆγον παρ᾽ αὐτὸν τὸν ποταμὸν ἐπὶ τοὺς ἀντίπερα βαρβάρους, 43.1); 62.2 milites cohortatus (παρεκάλει, 43.11); 62.4 tamen acerrime reliqui resistebant, nec dabat suspicionem fugae quisquam (ταχέως τραπέντες ὥρμησαν πρὸς φυγήν, 43.12). Five arguments can be adduced in favour of a particular relation between the two accounts. First, the number of identifiable echoes, thirteen or thereabouts, is in and of itself noteworthy, given the comparative brevity of both accounts (just about two Teubner pages each).32 Second, in at least four 32 Farrell (2005, 105) develops this statistical argument nicely: “even if it is possible that some very close correspondences between two texts arise by accident, the possibility seems vanishingly small that out of ten … or a hundred such correspondences, all of them came about by chance.” Cf. Bloch on “coincidence”, above p. 101.

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    instances, certain, mostly linguistic, peculiarities suggest that Caesar translates or otherwise responds to a Polybian expression: When the legionaries “proceed silently for four miles downstream there to await him”, the expression secundo flumine occurs here for the first time in Latin literature.33 Perhaps rather more surprisingly, it is also the first time Caesar feels the need to provide any such directional detail at all, even though he had travelled across and along rivers in every year of his proconsulship in Gaul.34 It may then be surmised that Polybius’ frequent mentions caused its first occurrence in the commentarii; the instances of the said detail within (the vicinity of) the Polybian episode are: 42.6 ἀντίοι τῷ ῥεύματι, 46.3 κατὰ ποταμοῦ, 46.5 κατὰ τοῦ ποταμοῦ, and 66.8 κατὰ ῥοῦν … ἐποιεῖτο τὴν πορείαν. But as the fuller quotation above reveals, Caesar would seem to have adapted rather more Polybian details: both authors provide exact distances (quattuor milia passuum; διακόσια στάδια), when neither had to; both specify that “there they waited” (ibique se exspectari; ἐνταῦθα κατέμειναν). Similarly, but more specifically even, when, at 61.3, “reports reached the enemy just before dawn”, the expression sub lucem is, once again, attested here for the first time in Latin literature (Caesar will employ it soon again, and so will Hirtius).35 It would seem highly likely that it renders 43.1 ὑπὸ τὴν ἑωθινήν (which is, in fact, a Polybian mannerism), and all the more given the eight instances in Polybius’ close reader, Livy.36 Additionally, when “a large force assembled … and [Camulogenus] set about preventing our men from crossing” (57.2–4), Polybius has yet again supplied detail and phrasing: 33 TLL 6.1.960.1 [Bacherler]. It should, however, be born in mind that Romans liked proverbs with rivers (Otto 138–40), such as aduerso, quod aiunt, flumine (“against, as they say, the river stream”, Fronto 113N). 34 Similarly telling is Caesar’s first mention of “hide covers” for siege towers: while “a standard feature in the Greek and Roman worlds (judging from Aeneas Tacticus and Vitruvius)”, they are only mentioned in his siege of Avaricum (atque has [scil. turres] coriis intexerant, “and they had covered those [scil. the towers] with skins”, 7.22.3), which in its entirety is modelled on Thucydides’ siege of Plataea, where they are mentioned too (καὶ προκαλύμματα εἶχε δέρσεις καὶ διφθέρας, “and it had skins and pieces of leather as coverings”, 2.75.5). See Krebs 2016, 6 (whence the quotation is taken). 35 The expression recurs at 83.7: ille ex castris prima uigilia egressus prope confecto sub lucem itinere post montem se occultauit militesque ex nocturno labore sese reficere iussit, “He left the encampment at the first watch [i.e. from 6 to 9 P.M.]; having almost completed the march by dawn, he hid himself behind the mountain and bid the soldiers rest from the nightly labour”; cf. 8.35.4 sub ipsam lucem (TLL 7.2.1907.61–64 [Ehlers]). 36 In Livy: 9.25.7, 21.57.7, 25.24.7 sub luce‹ m ›, 25.39.8, 28.26.11, 38.30.8, 42.64.8. There is a poetic tradition of the expression as well, starting with Verg. G. 1.445: aut ubi sub lucem densa inter nubila sese / diuersi rumpent radii, “or when, just before dawn, the rays will break among dense clouds and scatter”; but it almost certainly goes back to Arat. 866 ἠῶϑι πϱό (TLL 7.2.1907.61–64 [Ehlers]).

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    42.4 πλῆθος ἡθροίσθη βαρβάρων (magnae  … copiae conuenerunt) χάριν τοῦ κωλύειν τὴν τῶν Καρχηδονίων διάβασιν (nostrosque transitu prohibere instituit). The expression nostrosque transitu prohibere had already figured in the discussion of Labienus’ voice in the Caesarian narrative; if this reconstruction is correct, we might be able to discern three voices: while Caesar, Labienus, and Polybius all share the same motif, Caesar owes the specific term to his legatus. Third, there are various other motifs that the two accounts share:37 Both Labienus and Hannibal, in the face of a ready enemy and natural obstacles, realise there is no way forward (postquam id difficilius confieri animaduertit, 58.1; συλλογιζόμενος ἐκ τῶν παρόντων ὡς οὔτε διαβαίνειν μετὰ βίας δυνατὸν εἴη) and change course; they quickly assemble means of transportation (deprensis nauibus circiter quinquaginta celeriterque coniunctis; τὰ μὲν συμπηγνύντες τῶν ξύλων τὰ δὲ συνδεσμεύοντες ἐν ὀλίγῳ χρόνῳ), then cross over without encountering resistance (sine contentione, 58.4; οὐδενὸς κωλύοντος, 42.8).38 Hannibal’s decision was motivated in part by the fear “that he would have to await the enemy on all sides” (μὴ πανταχόθεν προσδέξηται τοὺς ὑπεναντίους, 42.5), which is a worry Caesar attributes to Labienus as well (59.5): namque altera ex parte Bellouaci … instabant, alteram Camulogenus parato atque instructo exercitu tenebat, “for the Bellovaci were pressing, while Camulogenus held the other side with his ready and ordered army”. Hannibal’s watercrafts are said to include both canoes and boats (τά τε μονόξυλα πλοῖα πάντα καὶ τοὺς λέμβους, 42.2; τοὺς μὲν λέμβους πεπληρωκὼς τῶν πελτοφόρων ἱππέων, τὰ δὲ μονόξυλα τῶν εὐκινητοτάτων πεζῶν, 43.2), just as Labienus acquires canoes in addition to boats (naues … singulas equitibus Romanis attribuit, … conquirit etiam lintres, 60.1–4).39 These parallels, and this is going to be my fourth argument, should be considered all the more noteworthy, as the two tactics are very different when all is 37

    I have listed above four further parallels that I shall not discuss as too vague or too clearly motivated in actualities: the respective remarks on the locations being islands, on how commands were (to be) met, on their reliance on themselves, and the commanders’ hortatory words. 38 Labienus will have another moment of realisation that a change of plan was necessary (7.59.3): tum Labienus tanta rerum commutatione longe aliud sibi capiendum consilium atque antea senserat intellegebat, “then Labienus, faced with such a great change of situation, realised that he had to make a plan very different from what he had thought before”. 39 If the commentarii were deemed more poetic than they commonly are, one might be tempted to understand etiam beyond its immediate context in the sense of “Labienus, too, just like Hannibal, acquired”; just as Ovid’s emphatic comment on Eurydice iamque iterum moriens (Met. 10.60) might be said to quip on her previous death in his partner in dialogue Virgil (G. 4.495–6): en iterum crudelia retro / fata uocant, conditque natantia lumina somnus, “Lo! The cruel fates call me back once again, and sleep buries my swimming eyes”.

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    said and done. In other words, the chances of Polybius and Caesar reporting of the two actions in such similar terms simply because the situations Hannibal and Labienus faced were more or less identical and so were their measures or because Labienus modelled his behaviour on Polybius’ representation of Hannibal’s action are very low.40 Lastly, Polybius has been shown to inspire Caesar elsewhere in the Gallic War, and he is a rather constant presence in the final commentarius, which indirectly renders it more probable that Caesar relied on him for this particular episode as well.41 I will limit myself to an iconic scene early on in the campaign, a Leitzitat, of sorts, to adapt Knauer’s helpful category.42 Caesar’s unprecedented conquest of the Cévennes is not only modelled on but also presented in a way to recall Hannibal’s ascent of the Alps (7.8.2–3): etsi mons Ceuenna  … durissimo tempore anni altissima niue iter impediebat, tamen discissa niue sex in altitudinem pedum atque ita uiis patefactis summo militum sudore ad fines Aruernorum peruenit. quibus oppressis inopinantibus, quod se Ceuenna ut muro munitos existimabant, ac ne singulari quidem umquam homini eo tempore anni semitae patuerant. Even though the range of the Cévennes  … at this most severe season of the year and with its snow piled up high hindered the march, he cut through the snow six feet deep, thus opening up the roads by the sweaty effort of his troops, and reached the borders of the Arverni. They were surprised and overwhelmed: for they thought themselves protected by the Cévennes as if by a wall, and never, not even for a single exceptional traveller, had the paths stood open at that time of year.

    40 I am grateful to Duncan MacRae for bringing this to my attention. For discussion of the problem of differentiation between (a) the repetition of events in real life (further complicated by the possibility that the historical agent modelled his behaviour on [the account of] an earlier agent) and (b) parallels between literary representations due to imitation, see esp. Woodman 1979 and 1983, Damon 2010, and the introduction to this volume. 41 Grillo 2017 argues that Caesar’s account of the defeat at Atuatuca, as suffered by Cotta and Sabinus, engages with Polybius’ description of the battle at Cannae, where the two consuls in charge, Paullus and Varro, argue similarly. I am hoping to offer a fuller account of Polybius and Caesar shortly. 42 Knauer 1964, 335. The following uses materials from my forthcoming commentary.

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    His styling the Cévennes a “wall” flags the model, as the same imagery, applied to the Alps, was a mainstay in the Hannibalic tradition.43 Both narratives stress the wintery conditions, the mountainous inaccessibility, the hard work involved in clearing the snow, and the enemy’s surprise, and they end with identical outcomes.44 The most revelatory detail, however, hides behind textual uncertainty, as the manuscripts offer both discussa niue and discissa niue. But discutere occurs once more in Caesar (BC 2.9.4) and in conjunction with nix repeatedly elsewhere: it is almost a commonplace.45 Discissa niue, on the other hand, is rather noteworthy, as the TLL does not provide an exact parallel, and Caesar does not use the verb anywhere else.46 It is therefore clearly the lectio difficilior, and it receives powerful support from the very same expression at Plb. 3.55.6, where, in the midst of a long digression on snow in the Alps, Hannibal is said to “have cut through … the snow” (διαμησάμενος τὴν … χιόνα). To return to our episode in question, if nothing else, Caesar’s “crossing of the Alps” increases the chances that Caesar turned to Polybius again, this time his account of Hannibal’s crossing of the Rhone, when he rewrote Labienus’ report of his battle by the Seine. 4

    The Edifice of History: From commentarii to res gestae

    Read in constructive wonder, Caesar’s write-up of “Labienus by the Seine” strongly suggests his use both of Labienus’ report as well as Polybius’ narrative of Hannibal’s crossing of the Rhone river. In conclusion, I shall briefly discuss 43

    The Alps are repeatedly styled a bulwark, possibly starting with Cato Orig. FRHist no. 5, F150 Alpes … muri uice tuebantur Italiam, similarly in Plb. 3.54.2 a “stronghold … of all of Italy”, ἀκροπόλεως … τῆς ὅλης Ἰταλίας. 44 For ne singulari quidem umquam homini (“never, not even a single man”), cf. Polybius’ discussion of other historians who stressed how the Alps “could not be crossed easily even by unencumbered foot soldiers”, μηδὲ πεζοὺς εὐζώνους εὐχερῶς ἂν διελθεῖν (3.47.9). To clear a path could only be done μετὰ πολλῆς ταλαιπωρίας (55.6) or, in Caesar’s words, summo militum sudore (α; labore β). When the Gauls are described as oppressi inopinantes, they find themselves in a situation similar to the Romans who were “confronted with this unexpected (παραδόξου) event [i.e. Hannibal’s arrival]” and “confounded”, διαταραχθέντες (Plb. 3.61.9). Soon after, the Arverni surround Vercingetorix, begging him ut suis fortunis consulat (8.4), with which one might want to compare the Romans’ asking Tiberius “to come to the aid of their state”, βοηθεῖν τοῖς ἰδίοις πράγμασιν (3.61.9). 45 TLL 5.1.1373.39–41 [Rubenbauer]; most notably in Lucan’s catalogue of prodigies (1.553– 554): ueteremque iugis nutantibus Alpes / discussere niuem, “the Alps dislodged the old snow / from their shaking ridges”. 46 TLL 5.1.1315.30 [Hofmann].

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    these two observations with regard to their (wider) historiographical as well as methodological implications. Given that Labienus’ actions by the Seine occurred in the absence of Caesar, and given that the former would have been expected to brief his commander, it is “in and of itself more than likely” that the said brief provided the basis for Caesar’s narrative within his commentarii rerum gestarum (as was their original title).47 It is just as likely that the said reliance on briefs was a fundamental aspect of Caesar’s modus scribendi at large, quite irrespective of whether, when composing the respective instalments of the Gallic War at the end of each campaign season, he drew on the reports of his legati to him or his own reports to the senate in Rome.48 In speaking of this “fundamental aspect”, I have adapted the building metaphor in Cicero’s famous discussion of the practice of Greek and Roman historiography (de Orat. 2.62–3, Antonius is speaking): nam quis nescit primam esse historiae legem, ne quid falsi dicere audeat? deinde ne quid ueri non audeat? ne quae suspicio gratiae sit in scribendo? ne quae simultatis? haec scilicet fundamenta nota sunt omnibus, ipsa autem exaedificatio posita est in rebus et uerbis. For who does not know that it is the first law of history not to dare to tell a falsehood: next, to dare by all means to tell the whole truth? Also, that there not be any suspicion of partiality in the historian’s writing, nor of personal animosity? These fundamentals are doubtless known to all. The ‘superstructure’, meanwhile, consists of facts and style. 47 The quotation is an excerpt from Hartz’s (1876, 203) review of Menge 1873: “Der Gedanke …, Cäsar habe hier (und vielleicht öfter …) den Bericht eines Legaten ohne wesentliche Veränderung aufgenommem, ist … an sich keineswegs unwahrscheinlich”; I obviously disagree on the “absence of major revisions” (cf. note 30). The argument that the original title was, at its core, commentarii rerum gestarum was first made by Kelsey 1905; it has found favour. In fact, Cicero’s (and to a lesser extent Hirtius’) discussion of Caesar’s commentarii all but certainly presupposes it (Krebs 2017). 48 More generally on “in che modo Cesare si servì dei sui rapporti al Senato nello stendere i Commentari”, see Pascucci 1933 (the quotation is on p. 18), whose views on the composition of the Gallic War are, however, both contradictory and untenable. In fact, the longstanding debate on the form of that composition, which Nipperdey identified as one of the quaestiones Caesarianae back in 1847, should have ended when Ebert made an all but irrefutable case for Caesar’s writing year by year in his exemplary 1909 dissertation. To his (and his predecessors’) many arguments, I should like to add (a) the sudden appearance of Lucretian language in BG 5 and Caesar’s response to Cicero’s de Oratore in BG 6 (as argued in Krebs 2013 and 2018b, respectively). Further on the foundational role of the reports, see Rambaud 1966, 45–96, esp. 86.

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    Obviously, the fundamenta here are the leges that define the proper handling of facts, not, strictly speaking, the facts themselves.49 But one of the cardinal points of the larger discussion is, in fact, that the historian to Cicero’s liking should enhance the historical account by adding to the core of indispensable facts verisimilar materials and stylistic polish, as appears in all desirable clarity earlier when Antonius criticises those historians “who, without any embellishments, have left behind simple chronicles of times, people, places, and deeds” (qui sine ullis ornamentis monumenta solum temporum, hominum, locorum gestarumque rerum reliquerunt, 2.53).50 I am suggesting, then, that Caesar’s use of Polybius may rather happily be described with what Cicero styles the exaedificatio; more particularly, that Caesar drew inspiration from the Greek historian as to what (additional) details, res, to include and how to phrase it (uerba). The Ciceronian discussion is adduced here simply because it allows me to capture, with contemporary terminology, Caesar’s differing uses of the two “pasts” in composing his Einzelerzählung; I am not suggesting (for now) that Cicero influenced Caesar directly (even though (a) the latter was well familiar with de Oratore, and (b) it has often been suggested that, starting with book 5, written at the end of the year in which de Oratore appeared, the Gallic War gains in literary sophistication), nor that this particular composition is as paradigmatic of the Gallic War in its entirety as is the use of Labienus’ report (even though (a) there is evidence of other Greek and Roman authors, especially historians, and the rhetorical system, and (b) it should be remembered that by juxtaposing in his title the modest commentarii with the historiographically more ambitious res gestae Caesar may advertise the affinity of his “notes” to “proper history” for all of the Gallic War).51 A well-established modern differentiation would seem to ensue swiftly: for the two texts at Caesar’s disposal might typically be designated as a “source”, in Labienus’ case, but an “allusive model” (or “intertext”) in the case of Polybius. Associated with these designations come differing hermeneutical expectations, which David Levene has recently expounded in the case of Livy:

    49

    I am here relying on Woodman’s interpretation (1988, 70–116, esp. 76–95). He has restated his case in 2011, in part against critics such as Northwood 2008. 50 Polybius (16.17.9, with Walbank) in passing alludes to three stages of historical writing: the “critical inquiry into the facts” (τὴν τῶν πραγμάτων ζήτησιν), “the organization of his material” (τὸν χειρισμὸν τῆς ὑποθέσεως), and “stylistic elegance” (τὴν τῆς λέξεως κατασκευήν). 51 On Caesar’s Sisenna, see Krebs 2014 (note 3 offers further bibliography); on Caesar and Plato, see Krebs 2018b. For Caesar and Thucydides, see the bibliography on p. 1 n.5 in Krebs 2016; cf. nn.41, 48. For more on how the title “invite[s readers] … to look at Caesar’s works not as history but with history in mind”, see Krebs 2017 (the quotation is on p. 210).

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    Identifying an ‘intertext’ implies that it [i.e. the intertext] was expected to be recognized by at least some of the readership: into one’s own text resonances and nuances from an earlier text are incorporated, inviting comparisons or contrasts between them, as old themes are reworked and developed in new ways. A ‘source’, on the other hand, is not usually deemed to work like that. When scholars examine Livy’s sources, and show how he is changing and adapting them, the usual implication is that we are, as it were, looking into Livy’s workshop.52 To distil this difference into two verbal expressions: Caesar, while (merely) drawing on the communiqué, (fully) engages with Polybius, whose treatment of Hannibal he has flagged earlier, and is now once again alluding to in order to enhance Labienus’ accomplishment by the Seine in the light of Hannibal’s feat by the Rhone. There are differences, of course: The communiqué is not only lost to us; it may also safely be assumed that Caesar did not expect anyone to ever compare his composition to the one by his lieutenant. Polybius’ text, on the other hand, was just as available then as it is now. Secondly, Caesar could have written “Labienus by the Seine” without the Greek historian’s help, but not without Labienus, because, third (pinquique ut aiunt Minerua), he depended on the latter for facts but on the historian for the form. However, this neat division quickly breaks down, and every proposition might be challenged: there is no knowing whether Caesar did not engage with Labienus trusting that his contemporary readers, versed in military briefs, would understand the specifics of his use of his lieutenant’s report; or he could have arrayed typical facts without any factual report (other than hearing from Labienus that he had fought a Camulogenus somewhere near the Seine, perhaps); or else Caesar might be said to have drawn on Polybius’ text just as he drew on Labienus’ text simply to compose a vivid narrative without expecting his readers to remember Polybius. So even in this rather particular constellation with more than less clearly defined differences, to differentiate between a “source” and an “allusive model” seems risky if not outright arbitrary. Levene has therefore suggested that “[w]henever Livy uses Polybius as a source, he is also alluding to him, writing in awareness that at least some of his readership will recognize the fact …”53 This suggests that, in Livy’s case, at least, “source” should be replaced 52 Levene 2010, 147–8 (my italics); for more on “sources” in Roman historiography, see Levene 2011. 53 Levene 2010, 82; again 162. Cf. Levene 2011, 2: “It has been traditional to treat the phenomenon of ‘sources’ as quite separate from the phenomenon of ‘allusion’ or ‘intertextuality’,

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    with “intertext”, and that more than looking over the historian’s shoulder (in his “workshop”) readers should strive to listen carefully for what he has to say to them. Contrariwise, throughout my discussion I have applied “source” to both Labienus and Polybius, while differentiating between them as there “factual” and here “inspirational”; and I have favoured “constructive wonder” over a more dynamic interpretational agenda. While I do not doubt that Caesar drew on Polybius, I do doubt that he engaged with him hoping to communicate something subtler to his astute(r) readers.54 It is true that Polybius offers a memorably lively account of Hannibal’s combative crossing (ἦν τὸ γινόμενον ἐκπληκτικὸν καὶ παραστατικὸν ἀγωνίας, 3.43.8); but it is as true that for all the parallels discussed above, none would qualify as a marker or trigger, as the imagery of the wall does in the crossing of the Cévennes. Had Caesar wanted to, say, add lustre to Labienus’ performance via the Polybian intertext, had he wanted to make him appear more sharply in front of the Carthaginian’s long shadow, would he then not have suggested the relevance of Polybius’ account ever so slightly more palpably? Sometimes a wondering look at the building blocks of the edifice and a constructive appreciation thereof might be all there is to be had; and sometimes a source might just be a – source.

    Acknowledgements

    A version of the argument advanced in this paper formed part of my Prentice Lecture at Princeton University: I should like to thank the department for the honourable invitation as well as the vivid discussion. I am also grateful to the participants in Stanford’s Historiography Jam III for feedback on what was then a mere outline, to the Philologische Institut at the University of Dresden for discussing with me a near final version, to Didier Natalizi Baldi for help with formatting and translating some of the notes and to Sinead Brennan-McMahon for help with the proofs, and to my readers for their constructive comments: Christina Kraus (Yale), Rachel Love (Harvard), and Aske Damtoft Poulsen (Lund/Bristol). Special thanks go to David Levene (New York University), whose penetrating criticism helped me much to trim my argument.

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    but I argued that such a separation makes no sense in theory, and is manifestly false in practice.” Once more, the questions of the author’s intentionality and its intelligibility appear (on which see again Farrell 2005); obviously, I subscribe to the common sense notion of both.

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    Bibliography Bloch, M. (1952). Apologie pour l’histoire ou métier d’historien, 2nd ed., Paris. Blumenberg, H. (2012). Quellen, Ströme, Eisberge: Beobachtungen an Metaphern, Berlin. Christ, K. (1994). Caesar: Annäherungen an einen Diktator, Munich. Conte, G.B. (1981). “A proposito dei modelli in letteratura” (review of West & Woodman 1979), Materiali e discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici 6, 147–160. Damon, C. (2010). “Déjà vu or déjà lu? History as intertext”, in F. Cairns & M. Griffin (eds.), Papers of the Langford Latin Seminar, Fourteenth Volume: Health and Sickness in Ancient Rome; Greek and Roman Poetry and Historiography (Cambridge): 375–388. Ebert, C. (1909). Über die Entstehung von Caesars ‘Bellum Gallicum’, Diss. Erlangen. Ehrenfried, W. (1888). Qua ratione Caesar in Commentariis legatorum relationes adhibuerit, Diss. Würzburg. Ezov, A. (1996). “The Missing Dimension of C. Julius Caesar”, Historia 45, 64–94. Farrell, J. (2005). “Intention and Intertext”, Phoenix 59, 98–111. Frese, R. (1900). Beiträge zur beurteilung der sprache Caesars, mit besonderer berück­ sichtigung des bellum civile, Diss. Munich. Gärtner, J.F. & Hausburg, B.C. (2013). Caesar and the Bellum Alexandrinum, Göttingen. Gelzer, M. (1921/1968, transl. by P. Needham). Caesar: Politician and Statesman, Cambridge, MA. (orig. published as Caesar: Politiker und Staatsman, Stuttgart & Berlin). Gelzer, M. (1955). “Vercingetorix”, Realencyclopädie der Classischen Altertumswissen­ schaft, vol. 8A.1, 981–1008. Grillo, L. & Krebs, C.B. (2018). “Introduction. Caesarian Questions: Then, Now, Hence”, in id. (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to the Writings of Julius Caesar (Cambridge & New York): 1–9. Grillo, L. (2017). “Caesarian Intertextualities”, The Classical Journal 111, 257–279. Hartz, H. (1876). “Review of Menge 1873”, Philologischer Anzeiger 6, 202–207. Hau, L.I., Meeus, A. & Sheridan, B. (eds.) (2018). Diodoros of Sicily: Historiographical Theory and Practice in the Bibliotheke, Leuven, Paris & Bristol, CT. Holmes, R.T. (1911). Caesar’s Conquest of Gaul, 2nd ed., Oxford. Kelsey, F.W. (1905). “The Title of Caesar’s Work on the Gallic and Civil War”, Transactions of the American Philological Association 36, 211–238. Knauer, G.N. (1964). Die Aeneis und Homer: Studien zur poetischen Technik Vergils mit Listen der Homerzitate in der Aeneis, Göttingen. Kolb, A. (2000). Transport und Nachrichtentransfer im römischen Reich, Berlin. Krebs, C.B. (2013). “Caesar, Lucretius and the dates of De Rerum Natura and the Commentarii”, Classical Quarterly 63, 751–758. Krebs, C.B. (2014). “Caesar’s Sisenna”, Classical Quarterly 64, 207–213.

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    Krebs, C.B. (2016). “Thucydides in Gaul: The Siege of Plataea as Caesar’s Model for his Siege of Avaricum”, Histos 10, 1–14. Krebs, C.B. (2017). “Caesar the historian”, in K. Raaflaub & R. Strassler (eds.), The Landmark Caesar (New York): 210–214. Krebs, C.B. (2018a). “More than Words: The Commentarii in their Propagandistic Context”, in L. Grillo & C.B. Krebs (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to the Writings of Julius Caesar (Cambridge & New York): 29–42. Krebs, C.B. (2018b). “‘Greetings, Cicero!’ Caesar and Plato on writing and memory”, Classical Quarterly 68, 517–522. Krebs, C.B. (Forthcoming). Caesar: Bellum Gallicum VII, Cambridge & New York. Labisch, A. (1975). Frumentum Commeatusque: Die Nahrungsmittelversongung der Heere Caesars, Berlin. Le Bohec, Y. (1998). “Vercingétorix”, Rivista Storica dell’Antichità 28, 85–120. Levene, D.S. (2010). Livy on the Hannibalic War, Oxford & New York. Levene, D.S. (2011). “Historical Allusion and the Nature of the Historical Text”, Histos (Working papers), 1–17. Malitz, J. (1987), “Die Kanzlei Caesars: Herrschaftsorganisation zwischen Republik und Prinzipat”, Historia 36, 51–72. Mansfeld, J. & Runia, D.T. (1997). Aëtiana: The Method and Intellectual Context of a Doxographer, vol. 1, Leiden, Köln & New York. Mansfeld, J. (2010). “Doxographical studies, quellenforschung, tabular presentation and other varieties of comparativism”, in J. Mansfeld & D.T. Runia (eds.), Aëtiana: The Method and Intellectual Context of a Doxographer, Volume III, Studies in the Doxographical Traditions of Ancient Philosophy (Leiden & Boston): 3–31. Menge, R. (1873). De auctoribus commentariorum de bello civili qui Caesaris nomine feruntur, Weimar. Morel, D. (1984). “La bataille de Lutèce (52)”, in Lutèce: Paris de César à Clovis. Musée Carnavalet et Musée national des Thermes et de l’Hôtel de Cluny (Paris): 75–78. Most, G.W. (2016). “The Rise and Fall of Quellenforschung”, in A. Blair & A.-S. Goeing (eds.), For the Sake of Learning: Essays in Honor of Anthony Grafton (Leiden & Boston), 933–954. Muhlack, U. (1988). “Von der philologischen zur historischen Methode”, in Ch. Meier & J. Rüsen (eds.), Historische Methode (Munich): 154–180. Munari, A. (2019). “The double nature of ‘source criticism’: Between philology and intertextuality”, Forum Italicum 53, 27–52. Northwood, S.J. (2008). “Cicero de Oratore 2.51–64 and Rhetoric in Historiography”, Mnemosyne 61, 228–244. Osgood, J. (2009). “The Pen and the Sword: Writing and Conquest in Caesar’s Gaul”, Classical Antiquity 28, 328–358.

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    Pascucci, G. (1933). “La Composizione del ‘Bellum Gallicum’ di G. Cesare”, Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa 2, 301–319. Pasquali, G. (1942). “Arte Allusiva”, L’Italia che scrive 25, 11–20. Pelling, C. (2011). Plutarch: Caesar, Oxford & New York. Petersdorff, R. (1879). C. Julius Caesar num in bello Gallico enarrando nonnulla e fontibus transcripserit, Belgard/Białogard. Poux, M. & Guyard, L. (1999). “Un moule à balles de fronde inscrit d’époque tardorepublicaine à Paris (rue Saint-Martin)”, Instrumentum 9, 29–30. Rambaud, M. (1966). L’art de la déformation historique dans les Commentaires de César, 2nd ed., Paris. Riepl, W. (1913). Das Nachrichtenwesen des Altertums. Mit besonderer Rücksicht auf die Römer, Leipzig & Berlin. Riggsby, A.M. (2006). Caesar in Gaul and Rome: War in Words, Austin. Sievers, S., Brouquier-Reddé, V. & Deyber, A. (2001). “Catalogue des Armes”, in M. Reddé & S. von Schnurbein (eds.), Alésia: Fouilles et recherches franco-allemandes sur les travaux militaires romains autour du Mont-Auxois (1991–1997), vol. 2 (Paris): 211–292. Sihler, E. (1887). “The Tradition of Caesar’s Gallic Wars from Cicero to Orosius”, Transactions of the American Philological Association 18, 19–29. Sternkopf, W. (1909). “Cäsars gallischer Feldzug in Ciceros Briefen”, Neue Jahrbücher für das Klassische Altertum, Geschichte und Deutsche Litteratur und für Pädagogik 23, 638–666. Stringer, G.P. (2017). “Caesar and Labienus: A Reevaluation of Caesar’s Most Important Relationship in De Bello Gallico”, New England Classical Journal 44, 228–246. Syme, R. (1938). “The Allegiance of Labienus”, Journal of Roman Studies 28, 113–125. Tyrell, W.M. (1970). Biography of Titus Labienus, Caesar’s Lieutenant in Gaul. (https:// msu.edu/~tyrrell/labienus.htm – accessed 06.07.2020). Welch, K. (1998). “Caesar and His Officers in the Gallic War Commentaries”, in K. Welsh & A. Powell (eds.), Julius Caesar as Artful Reporter: The War Commentaries as Political Instruments (Swansea): 85–110. West, D.A. & Woodman, A.J. (eds.) (1979). Creative Imitation and Latin Literature, Cambridge. Woodman, A.J. (1979). “Self-imitation and the Substance of History: Tacitus, Annals 1.61–5 and Histories 2.70, 5.14–15”, in D.A. West & A.J. Woodman (eds.), Creative Imitation and Latin Literature (Cambridge): 143–155. Woodman, A.J. (1983). “From Hannibal to Hitler: The Literature of War”, University of Leeds Review 26, 107–124. Woodman, A.J. (1988). Rhetoric in Classical Historiography: four Studies, London & New York. Woodman, A.J. (2011). “Cicero and the Writing of History: Greek and Roman His­ toriography”, in J. Marincola (ed.), Oxford Readings in Classical Studies (Oxford & New York): 241–290.

    Chapter 5

    When in Disgrace with Fortune and Men’s Eyes … Livy (and Polybius) on the Gallic Sack of Rome Ulrike Roth 1

    Introduction

    That Livy took much inspiration from Polybius is widely acknowledged. The general view – motivated by overlaps in chronology and topic – has long been that this affected in particular Livy’s narrative in the fourth and fifth decades of the Ab urbe condita, concerned with the early to mid-second century BC.1 That Livy engaged with Polybius also in his narrative of the previous centuries is equally well established, even if it is rarely demonstrated for the period before the Punic Wars.2 For the second of these wars, we are now indebted to Levene’s brilliant study of Livy’s handling of the Polybian text, and for his deft analysis of Livy’s approach to his material more broadly.3 For the early books, too, exploration of Livian engagement with Polybius – such as (again) by Levene in his study of religion in the Ab urbe condita – has further enriched our understanding of the relationship of Livy’s text with that of his great historiographic precursor.4 In the present paper, the spotlight is put on Book 5, and on Livy’s narrative of the Gallic Sack, (traditionally) dated to 390BC (5.39–49.7, with the ground being prepared at 5.32.6–38).5 This narrative has, so far, not been explored through a Polybian lens. Instead, Livy’s account of the Gallic attack on 1 Fundamental was Nissen 1863; see also Tränkle 1977. Brief overviews, with further, recent bibliography, are in Briscoe (2013, 117–8) and Halfmann (2013, 52–3). Note also Pausch (2011, 105) on the availability of later, comparable books; a recent comparative analysis is in Baron 2018. 2 The general view is summarised in Champion 2015. 3 Levene 2010. 4 Levene 1993, 205 (regarding Liv. 6.1.10 and Plb. 6.56.6–15). But note also Oakley’s (1997, 19) comment (with particular regard to Books 6–10) that the lack of a “sustained parallel narrative” has meant that these early books “have escaped relatively lightly from the zealous activity of the Quellenforscher”. 5 390BC is the year given in the so-called Varronian chronology; Polybius gives by contrast the year of the Peace of Antalcidas and the siege of Rhegium by Dionysius of Syracuse, in the (Olympiad) year 387/6BC: 1.6.1–2, with Walbank 1970, ad loc. (pp. 46–7). A brief summary of the matter (with further bibliography) is in Humm 2015, 362 n.1.

    © Ulrike Roth, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004445086_007

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    Rome has readily (and rightly) been compared with Herodotus’ narrative of the Persian attacks on Delphi and Athens in 480BC (8.36–39 and 8.51–54); several Trojan resonances have also been identified and studied.6 Seen from this angle, Livy’s Gallic Sack is quite evidently an excellent example of the Roman historian’s use of the (Greek) past in his historiographic endeavours.7 In what follows, I should like to propose that there is another, quite different city attack that has influenced the Livian text – i.e. Polybius’ account of the Illyrian capture of Phoenice in 230BC (2.5–7). The argument is initially concentrated on twelve narrative motifs and themes that appear in both accounts: these are presented in the first part below, following their occurrence in the Polybian text.8 In each case, I give the references to both Polybius and Livy, and offer a brief synopsis of the relevant events. The headings for each of the twelve entries summarise the respective motif or theme. The presented overlaps in the narrated action are, I contend, suggestive of Livian engagement with Polybius’ text. In the ensuing part, I corroborate this suggestion through discussion of a further, thirteenth element that is vital to both accounts – i.e. the role of fortune. Polybius’ use of fortune – tyche – in his narrative of the capture of Phoenice is subsequently contextualised in the broader, highly complex treatment of tyche in his history. On this basis, it is possible to throw into relief Livy’s own take on fortune in his Gallic Sack account, which, I propose, is the engine behind his “copying” of the Polybian motifs and themes, thus raising broader questions about Livy’s rationale for doing so. I note at the outset that I am not arguing that the Livian account is mainly – or indeed only – influenced by Polybius’ history; nor do I argue that it is influenced primarily by this particular narrative: the proposed Polybian dimension is not geared to discount the noted Herodotean or Homeric resonances, nor does it seek to relegate to the margins the fact that the “captured city” is a widely explored motif in ancient historiography

    6 On the Herodotean echoes, see e.g. Ogilvie (1965, §39.1 = p. 720), noting also the influence of the memory of Cannae; see Kraus (1994, 273–8) for discussion of the Trojan resonances (but note also Levene 1993, 245). Richardson (2012, 136–52) rightly points out the scope for earlier Greek approximations of the sack of Rome to that of Athens. 7 There were, of course, also other important accounts on which Livy could draw: on Livy’s sources for the early books, see generally Ogilvie 1965, 5–17; Oakley 1997, 13–9; see also the broader discussion of Livy’s sources and his handling of these in Levene 2010, 82–126. Note also the comments (and contributions listed) in note 66 below. 8 I follow in essence the standard narratological definition of motifs and themes (e.g. Abbott 2008, 95), even if some of the identified overlaps cannot rigorously be classified as either concrete (= motifs) or abstract (= themes).

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    all round.9 Furthermore, I am not proposing that the sequence of the Livian narrative of the Gallic sack of Rome is identical with the sequence developed in the Polybian narrative of the Illyrian capture of Phoenice; it quite evidently is not. What I wish to suggest is, rather, that the best way of making sense of the observed similarities in the narratives’ “building blocks” is to regard these as instrumental to Livy’s deeper engagement with the role played by fortune in Polybius’ history and, by extension, with Polybius’ view of the development of Roman rule. 2

    Writing a City’s Attack: Differential Equations

    The basic “run” of events in the two stories is quickly told. The Livian account of the Gallic sack of Rome begins with the arrival of the Gauls in Roman territory, following their attack on several Etruscan settlements. Romans and Gauls give battle at the river Allia, just north of Rome, leading to a resounding Gallic victory. As a result, the majority of the Romans flee into the countryside and the neighbouring cities, most notably Veii, with only a minority returning to Rome. The Romans in Rome consequently prepare for an attack on their city: they organise a small defence force on the Capitoline Hill, while removing numerous other people as well as goods and sacred objects from the city. The Gauls attack but fail to take the hill, subsequently laying siege to it. A scarcity of supplies on both sides leads to the Roman surrender and the agreement of a ransom payment. But before the ransom is paid in full, a Roman relief force arrives and compels the Gauls to give battle. The Romans are victorious, the Gauls dispelled, and the city soon rebuilt. In Polybius’ story of the Illyrian capture of Phoenice, the city is taken by the Illyrians with the help of a Gallic force located (already) in the city. The city is subsequently besieged by an Epirot relief force. The Illyrians nonetheless manage to leave the city and give battle on open ground. The Illyrian victory confirms their capture of the city; it is followed by the Epirotes’ requests for help from the Aetolian and the Achaean league, both of whom agree to support them. Just as their united forces prepare to face the Illyrians on the battlefield, the latter are recalled by their queen because of a revolt at home. A truce is concluded between the parties, including the agreement of a ransom for the liberation of the city and its (free) population. The Illyrians sail off with the ransom, those held as slaves in Phoenice and the other goods that 9 The motif has been well studied in modern scholarship, on multiple authors and examples, to diverse ends: e.g. Paul 1982 (varia); Keitel 1984, 307–12 (Tacitus); see also note 15 below.

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    they had taken as booty when they plundered the territory. Epirus is again free from invaders. As aficionados of Livy’s Gallic Sack narrative know well, there are many other, intriguing details in his account.10 Yet, as these short structural summaries make clear, there are some obvious similarities between the Livian and the Polybian account. Some of the similarities are borne out in the narratives’ minutiae, others at the level of an overarching thematic analogy; some are quite obvious and strong, others subtle and weak. The most intriguing overlaps in the two accounts are presented in what follows. It is important to remember for the present exercise that at Rome the (invading) Gauls have the role of the besieger, whilst at Phoenice the (invading) Illyrians are besieged. 1. The previous raid on neighbouring territories Texts: Plb. 2.5.1–2 and Liv. 5.33.2–6; 34.8–9; 35–36. Synopsis: Polybius tells of the Illyrian descent into Greek territories, raiding Elis and Messenia, before attacking Phoenice. Livy introduces his narrative with an account of the Gallic descent into Italy, and the Gauls’ attacks on several Etruscan cities, before turning their attention on Rome. 2. The character transposition of the city’s defence force Texts: Plb. 2.5.4 (with 2.7.12; also 2.7.5–10) and Liv. 5.38.5 (with 5.36.1; 5.37.3–4; 5.38.1; 5.38.10). Synopsis: Polybius tells that Phoenice employed Gallic mercenaries to protect the city, who are (besides the Illyrians themselves) Polybius’ chief “barbarians”. Livy repeatedly characterises the Romans facing the Gauls as un-Roman in their behaviour and attitudes, resembling “barbarians”. 3. The openly accessible settlement Texts: Plb. 2.5.4 and Liv. 5.39.2 (with 5.38.10; 5.41.4; 5.44.5); 5.45.2. Synopsis: Polybius recounts that the Illyrians captured the city with help from the Gallic mercenaries inside, who betrayed the city, presumably by opening the gates to the invaders, thus facilitating the Illyrian take-over. Livy’s Gauls entered Rome through open gates, not closed by the frightened, un-Roman Romans in the city, facilitating the Gallic take-over. (Livy reuses the theme in a micro-version of his sack account in his narrative of the attack of the Ardeates on the Gallic camp, under Camillus’ leadership.) 4. The reinforcement of the siege line Texts: Plb. 2.5.5 and Liv. 5.46.1.

    10

    The literature on the various aspects of Livy’s Gallic Sack narrative is vast; recent contributions focused on narrative dimensions include Feldherr 1998 78–81; Jaeger 1997 57–93; Luce 1971; Miles 1995, 75–109; Mineo 2003.

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    Synopsis: Polybius comments on the efforts of the besieging Epirotes to prevent the enemy from crossing the river that separated their camps by removing the planks from the bridge out of town. Livy comments on the efforts of the besieging Gauls to prevent any Romans from leaving the city and crossing their lines. 5. The division of the siege force Texts: Plb. 2.5.6 and Liv. 5.43.4–5; 44.5–6. Synopsis: Polybius states that the Epirotes divided their forces upon hearing of an Illyrian relief force approaching from behind. The rest of their army, which remained in charge of the siege, benefitted from ravaging the rich countryside for supplies, being generally at ease and neglecting their duties. Livy’s Gallic siege force also splits up, as some spread out to secure supplies from the hinterland of Rome, whilst the remaining part continues with the siege of the upper city; the latter however demonstrate considerable neglect of their duties, as they too ravage the countryside for supplies. An Etruscan force invades the territory of Veii, posing an unexpected danger from behind. 6. The crossing of the siege lines Texts: Plb. 2.5.7 and Liv. 5.46.1–3; 46.7–11. Synopsis: Polybius narrates how the besieged Illyrians escape the city and cross the siege lines at night by rebuilding the bridge, subsequently setting up camp in safety outside the city. Livy relates how a young Roman marches through the Gallic siege lines to perform a ritual on another of Rome’s hills (before returning safely by the same route to his fellow Romans on the Capitoline Hill). Livy reuses the theme in his subsequent story of another young Roman crossing the siege lines to deliver the news of Camillus’ appointment to the dictatorship. 7. The battle in the city’s vicinity Texts: Plb. 2.5.8 and Liv. 5.38.1–8; 49.4–6. Synopsis: Polybius has the armies join battle outside the city, leading to the rout of the Epirotes. Livy begins his narrative with an account of the battle between Romans and Gauls outside the city, near the river Allia, leading to the rout of the Romans; he concludes his narrative with another battle account between Romans and Gauls just outside the city, this time leading to Roman victory. 8. The arrival of a relief force Texts: Plb. 2.6.2–3 and Liv. 5.49.1 (with 5.46.4). Synopsis: The Polybian narrative has a relief force arrive made up of Aetolians and Achaeans. The Livian narrative relates the arrival of a relief force made up of Romans and Latins.

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    9. The reinforcement of the troops Texts: Plb. 2.6.3 and Liv. 5.46.4. Synopsis: Polybius states that the Illyrian forces gained in strength by uniting with the men led by Scerdilaïdas, keen to give battle. Livy’s narrative tells of the Roman forces in Veii being united under Camillus’ leadership with the Latins to fight the Gauls. 10. The battle conditions Texts: Plb. 2.6.4 and Liv. 5.49.4. Synopsis: Polybius highlights the difficult battle conditions (for the Illyrians), focusing on the poor conditions of the battleground. Livy describes the preparations for battle, commenting also on the poor conditions of the battleground (for the Romans). 11. The peaceful end of the hostilities and agreement of a ransom Texts: Plb. 2.6.5–6 and Liv. 5.48.4 and 8. Synopsis: Polybius tells of queen Teuta’s order that the Illyrians return home, leading to a truce being agreed between the Illyrians and the Epirotes, as well as the agreement of a ransom payment. Livy’s account depicts the Gauls as struck by a pestilence, therefore ready to accept the Roman surrender and to agree a ransom payment.11 12. The unexpectedness of the city’s rescue Texts: Plb. 2.6.9 and Liv. 5.49.1. Synopsis: Polybius stresses the unexpectedness of the city’s rescue (οἱ δ᾽ Ἠπειρῶται παραδόξως διασεσωσμένοι …, “But the Epirotes having been unexpectedly saved …”). Livy introduces the concluding chapter of his sack account by stressing the Romans’ unexpected rescue (sed diique et homines prohibuere redemptos uiuere Romanos. nam forte quadam  …, “But both gods and men forbade the Romans to live ransomed. For by some chance …”). As is self-evident, several of these overlaps regard aspects that may be considered obvious elements of an attack: issues to do with the siege lines, and the siege forces more generally (items 4–6), with battle conditions and outcomes (items 7 and 10), or with the involvement of other, especially allied and neighbouring forces (items 8 and 9). These aspects are recognisably rooted in the realistic backdrop of a city attack. It is also perfectly possible (and otherwise documented) that attacks on cities end with ransom payments, rather than 11

    Note also Polybius’ later comment (2.18.3) that the Gauls too, in 390BC, were recalled because of an invasion of their home territory by the Veneti. Walbank (1970, ad loc. = p. 185) already noted that “Livy (v.48.i) makes a pestilence among the Gauls play a similar role in drawing them off” (my emphasis).

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    the death or the enslavement of the attacked population (item 11).12 The same is true for the employment of mercenaries by cities, whether reliable or unreliable (item 3). It is also easy to see that and how the psychological make-up of a force or people under attack is subject to change (item 2). And, of course, changes in fortune need not be the remit of the narrative alone (item 12). Finally, the attack need not be isolated from prior attacks of a similar nature on other cities (item 1).13 In short, the various elements listed above are, as such, perfectly intelligible in the real-life contexts to which they relate – which goes some way to explain their prominence in the historiographic shaping of attack, siege and sack narratives. In brief, “Livy’s narratives”, as J. Roth has put it, “reflect underlying realities of siege warfare”.14 Furthermore, the list is not exhaustive and the preferences that it represents would likely have been construed differently by other scholars. It is also plain that the literary use of any one motif or theme is not restricted to the two accounts under scrutiny here. For example, there are parallels with Polybius’ own earlier accounts of the mercenaries at Messana and the garrison at Rhegium (1.7.1–8), as well as with Livy’s narrative of the preceding (Roman) capture of Veii (5.1–23); even within Livy’s sack narrative, some of the motifs are repeated – as for instance the idea of “the openly accessible settlement”, used with regard to both Rome and the Etruscan camp (item 3), or that of the “crossing of the siege lines”, applied to the heroic acts of two young Romans (one religious, one political) (item 6): repetition is a typical feature of all kinds of story-telling, historical narrative included, and has been well studied in relation to Livy’s Gallic Sack by Kraus.15 That there should be variation from Polybian usage in the Livian (re)use of motifs and themes does not come as a surprise either: repetition, as Hinds has put it, “always entails some alteration” (original emphasis).16 All told, I am not arguing for the identical, or unique occurrence of the presented 12

    I explore other situations involving ransom agreements that are of relevance to modern understanding of Livy’s Gallic Sack narrative in a separate study: Roth 2018. 13 The Gallic migrations that constitute the broader context in Livy’s narrative for the attack on Rome are discussed in detail by Khellaf in this volume. As Khellaf shows lucidly, the migrations themselves serve multiple functions in Livy’s text. 14 Roth 2006, 49. Note also, however, that some typical features of city attacks and sieges are regularly omitted from the historical accounts, such as the violence that comes with a sack. For detailed discussion of the standard shapes and contents of (especially) siege narratives in Roman historiography, see generally Levithan 2013. 15 See Kraus (1994, 270–8), discussing also Livy’s narrative of the sack of Veii. A brief introduction to the repetition of motifs and themes in (modern) narratives is in Abbott 2008, 95–7. 16 In his apposite study of Roman poetical texts: Hinds 1998, 121. Detailed discussion of the rôle of differences in allusive analogies (again in poetical writing) is in Conte 1986, 52–69.

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    motifs and themes in the two narratives under consideration here: these motifs and themes did occur in other Livian and Polybian accounts, as much as they also occurred in other (quite different) texts, altered and adapted to fit as required in each particular context.17 That said, intentional Livian usage of Polybian attack, siege and sack accounts is widely acknowledged for Livy’s narrative of later periods: in Book 24, for instance, Livy utilises Polybius’ account of the sack of Syracuse in 212BC; in Book 26, he appropriates Polybius’ account of the sack of Carthago Nova in 209BC.18 These Livian adaptations of the Polybian accounts have recently been studied by Levithan in the context of a discussion of siege and sack narratives, emphasising the at times considerable adjustments made by Livy to render the Polybian accounts suitable for his purposes.19 Thus, despite the noted broader historical, historiographic and narratological dimensions that shape attack, siege and sack narratives in general, it would be rash to ascribe without further ado the mentioned overlaps to such wider commonalities. Chance is not really a good explanatory tool either. There is, moreover, another overlap in the two accounts of significantly greater reach, one that cannot as such be derived from actual happenings, either at Rome, or at Phoenice, or elsewhere: the role of fortune. Exploration of this further, thirteenth overlap opens the door to a more meaningful explanation of the observed similarities in the narrative motifs and themes in the two accounts under scrutiny. 3

    When in Disgrace with Fortune and Men’s Eyes …

    First, the promised, thirteenth overlap: 13. Moralising discourse involving fortuna/tyche Texts: Plb. 2.7 and Liv. 5.37.1–3 (with 5.32.7); 5.49.5. Synopsis: Polybius ends his narrative of the Illyrian capture of Phoenice with a moralising discourse, introduced by a truism concerning the unexpected, unaccountable and unfortunate subjection of human endeavour 17

    Note in this context also J. Roth’s comments on the “typicality” of many of Livy’s narratives: 2006, 50, with earlier bibliography on the literary technique. 18 Syracuse: Plb. 8.5–9; Liv. 24.33–34; Carthago Nova: Plb. 10.9–10; Liv. 26.44–46. See also Plb. 16.30.8 (Abydos) vs. Liv. 31.17.45; and Plb. 21.25.8 (Ambracia) vs. Liv. 38.3–9. 19 See Levithan 2013, 81–112 (including discussion of potential Livian misunderstandings of Polybius’ Greek text on pp. 96–7). Such Livian adaptations of the respective Polybian accounts are not restricted to the content or the thread of the narratives: see e.g. Pausch (2011, 104–5) for discussion of the Livian adaptations of the transitions from one narrative to another.

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    to “bad fate”, tyche. Simultaneously, however, he foregrounds human responsibility for failures and disasters, illustrated by the case of Phoenice, irrespective of the city’s ultimately lucky escape. Livy sets his narrative of the Gallic attack on Rome into the same kind of moralising discourse through a truism involving fortuna, to foreshadow disaster in the face of Roman irresponsibility; fortuna is also activated to conclude the conflict, leading to an unexpectedly positive outcome for the Romans (see item 12). It is essential to have a closer look at some of the relevant passages. Thus, having noted in the course of his narrative that the Epirotes – although granted a lucky escape – met with “misfortunes” (ἀτυχήμασι, 2.6.1), Polybius concludes his narrative with a clear differentiation between self-induced misfortunes and those that befall humans without their own doing (2.7.1–4): τὸ μὲν γὰρ ἀνθρώπους ὄντας παραλόγως περιπεσεῖν τινι τῶν δεινῶν οὐ τῶν παθόντων, τῆς τύχης δὲ καὶ τῶν πραξάντων ἐστὶν ἔγκλημα, τὸ δ᾽ ἀκρίτως καὶ προφανῶς περιβαλεῖν αὑτοὺς ταῖς μεγίσταις συμφοραῖς ὁμολογούμενόν ἐστι τῶν πασχόντων ἁμάρτημα. διὸ καὶ τοῖς μὲν ἐκ τύχης πταίουσιν ἔλεος ἕπεται μετὰ συγγνώμης καὶ ἐπικουρία, τοῖς δὲ διὰ τὴν αὑτῶν ἀβουλίαν ὄνειδος καὶ ἐπιτίμησις συνεξακολουθεῖ παρὰ τοῖς εὖ φρονοῦσιν. For men to meet with some unexpected blow is not the sufferer’s fault, but that of tyche and those who inflict it on him; but when they involve themselves by lack of judgement and with their eyes open in the greatest misfortune, everyone acknowledges that it is the fault of the sufferers. So those who fail because of tyche meet with pity, pardon and help, but those who fail because of their own indiscretion meet with blame and reproach from right-thinking men. The Polybian differentiation between self-induced misfortunes and (what one may for all practical purposes refer to simply as) bad luck is given a moralising stance through reflection on the driving forces behind the negative happenings that may befall human actors: unlike disasters that strike out of the blue, as it were, failures caused by indiscretion are judged negatively by “right-thinking men”. Importantly for present purposes, the Polybian explication of the consequences of self-induced misfortunes that follows the brief description of tyche’s arbitrariness is reminiscent of the reasoning displayed by Livy on several occasions in his Gallic Sack narrative. For instance, one of Livy’s introductory comments to the narrative reveals the Romans (not unlike the people of Phoenice) as highly instrumental in their own impending doom, following disregard

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    of a portent (5.32.7): neque deorum modo monita ingruente fato spreta, sed humanam quoque opem, quae una erat, M. Furium ab urbe amouere, “And not only did they spurn the warnings of the gods, as their doom drew nearer, but they even sent away from the City the only human resource there was, Marcus Furius [Camillus]”. Livy adds to these mistaken Roman actions an account of the behaviour of the three Fabii, whose recklessness caused the Gauls to turn their attention on Rome: the three men were sent to the beleaguered Etruscan city of Clusium, to mediate in the city’s conflict with the Gauls; yet, Livy notes that these Romans disregarded their due role and instead took up arms against the Gauls, in defiance of the law of nations; in this way, Livy explains both the Gallic turn on Rome and the resulting Roman misfortune.20 Subsequent Einzelerzählungen in Livy’s narrative (of the type studied in the present volume by Kraus)21 return to the theme of the Romans’ poor judgement, sometimes specifically drawing on fortuna, sometimes on related concepts, such as fors.22 In general, the actions of Livy’s human actors in his Gallic Sack narrative are in constant  – and seemingly reciprocal  – dialogue with Rome’s fortunes, through the medium of their relationship with the gods; as Luce has put it: “due observance of the gods brings success, neglect, disgrace and defeat”.23 But despite this repeatedly exhibited coherent rapport between gods and men, individual Romans’ relationships with fortuna remain overall unstable, casting fortuna in the colours of unpredictability  – not unlike the Polybian tyche, which dishes out unexpected blows in the passage cited above. Davies therefore concluded that in Livy’s text “there is a common preference not to rely on [fortuna]”, because “(o)ne never knows just how far the gods will lend their favour”.24 20 Liv. 5.35.5–11 and 5.37.4. The role of the Fabii in the Gallic Sack narrative is explored in Richardson 2012, 115–62. 21 The term was first used by Witte (1910, 273 and passim) for Livy’s construction of distinct episodes. Kraus’ chapter demonstrates vividly that these episodes are not merely entertaining, or vehicles to increase the reader’s suspense; they are a central element of Livy’s historiographic method. 22 Fortuna: Liv. 5.37.1, 38.4, 40.1, 41.2, 42.4, 43.6, 43.7, 44.1, 44.3, 45.8, 49.5, 51.2, 51.3, 54.6. For discussion of Livy’s fors (vel sim.), see Davies 2004, 115–6 (specifically including Livy’s forte at 5.49.1); Champeaux 1967; Kajanto 1957, 76–9. 23 Luce 1971, 268. 24 Davies 2004, 122. Much the same point has been made for Polybius’ approach: thus, Eckstein (1995, 258) has forcefully argued that Polybius’ use of tyche centred on its capriciousness and unpredictability, rather than on the seemingly more intelligible differentiation between human indiscretion and bad luck played out in the narrative of Phoenice’s capture: “Polybius concludes that the lesson  … is that ‘we are but men’ (ἀνϑρώπους ὄντας), and that we therefore should allow for the unexpected in every matter”.

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    The theme is elaborated by Livy with direct reference to fortuna in his Gallic Sack narrative at the point when the Gauls begin their march on Rome (5.37.1–2): cum tanta moles mali instaret – adeo obcaecat animos fortuna, ubi uim suam ingruentem refringi non uolt –, ciuitas, quae aduersus Fidenatem ac Veientem hostem aliosque finitimos populos ultima experiens auxilia dictatorem multis tempestatibus dixisset, ea tunc inuisitato atque inaudito hoste ab Oceano terrarumque ultimis oris bellum ciente nihil extraordinarii imperii aut auxilii quaesiuit. Even though such a quantity of disasters threatened (fortune so blinds men’s minds when she does not wish her growing power to be checked), the state, which had so often appointed as a last resort a dictator against the enemies Fidenae and Veii and other neighbouring peoples, that state then when an unknown and unheard of enemy coming from the ocean and the edge of the world was making war made no attempt to seek an extraordinary imperium or remedy. In his commentary on the passage, Ogilvie emphasised the typicality of introducing a new episode “by a moralization”, one that has Greek roots, citing Lycurgus, Sophocles, and Homer.25 Notably, when compared with the Polybian text quoted above, here too the notion of fortune’s wilful interference in human affairs comes in tandem with that of poor human judgement, thus offering at base two possible explanatory models for the misfortunes that may befall human actors. I say “at base” because in the Livian passage fortune appears as instrumental in causing poor human judgement, muddying the waters between bad luck and self-induced misfortunes, thereby complicating the implicit moralisation.26 Notwithstanding the many inherent complexities, as this short survey has illustrated, the Livian and Polybian characters may find themselves in disgrace with fortune, without any fault of their own, while they may also be in disgrace in the eyes of others, such as the two historians, as a result of their own inadequate actions – much like the poet who speaks in the Shakespearian sonnet that has provided the peg for this part and the paper as a whole. Furthermore, the two historians’ shared interest in exploring the roots of the narrated 25 Ogilvie 1965, §37.1 = p. 718. 26 The complexity of Livy’s moral argument sketched out on individual characters is explored in great detail by Levene (2010, 164–214) on the Hannibalic War narrative.

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    calamities with particular regard to fortuna/tyche is mirrored, as already noted, in the overlap in the conclusions of the conflicts: both accounts draw on the associated notion of the unexpected rescue (item 12 above) – even if in Livy’s account that unexpected rescue is once again more complex, being the product of a collaboration between human and supra-human forces (5.49.5): iam uerterat fortuna, iam deorum opes humanaque consilia rem Romanam adiuuabant, “now fortune had turned; now the might of the gods and human wisdom were helping the cause of Rome”.27 Overall, however, it is fair to say that Livy’s approach to fortuna in his Gallic Sack account shares some notable characteristics with Polybius’ tyche, characteristics that are, moreover, employed by both authors to comment on human action in the two seemingly quite different accounts of a city’s capture. The use of a comparable moralising discourse involving fortuna/tyche in both accounts cannot be ignored; in combination with the above discussed overlaps in the motifs and themes it increases the suspicion of Livian engagement with the Polybian narrative. Once again, however, there are several points that speak against this view, at least at first sight. To begin with, as implied by the briefly noted differences, the Livian (Roman) fortuna does of course not equal the Polybian (Greek) tyche. Broadly speaking, the relationship between the categories encompassed in the Greek concept of tyche and the Roman one of fortuna is both rich and complex.28 Davies has therefore argued that “(i)t might be more useful, and almost certainly more historical, to speak of the Roman appropriation of these categories and a consequential sophistication of the range of implications” (original emphasis).29 Besides, neither Livy nor Polybius restrict their usages of fortuna/tyche to the notions discussed above. Regarding Livy, Davies consequently speaks of what he calls “the pregnancy of the usages” of fortuna in the Ab urbe condita, including notions of chance, circumstance, opportunity, and so forth; what stands out, however, in Livy’s usage of fortuna is an emphasis on the human perspective, so that fortuna 27 See also Kajanto’s (1957, 96–8) discussion of the relationship between fortune and the human factor. 28 The following snapshot of modern scholarship on fortuna/tyche demonstrates vividly not just the diverse and changing foci of modern interest, but also – and primarily – the changeability and malleability of fortuna/tyche: Strohm 1944 on tyche in Pindar and other early Greek poets; Champeaux 1982 and 1987 on the development of the cult of Fortuna in the archaic and republican periods; Matheson 1994 on representations of tyche in Greek and Roman art; Lichocka 1997 on imperial, including Augustan, iconography; Christof 2001 on the Hellenistic “Tyche of Antioch” and her Roman adaptations. 29 Davies 2004, 106; see also Levene 1993, 33. Much of the relevant material is assembled in Kajanto 1957, 79–89; 1981, 525–32.

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    “represents the experience at human level of the gods’ will”.30 The 129 occurrences of tyche (vel sim.) in Polybius’ text are similarly pregnant with meaning, including the kinds of notions just cited for Livy, from chance and circumstance to the human experience of tyche, recently discussed in great detail by Hau.31 In short, there is no easy or straight match in Livy for the Polybian approach to fortune, or vice versa. Concerning the ends of the two narratives, it is of course also the case that the reversal of fortunes that concludes both conflicts is not restricted to these two events. For instance, in the run-up to his narrative of the capture of Phoenice, Polybius relates the unexpected rescue of the city of Medion, which was besieged by the Aetolians; internal Aetolian power struggles set the scene for a surprise attack by an Illyrian army, liberating Medion, and defeating the Aetolians (2.2.3–2.4.5). Moreover, Levithan has shown that Livian sieges are in general “moral affairs”, thereby normalising Livy’s take on the conflict of interest here through the many similar treatments in the Ab urbe condita as a whole.32 More broadly, fortuna is firmly embedded in Livy’s text as a whole (and in Book 5 in particular), as is tyche throughout Polybius’ history.33 For both authors to draw on fortuna and tyche respectively in the two accounts of interest here is, then, not as such surprising. In sum, just as there are wider contexts for the above noted particular overlaps in the narrative motifs and themes, there is also a wider context for the overlap in the two historians’ explorations of fortuna and tyche – and the same applies to the contexts of unexpected reversals of fortune as well as to the moralising dimensions of attack, siege and sack narratives. Where we have ended up, then, is the thorny question of when similarities and overlaps turn into conscious engagement and allusion. In his aforementioned intertextual study of Livy’s Hannibalic narrative, Levene has rightly warned that “most historical events parallel a large number of other historical events in some respects”; he concluded that “even if a reader may note parallels, extra reasons are needed before those parallels could be regarded as relevant to the interpretation of the text”.34 Such extra 30 31 32 33 34

    Davies 2004, 120–1, and generally 116–23. Hau 2011. The centrality of the human to Polybius’ history is more generally argued for in Maier 2012a; see also note 45 below. See Levithan 2013, 81–9. But note that the nature and relevance of the seeming omnipresence of tyche in Polybius’ history is – like tyche itself – heavily debated; see e.g. Maier (2012a, esp. 245–8), who considers Polybius’ use of tyche a mere concession to the thought-world of his readers. Levene 2010, 97; see generally pp. 82–163 for discussion of the challenges involved in, and possible mechanism for, spotting Livian engagement with earlier works, especially of a non-linguistic intertextual type.

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    reasons, however, are provided precisely by the wider setting of Polybius’ usage of tyche, raising doubt over the idea of a generic, let alone incidental nature of the noted overlaps between his account of the capture of Phoenice and Livy’s narrative of the Gallic Sack. 4

    Mapping a(n Un)Fortunate Trend

    Modern discussion of Polybian tyche focuses on its philosophical, political, religious and narratological dimensions, often concentrating attention on passages that appear late in Polybius’ history, such as his renowned comments at the end of the surviving text from Book 36, which deal with Rome’s final military engagement with Macedon in the middle of the second century BC.35 But in the early books, too, tyche is regularly given pride of place. Thus, in Book 1, Polybius famously singles out tyche as having guided the world’s affairs in one direction – i.e. Roman rule (1.4.1–5):36 ἡ τύχη σχεδὸν ἅπαντα τὰ τῆς οἰκουμένης πράγματα πρὸς ἓν ἔκλινε μέρος καὶ πάντα νεύειν ἠνάγκασε πρὸς ἕνα καὶ τὸν αὐτὸν σκοπόν  … πολλὰ γὰρ αὕτη καινοποιοῦσα καὶ συνεχῶς ἐναγωνιζομένη τοῖς τῶν ἀνθρώπων βίοις οὐδέπω τοιόνδ᾽ ἁπλῶς οὔτ᾽ εἰργάσατ᾽ ἔργον οὔτ᾽ ἠγωνίσατ᾽ ἀγώνισμα, οἷον τὸ καθ᾽ ἡμᾶς. Tyche has guided almost all the affairs of the world in one direction and has forced them to incline toward one and the same end … For though [tyche] innovates in many ways and is always interfering in the lives of men, she has not yet ever accomplished such a work, or achieved such a result, as in our own times. As the passage shows clearly, Polybius’ idea of fortune’s grand Roman scheme is underpinned by occurrences that lead to unexpected outcomes – “always innovating in many ways and always interfering in the lives of men”. The notion of tyche’s innovative nature, i.e. her unpredictability and arbitrariness, goes hand in hand with what we have already seen in Polybius’ concluding comments in his account of the capture of Phoenice, where he speaks of the “unexpected 35 Plb. 36.17.1–15; so already Walbank 1957/1970, 16–7; more recently Deininger 2013, 72–5. 36 Note the recurrence of the same meaning of tyche at 2.35.5, in Polybius’ account precisely of the later Gallic invasions, assumed by Walbank (1957/1970, 21 and ad loc. = pp. 212–3) to be contributing nothing new to the narrative developments.

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    blow” delivered by tyche. In the present passage, however, the innovative dimension of tyche is subordinated to the (long-term, i.e. consistent) growth of Roman power. Thus, even though the Romans themselves are not safe from the unexpected (negative) occurrences that tyche may bring, they were, paradoxically at first sight, nonetheless “the protégés of Fortune” – as Walbank has put it.37 With an eye on the final result, i.e. Roman world rule, Warde Fowler even went so far as saying that in the above quoted passage “Τύχη is … an agent or power working to a definite end. No caprice is suggested in the work of this power”.38 To complicate matters further, Polybius notes elsewhere that the Romans were themselves the creators of their success. Thus, at the end of his account of the First Punic War, Polybius comments as follows (1.63.9): ἐξ ὧν δῆλον τὸ προτεθὲν ἡμῖν ἐξ ἀρχῆς ὡς οὐ τύχῃ Ῥωμαῖοι, καθάπερ ἔνιοι δοκοῦσι τῶν Ἑλλήνων, οὐδ᾽ αὐτομάτως, ἀλλὰ καὶ λίαν εἰκότως ἐν τοιούτοις καὶ τηλικούτοις πράγμασιν ἐνασκήσαντες οὐ μόνον ἐπεβάλοντο τῇ τῶν ὅλων ἡγεμονίᾳ καὶ δυναστείᾳ τολμηρῶς, ἀλλὰ καὶ καθίκοντο τῆς προθέσεως. This confirms the assertion I made at the start that the Romans did not by tyche or accident, as some of the Greeks think, but by very reasonably practising in such and so great enterprises not only set out boldly to aim at universal leadership and dominion, but achieved their aim. Unlike in Livy’s conclusion to his Gallic Sack narrative where human and suprahuman forces combine in the name of fortune to Rome’s advantage (discussed above), tyche (as well as accident) is bypassed here, and the credit for Rome’s success in 241BC is given entirely to the Romans themselves.39 The difficulties 37

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    Walbank 1957/1970, §1.63.9 = p. 129. The idea of fortune’s partiality vis-à-vis Rome is also present in Livy. See e.g. Kajanto 1957, 98: “( f )ortuna populi Romani is not fickle but is always working for the benefit of the city”. Note also Davies’ (2004, 123) comment that “(t)he observation that fortuna has favoured a people, as it did the Romans, was (merely) to indicate the self-evident truism that the gods had provided their favour, itself a testament to Roman piety”. Notably, in his narrative of the aftermath of the Gallic Sack, Livy made Camillus postulate that fortuna was so integral to Rome that she could not be removed from (the site of) Rome: 5.54.6. Warde Fowler 1903, 446; cf. Eckstein 1995 (with note 24 above). The passage has been discussed in Derow 1973 vis-à-vis Polybius’ contention that his (earlier) narrative of the First Illyrian War – i.e. Rome’s first military crossing of the Adriatic – has to be “seriously considered by those who wish to gain a true view of the purpose of my work and of the formation and growth of the Roman dominion” (2.2.1–2); Derow concludes that (p. 131) “(t)he special importance of the first Illyrian war for Polybius had

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    in reconciling this passage with any of the texts quoted above are self-evident: in brief, the self-directed Roman success in the last passage is typically taken to contradict the idea of the unexpectedness of fortunes and misfortunes that Polybius describes, for example, in his conclusion to the capture of Phoenice; both are taken to contradict the broader notion of tyche as “a power working to a definite goal, the domination of Rome”.40 And so forth. Yet, despite the quite significant conceptual tensions that these few texts cause for our understanding of tyche, they form but a small array of the titbits from the above mentioned 129-strong smorgasbord of chance, caprice, fate and luck that Polybius has dished up for his readers in (the surviving parts of) his history. It goes without saying that, in the light of the diversity that these manifestations of tyche embody, the modern debate on the nature and meaning of Polybian tyche is both considerable and ongoing, with some scholars seeking to resolve the apparent contradictions by arguing for a progressive development, others by postulating parallel universes that function on different levels – to name just two of the recently proposed theses.41 Whatever the challenges involved in reconciling the different and seemingly incongruous and even conflicting manifestations of tyche in Polybius’ history with one another, it is opportune at this juncture to recall that, wedged into the statement of tyche’s role in the creation of Roman world rule in Book 1, quoted above, Polybius openly criticises historical writing that is restricted in chronological or geographical terms, promoting instead the longue durée: to this end, “a historian should bring before his readers under one synoptic view the operations by which [tyche] has accomplished her general purpose” (1.4.1–2; see also

    40 41

    not to do with its origins, but above all with what it shows about the military capability and effectiveness of the Romans”. Derow’s interpretation recalls Walbank’s (1972, 58) dictum that for Polybius history was “a way to attain practical ends by learning lessons”, i.e. that history fell for all practical purposes outside the realm of moral didacticism. See also Walbank 1957/1970, ad loc. (p. 129): “P’s history had no lesson to teach”. Against this view, see e.g. Hau (2016, 23–72), following Eckstein 1995. For a recent discussion of the relationship between historical knowledge and personal experience in Polybius in which fortune plays a central role, see Moore 2020, esp. 60–7 and 79–91; but note that Moore works with a concept of fortune as fickle, speaking therefore of (p. 90, and passim) “the mutability of Fortune, a lesson fundamental to Polybius’ work”. Walbank 1957/1970, 21. See e.g. Warde Fowler 1903; De Sanctis 1916/1967, 209–11; Shorey 1921; Ziegler 1952, 1532–43; Roveri 1956/1982; Pédech 1964, 331–54; McGing 2010, 54–8, 195–201; Brouwer 2011; Hau 2011 (with pp. 183–6 for a succinct overview of the modern debate); Maier 2012a, 209–48. For a recent survey of evidence and arguments, see Deininger 2013; for a summary of the (early) debate and arguments, see Walbank 1957/1970, 16–26 (with Walbank 2007) and 129–30.

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    8.1–2); only in this way is it possible to see “the finest and most beneficent of the performances of tyche” (1.4.4). And, Polybius continues (1.4.6): ὅπερ ἐκ μὲν τῶν κατὰ μέρος γραφόντων τὰς ἱστορίας οὐχ οἷόν τε συνιδεῖν, εἰ μὴ καὶ τὰς ἐπιφανεστάτας πόλεις τις κατὰ μίαν ἑκάστην ἐπελθὼν ἢ καὶ νὴ Δία γεγραμμένας χωρὶς ἀλλήλων θεασάμενος εὐθέως ὑπολαμβάνει κατανενοηκέναι καὶ τὸ τῆς ὅλης οἰκουμένης σχῆμα καὶ τὴν σύμπασαν αὐτῆς θέσιν καὶ τάξιν. We cannot perceive this from historians dealing with particular events any more than get at once a notion of the form of the whole world, and its overall disposition and order, by visiting, each in turn, the most famous cities, or indeed by looking at separate descriptions of each. It is, in other words, the long historical view (and only that view!) that reveals the overall pattern of the workings of tyche, rather than merely tyche’s manifestation on any one single occasion – whether that occasion be determined by chance, fate, circumstances or otherwise – without however casting such particular manifestations aside.42 To recognise this pattern, however, there is no need to reconcile the quoted (as well as the many other) passages involving tyche. Instead, heeding Polybius’ instruction, one’s perspective needs merely to switch between the general purpose (i.e. the unstoppable drive to Roman world rule) and the many particular manifestations (i.e. the causes of the outcomes of individual battles, wars, and so on) to understand their structural interrelatedness on the broader historical plane.43 The underlying conceptual image that Polybius’ long historical view draws on is that known for instance as a rising trendline on today’s stock market, in which different, often contradictory individual stock movements nevertheless create a clear longer-term stock value pattern. By design, as the trend value of stocks is tied to, i.e. produced by, the hourly, daily or weekly stock movements on the market, the particular applications are in dialogue with the overall,

    42

    See also Plb. 1.4.7–11, as well as Polybius’ explanation for his “second beginning” at 3.4.1–6. Note also that Sacks’ (1981, 131–40) analysis of Polybius’ view on the writing of history is focused, where it concerns tyche, on particular manifestations. 43 The argument for consistency between the general and the particular has also been made in Derow 1979 (concerned with Polybius’ view on Roman aggression). Similar is also Walbank 2007 (esp. 354–5), who argues in essence rightly for a “both … and” take on Polybian tyche, but does not go beyond description of tyche’s general dimension as an area (especially of human experience), “part of … the ‘world view’ of Greeks”, etc. See also note 50 below.

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    i.e. general, pattern, however far on individual occasions from the trend.44 If that image is applied to Polybian tyche, the capriciousness of tyche can be understood to produce an overall trend that engineers the final (predictable) outcome. Moreover, once it is understood that particular movements (here: individual fortunes and misfortunes) create such a trend, it is easy to see how other elements, such as self-directed achievement or self-induced misfortunes, can enter the equation too, and be put side-by-side with unexpected results, being also (a) part of the production of the overall trend.45 Seen from this wider perspective, the many individual, seemingly contradictory and unexpected occurrences serve in fact to remind the reader of the larger, predictable workings of tyche – as explained by Polybius in the above quoted passage. Figure 5.1 offers a schematic representation of the proposed view of Polybian tyche in the development of Roman world rule, from a Roman perspective (therefore summarising tyche’s manifestations at the particular level simplistically in positive and negative occurrences, whatever their individual natures). At this point, it is important to recall the first manifestation of an unexpected, seemingly capricious outcome in Polybius’ history. Thus, leaving the linguistic diagnostic tyche (vel sim.) aside, Polybius identifies as his first example of the uncertainties of life the unexpectedness of the outcome of the Gallic attack on Rome, i.e. the Roman survival in 390BC (1.6.3): πρὸς οὓς ποιησάμενοι Ῥωμαῖοι σπονδὰς καὶ διαλύσεις εὐδοκουμένας Γαλάταις καὶ γενόμενοι πάλιν ἀνελπίστως τῆς πατρίδος ἐγκρατεῖς καὶ λαβόντες οἷον ἀρχὴν τῆς συναυξήσεως ἐπολέμουν ἐν τοῖς ἑξῆς χρόνοις πρὸς τοὺς ἀστυγείτονας.

    44

    45

    Put simply, “(t)rendlines are a visual representation of support and resistance in any time frame”: https://www.investopedia.com/terms/t/trendline.asp (last accessed 05.11.2019). Calculations of trends are used in finance to estimate future trendpoints, i.e. to predict lows and highs, and thereby ultimately the trend’s behaviour. This perspective has repercussions also for the seeming difficulty of combining Polybian rationality and objectivity with what has been described by Baronowski (2011, 152) as “Polybius’ sense that the imperial achievement of Rome enfolded at its core a residue of mystery”; note also Baronowski’s (2011, 164–75) subtle exposition of Polybius’ multifaceted approach to Roman domination in general, and Walbank’s (1957/1970,  §1.6.3  = p. 48) stress on Polybius’ “combination of rational and irrational factors” (my emphasis) regarding specifically the Romans’ lucky escape in 390BC. The model here proposed can easily accommodate interpretations of Polybian inconsistencies as the result of parallel narrative schemes, thus offering multiple explanatory levels or constituting diverse focalisation angles. For discussion of such multiple explanatory levels and diverse focalisation angles, see Maier (2012a, 248–73; 2012b); for a perceptive historicising approach, see in contrast Ferrary 1988, 265–348.

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    The Romans, after making a truce on conditions satisfactory to the Gauls and being thus contrary to their expectation reinstated in their home and as it were now started on the road of aggrandizement, continued in the following years to wage war on their neighbours.

    figure 5.1 Schematic representation of Roman success as a rising trend in Polybius (Rome-focused)

    Polybius’ comment on the unexpected conclusion to the Gallic capture of Rome is brief. Nonetheless, the outcome of the Gallic attack is identified both as the starting point of Rome’s acquisition of world rule and as startling and unforeseen (by the Romans): it has therefore been given the pole-position in the visual conceptualisation of the diverse, particular causes behind the development of Roman might offered in Figure 5.1. If this identification is accepted (irrespective of the noted lack of the linguistic diagnostic tyche), the Gallic Sack emerges as the first illustration of Polybius’ method (described above) of giving wide-reaching, i.e. contextualised, meaning to individual occurrences through the synoptic view of the longue durée. It follows that through this particular, first occurrence of a surprising outcome, Polybius exemplifies the unpredictability of fortune in the minutiae of history at the same time as he begins to elucidate his larger theme of fortune’s general partiality vis-à-vis Rome, leading to world rule.46 There exists, in other words, a triangular relationship 46 Polybius’ use of the technique of the illustration of broader issues and general matter through specific events is well discussed with regard to his narrative of the first Illyrian war, which also functions as a small-scale historiographic laboratory for his larger experiment with tyche. (But note that this is not the account’s only function: it also provides

    134

    Roth Gallic Sack

    tyche etc.

    s ate str illu

    illu stra tes

    ἀρχή

    produces

    Roman rule

    figure 5.2 Graphic representation of the triangular relationship between the Gallic Sack, tyche and Roman rule in Polybius

    in Polybius’ history between the Gallic Sack, the seemingly mysterious particular workings of tyche and related causes, and Roman rule. As a result, the Gallic Sack emerges not only as the ἀρχή of Roman rule, but also as the ἀρχή of the Polybian depiction of human fortunes (and misfortunes, however caused) that underpinned the establishment of that rule: Figure 5.2 offers a graphic representation of this triangular relationship.47 By the time Polybius penned his history of Rome’s rise to world power, the outcome must have seemed inevitable to many. That being so, Polybius patently expected his readers to want to know (as he says) “by what steps this power was acquired” by the Romans (1.2.8). In this “step-view”, and notwithstanding Polybius’ focus otherwise on the late third and early second century BC, the Gallic Sack was allocated an important role, as just seen. Polybian readers who followed the historian’s instruction to keep an eye on the longue durée would consequently comprehend later events that drew on tyche to stand in a relationship to this earlier event, both conceptual and historical. This included the extensive exploration of tyche and self-induced misfortunes in the narrative of the capture of Phoenice, irrespective of the event’s marginal, perhaps even irrelevant role in the actual development of Roman rule. In the first part of this paper, I have discussed overlaps and similarities in the narrative motifs and themes between Polybius’ account of the capture of Phoenice and Livy’s Gallic Sack narrative, followed – in the second part of this paper – by discussion of the overlap in the two authors’ exploration of the role of fortune and related factors in the creation of Roman success. In so doing, I have repeatedly pointed out the broader contexts needed to explain the noted overlaps  – especially in the apparent lack of any obvious (other) relationship between the two narrated events –, what Levene has referred to as “extra

    47

    an exemplary characterisation of the “barbarian” for Polybius’ readers, as elaborated by Champion 2004, 111–7, with 193–203 and 241–53.) Polybian concern with the (deeper) causes and (actual) beginnings of things, i.e. the relationship between ἀιτίαι and ἀρχαί, is prominent throughout his history: see e.g. Derow 1979 and (with particular regard to the Illyrians) 1973 (cf. the comments made in note 46 above).

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    reasons” (quoted above). In the present part, however, I have demonstrated precisely the existence of such a relationship between the Gallic Sack and the capture of Phoenice in Polybius’ account – via what one may flippantly want to call the wheel of fortune. As shown, manifestations of tyche & Co. that followed the Gallic Sack were in debt to that first illustration of the unpredictability of fortune besides fortune’s general partiality vis-à-vis Rome, given the Gallic Sack’s role as the ἀρχή of both Polybius’ illustration of the workings of tyche (etc.) and Roman rule. The triangular relationship identified in Polybius’ history – which links events that explore the role of fortune (such as the capture of Phoenice) with the Gallic Sack – provides in my view the extra reason needed to regard the noted parallels between the Polybian account of Phoenice and the Livian Gallic Sack as more than the product of wider commonalities and historiographic typicalities: the link between Phoenice and the Gallic Sack is in Polybius, providing an opening for Livy to draw on that link in his own sack account. And he did so both through the set of motifs and themes discussed in the first part of the paper, and – more probingly – through the exploration of fortune discussed in the second part. It may not be entirely irrelevant for arguing this case that Livy linked diverse events via the use of narrative motifs and themes also elsewhere, so that his readers may interpret the relevant events in relation to one another. Whether such linkages are intra- or intertextual, or at the level of the narrated action (only), the (intended) effect is the same: readers are enticed to recognise the connection and to reflect on its deeper meaning.48 In his analysis of Livy’s use of Polybius for his Hannibalic War narrative, Levene made a strong case for expecting Livy to expect his readers to detect resemblances and parallels with the Polybian text, with particular regard to “extensive similarities of wording and substance between his work and Polybius”.49 The present example falls outside the remit of “extensive similarities of wording”, and there is, evidently, no historical overlap between the capture of Phoenice and the Gallic Sack. But this does not mean that there is no overlap in substance. For Polybius, the substance of his account lay, as already stated, in the explication of the long-term effect of the many individual happenings, i.e. the growth of Roman power – for who would not want to know, to repeat, “by what steps this power was acquired”. The first of these steps, in Polybius’ conceptualisation, was the Gallic Sack. Now, it is of course a long recognised fact that Livy too identified the Gallic Sack as of cardinal importance for understanding Rome’s history, as did many of his Roman contemporaries

    48 See Rossi 2000 for discussion of this Livian technique with regard to the capture of Syracuse in 212BC. 49 Levene 2010, 148; see also note 4 above.

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    and precursors.50 This importance is made plain, for instance, by the event’s location in the Ab urbe condita, at the end of the first pentad – i.e. at the literary crossroads: it is an excellent example of what Kraus has called the “metaphorical identification of [Livy’s] text and the events it describes”.51 But if the Livian account is read with the proposed engagement with Polybius’ text in mind, the focus on the event’s importance is further sharpened: in the light of the sack’s critical role in Polybius’ historical conceptualisation, the Polybian lens helps to build up the significance of the event in Livy’s account. But the Polybian lens does more than this, since it puts the spotlight also on the different positions of the Gallic Sack in the development of Roman rule in the two histories: as just noted, Livy ends his first pentad with the sack, providing a continuation from what was before, while Polybius begins his historical exposition with the sack.52 Thus, the Polybian lens serves to identify the question of the location of the Gallic Sack in the history of Rome’s rise to world power as the crux of the story, showcasing, in consequence, Livy’s quite different handling of the matter. That Livy engaged with, responded to, and corrected other historiographic approaches to the role of the Gallic Sack in the making of Roman world rule is long acknowledged; Claudius Quadrigarius’ assumed divorce of Rome from its history prior to the Gallic Sack is regularly cited in this discussion.53 What I have argued above suggests that we should add Polybius to the list of Livian targets. But if we do, we should perhaps also acknowledge the wider potential of this particular Livian engagement with Polybius’ history: by allocating the Gallic Sack a different role from that favoured by Polybius, is it not more likely than not that Livy sought to set Roman history – understood in the Polybian sense of a historical account over the longue durée that offers explanation – on a new footing? And that he did so not just consciously, but purposefully

    50

    51 52

    53

    The modern discussion of the role of the Gallic Sack in ancient historiography is vast: a succinct summary (as well as example) of the standard view is in Williams 2001, 139–40. For detailed discussion of the different ancient approaches to the event’s place in the history of Roman rule, especially regarding the starting point of that rule, see Frier 1999, 123–54. Kraus 1994, 268. For reasons of analytical clarity, I deliberately avoid here engagement with the theme of re-foundation explored (also) by Livy (despite the interruption of the ransom payment through Camillus, designed to cancel out the Roman surrender: see also note 61 below): for discussion of the theme, as well as the complex mechanisms employed by Livy in Book 5 to build up his continuous, yet also re-founded Roman history, see Kraus 1994, esp. 283–5. See e.g. Frier (1999, 123), who stresses the novelty in Quadrigarius’ (assumed) approach.

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    and boldly, with particular regard to the role given to the Gallic Sack?54 In his discussion of Livy’s engagement with the Polybian narrative of the Hannibalic War, Levene showed that when “Livy improves on Polybius, or points to failings in Polybius’ method, he is not simply engaging in emulation for its own sake: he is making a claim about the true nature of the events of the Hannibalic War”.55 The same, I suggest, is the case with Livy’s engagement with the Polybian take on the Gallic Sack – and that entails an active challenge to the Polybian identification of the event as the ἀρχή of Roman rule. From all this it follows that the seemingly harmless overlaps in the two narratives’ motifs and themes have, in fact, a much more sincere and meaningful function. 5

    Conclusion

    In the first part of this paper, I have presented a dozen narrative motifs and themes that are shared by two seemingly quite different historical texts: Polybius’ account of the capture of Phoenice on the one hand, and Livy’s account of the Gallic Sack on the other. Acknowledging the wider usage of such narrative motifs and themes, the subsequent discussion of another, thirteenth overlap between the two accounts has thrown doubt on the seemingly generic or accidental nature of the occurrence of the presented motifs and themes in Livy’s narrative: the role of fortune. Discussion of Polybius’ complex approach to fortune – tyche – has centred attention on a significant link between his account of the capture of Phoenice and the Gallic Sack of Rome. Viewed in the manner proposed, the role of the Gallic Sack as the starting point – the ἀρχή – of Polybius’ illustration of the workings of tyche on the one hand and on the other Roman rule has been foregrounded. On this basis (and notwithstanding the lack of any intertextual “proof”),56 I have suggested that the overlaps 54

    This can be seen, precisely in the context of Roman imperialism, as a (claim to a) Roman take-over of the historiographic lead that Greek historians had enjoyed in general, and Polybius in particular, with regard to Rome’s history. On these imperialist lines in Livy’s historiographic practice, see also Haimson Lushkov 2018, who speaks of Livy as (p. 46) “an aggressive and domineering author”. 55 Levene 2010, 163, and generally 149–63 for discussion of examples. 56 Discussion of the wider phenomenon of Roman Latin authors’ appropriation of earlier Greek texts is in Hutchinson 2013. My preparedness to argue on the basis of the narratives’ motifs and themes is born from a conviction that the relationship between different works must be comprehensible (also) beyond the text itself. This does not equate to naively falling into the (philological) trap of mistaking (textual) resemblances as automatic evidence for intentional emulation (on which, see Conte 1986, 23–31); rather, it reflects a concern with the historical as illustrated by the actions and the products (material,

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    between Polybius’ account of Phoenice and Livy’s narrative of the Gallic Sack are likely to be more meaningful than they appear at first sight, i.e. that they are the product of Livian engagement with the Polybian text. By copying narrative motifs and themes from a Polybian account that openly puts the spotlight on the relationship between divine and human agency, Livy packages his Gallic Sack account (and the exploration of divine and human agency contained therein) in such a way that his (learned) reader is transported to the Polybian take on tyche and, in consequence, via the synoptic view of the longue durée, to the idea that the Gallic Sack marks the start of Roman rule: Livy’s own, quite different take on the matter is thereby thrown into clear(er) relief, thus demanding reflection and response from his readers on the approach that is to be preferred.57 To be sure, in his study of allusion and intertext in Roman poetry, Hinds has rightly emphasised the many, diverse, and essentially unlimited readings of any one text, speaking in conclusion of a text’s “endless unrepeatability”:58 genre apart, it goes without saying that what Livy may have intended with any one usage of any one earlier text would have met with different responses, some of which would have been closer to the author’s intentions than others, making it moreover excruciatingly difficult also today to gain clarity on his project’s purpose and rationale.59 Another point foregrounded by Hinds is equally pertinent to the present inquiry and the argument offered here, i.e. the relevance of broader cultural milieus that drive artistic production (in which I include historiography).60 Applied to the case here presented, the questions pursued by Polybius and Livy are not restricted to the works of these two historians: the nature of Roman imperium, the empire’s historical development, like the historiographic explanation of that development, as well as of the challenges to that development – these were major questions of their days (however altered and transformed between their days), in some sense weakening the claim for specific historiographic engagements, here by Livy with Polybius. But we may reasonably turn our inquisitive gaze the other way: is it really likely that no intellectual, etc.) of past individuals. Of particular relevance in this context is the fact that Livy explicitly mentions non-textual, oral forms of transmission of historical knowledge with regard to the Gallic Sack (9.4.8, 22.59.7). For an example of a textual demonstration of a Livian usage of a Greek text for his Gallic Sack account, see Kraus 1994, 277–8 (regarding Livy’s “translation” of a Thucydidean passage). See also note 59 below. 57 For in-depth discussion of reader involvement in Livy, see Pausch 2011, 125–250. 58 Hinds 1998, 122. 59 Livy’s many readers, and the (methodological) consequences for the recognition of textual similarities, allusions (and double allusions), and intertexts are discussed in Levene 2010, 91–2, 147–8. 60 See Hinds 1998, 52–98.

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    reader of Livy had (among others) Polybius in mind, and would remember and recall (yet again among other cases) the Polybian capture of Phoenice and its location in the Polybian exploration of the development of Roman rule via the wheel of fortune? The question can be taken further: could Livy have ignored the possibility that some of his readers might have made the connection? We cannot answer for Livy more than we can be certain about Livy’s ultimate aim in his recurrent engagements with Polybius’ history. What we can do, however, is to put our two historians back into the wider cultural milieu that drove the bigger questions that they articulated in their particular histories, and to treat them as evidence for this wider cultural milieu: our question is then no longer whether Livy engaged specifically with Polybius’ text, but what the observable overlaps in the issues that they both dealt with in their texts may tell us about the broader discussions that went on at the time. And from that perspective, their histories are indicative of the significance allocated to the Gallic Sack in the historiographic making of Rome, requiring engagement, dialogue, critique, and reassessment, as is well documented also elsewhere, as duly noted already. But if this is so, does this not make it more likely after all that the wider milieu drove the kind of particular engagement argued for on the foregoing pages – and that we should understand that engagement as evidence for Livy’s efforts to persuade his readers to reject the sack’s lead role championed by Polybius, and to jump instead on the continuation-bandwagon paraded in his own historical account from the foundation of the city? In that view, the noted overlaps in the motifs and themes discussed at the outset emerge as formalistic padding for Livy’s deeper engagement with the Polybian account, including the argument developed in it, from the workings of fortune, to the rise of Roman power.61 The proposed interpretation obviously chimes with recent scholarship on Livy that understands his return to annalistic history and the city’s foundation in terms of historiographic innovation.62 It is relevant for the particular 61

    This interpretation creates, conversely, the need to assess afresh the elements featured in the Polybian narrative that Livy chose not to include. Two contrasts are especially striking: first, the contrast between the rush of the Epirotes to come to the help of the city visà-vis the notorious Camillan delay (Plb. 2.5.5; Liv. 5.48.6 and passim); second, the Epirotes’ request for help from the Aetolian and the Achaean league vis-à-vis the Romans’ lack of a call for help from their allies and neighbours (Plb. 2.6.1; Liv. 5.38.9 and passim). The handling of the ransom motif, i.e. its ultimate denial through the figure of Camillus in the Livian narrative, constitutes another intriguing diversion from the Polybian account on Livy’s part. 62 See e.g. Pausch (2011, 52), who argues that Livy’s choice of form signals that “sein Werk einen  – den übrigen Formen der Erinnerungskultur in der augusteischen Zeit vergleichbaren – Neuansatz in der Bewertung der eigenen Vergangenheit bietet”.

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    contradistinction to Polybius here argued for that Livy’s self-differentiation from Polybius has been noted in other areas too. Thus, in a recent study comparing the Polybian and Livian treatments of a particular emotion, (Roman) anger, Erskine has shown that the two historians focalise from opposing angles exactly in the context of their discussions of Rome’s might: Erskine therefore concluded that, in contradistinction to Polybius, “(t)his surely reflects Livy’s identification with Rome as ruler rather than with the subjects of Rome”.63 For these subjects, in Polybius’ view, Roman success is, at least ultimately, located at the antithetical end of what for the Romans is the positive product of the workings of tyche: it is the misfortune of Greece – τῆς τῶν Ἑλλήνων ἀτυχίας (38.1.1).64 In her recent work on tyche, Hau has rightly emphasised the centrality of “the theme of human ability to cope with good and bad fortune” in Polybius’ text, concluding that “no other ancient historiographer puts this theme front and centre to the same degree”.65 But perhaps that contrast between Polybius and Livy is more apparent than real, and may crack upon closer comparison, as the above discussion implies?66 This is not the place seriously to pick up the conversation on Livy’s stance on Roman rule, or indeed to engage more fully with the debate on Polybius’ take on the matter – even if the presented argument suggests difference and 63 Erskine 2015, 126. See also Walbank’s (1957/1970, 17) comments on the role of Polybius’ (one-sided) perspective in his historical explanation, which gives prominence to tyche. Regarding Livy, note however also Pausch’s (2011, 157–89) careful analysis of diverse focalisation angles in the Ab urbe condita, especially in the context of enemy speeches. 64 I.e. with regard to the sack of Corinth in 146BC, following the sack of Carthage. See also the Polybian tears over the defilement of Greek art by Rome’s soldiers: Plb. 39.2 (= Strabo 8.6.23); cf. 8.20.9–10 and 38.22; but note that the Livian Marcellus shed tears too, at Syracuse (25.24.11–14). 65 Hau 2016, 49. 66 On the importance of fortune to Livy’ history, see already Kajanto 1957, 89: “Livy actually pays more attention to [fortuna/tyche] than to the gods for explaining causes” (but note that Kajanto works with a rigid concept of capriciousness – fickleness – for both tyche and fortuna). The proposed comparison is likely to have broader repercussions for the differentiation between Greek and Roman historiography, especially in the Hellenistic period, as well as on the view (recently expressed in Halfmann 2013, 50) that Polybius would have seen little of value in Livy’s method. What I suggest brings also Polybius’ own sources (of inspiration and disagreement) into sight: brief relevant comments are in Beck 2013, 131–42 (with particular regard to Philinus); several longer analyses are in Schepens & Bollansée 2005. Candau Morón 2005 rightly points to Timaeus, and the triangular relationship between Polybius’ and later historians’ (shared) sources, and his own (direct) influence on these later historians. Note also Miltsios’ (2013, 2–3 and passim) recent emphasis on the content of the form in Polybius, and notes 4, 6 and 7 above. For discussion of the deeper differences between Greeks and Romans writing history, see generally Marincola 1997 (with brief summary at 264–6). Note also Deininger’s (2013, 111) contention that there is a need for a broader study of tyche in ancient historiography.

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    contradistinction on the part of Livy, in place of agreement and alignment with Polybius.67 But I hope at least to have persuaded some of my readers that in the two accounts of interest here, similarities in the motifs and themes combine with the exploration of the role of fortune to confront the Livian reader with a question that goes way beyond the riddle constituted by the crossing of the enemy siege lines or the unexpectedness of the rescue: what view is one to take of the historical growth of Roman rule?68 In sum, I contend that the Livian usage of the past as conceived by Polybius is likely to have much to offer to our understanding of Livy’s own historiographic project, especially regarding some of the larger issues with which the Ab urbe condita is concerned. And in this, the narrated developments prior to the Hannibalic War deserve serious attention, including the period before the start of the Polybian narrative proper:69 the focus must be on the narratological and historiographic craft on show, to elucidate, ultimately, the deeper causes for Livy’s engagement with his great Greek precursor.

    Acknowledgements

    I am grateful to Aske Damtoft Poulsen and Arne Jönsson for inviting me to participate in their “Usages of the Past in Roman Historiography” conference in January 2018 (and for the wonderful hospitality in Lund!), as well as for their 67 The question of Polybius’ position on Roman success has attracted diverse answers. At one extreme, Polybius has been regarded a partisan of Rome (e.g. Mellor 1998, 16, regarding Polybius’ relationship with Scipio); a more moderate view has seen a growing Polybian frustration over Roman practice, esp. from the Second Macedonian War onwards (e.g. Eckstein 1995); a more recent trend has been to highlight by contrast his narrative’s consistencies, focused from the start on a critical take on Roman self-interest and aggression (e.g. Miltsios 2013, 13–57; but see also already Derow 1979 on how to avoid a contradictory reading). The scholarly disagreement extends to the role of tyche in the Polybian position on Rome. Eckstein’s contribution has been seminal in identifying the (p. 259) “deep and pervasive fatalism in the face of Tyche”, esp. in Polybius’ later books; but in the early books too, Eckstein contends, “the sense of Polybian humility before intractable and mysterious processes is also already unmistakable”. Against this view, see Maier 2012a, who argues for a more hopeful aspect of the human dimension in Polybius’s text, i.e. what he sums up as (p. 352) “hoffnungsstiftende Ermunterung angesichts des Machbaren”. 68 I explore in a separate study one particular aspect of the Romans’ unexpected rescue (i.e. no. 12 in the list of overlaps here discussed) that speaks to this question: Roth 2020. 69 The complexity of identifying the start of the narrative proper in Polybius’ history has been explored in Miltsios 2013, 6–29; relevant for the present inquiry is that all the (formal) starting points entertained by Polybius fall before the periods typically subject to Livian-Polybian comparisons. See also Beck 2013 for a related discussion of beginnings, introductions, and turning-points in Polybius.

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    Kraus, C.S. (1994). “‘No Second Troy’: topoi and refoundation in Livy, Book V”, Transactions of the American Philological Association 124, 267–289. Levene, D.S. (1993). Religion in Livy, Leiden & Boston. Levene, D.S. (2010). Livy on the Hannibalic War, Oxford & New York. Levithan, J. (2013). Roman Siege Warfare, Ann Arbor. Lichocka, B. (1997). L’iconographie de Fortuna dans l’empire romain (Ier siècle avant n.è.– IV e siècle de n.è.), Warsaw. Luce, T.J. (1971). “Design and structure in Livy: 5.32–55”, Transactions of the American Philological Association 102, 265–302. Maier, F.K. (2012a). ‘Überall mit dem Unerwarteten rechnen’: Die Kontingenz historischer Prozesse bei Polybius, Munich. Maier, F.K. (2012b). “Learning from history παρὰ δόξαν: a new approach to Polybius’ manifold view of the past”, Histos 6, 144–168. Marincola, J. (1997). Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography, Cambridge. Matheson, S.B. (1994). An Obsession with Fortune: Tyche in Greek and Roman Art, New Haven, CT. McGing, B.C. (2010). Polybius’ Histories, Oxford & New York. Mellor, R. (ed.) (1998). The Historians of Ancient Rome, London & New York. Miles, G.B. (1995). Livy: Reconstructing Early Rome, London & Ithaca, NY. Miltsios, N. (2013). The Shaping of Narrative in Polybius, Berlin. Mineo, B. (2003). “Camille, Dux fatalis”, in G. Lachenaud & D. Longrées (eds.), Grecs et Romains aux prises avec l’histoire (Rennes): 159–175. Moore, D.W. (2020). Polybius: Experience and the Lessons of History, Leiden & Boston. Nissen, H. (1863). Kritische Untersuchungen über die Quellen der vierten und fünften Dekade des Livius, Berlin. Oakley, S. (1997). A Commentary on Livy, Books VI–X, vol. 1, Oxford. Ogilvie, R.M. (1965). A Commentary on Livy, Books 1–5, Oxford. Paul, G.M. (1982). “Urbs capta: sketch of an ancient literary motif”, Phoenix 36, 144–155. Pausch, D. (2011). Livius und der Leser: Narrative Strukturen in ab urbe condita, Munich. Pédech, P. (1964). La méthode historique de Polybe, Paris. Richardson, J. (2012). The Fabii and the Gauls: Studies in Historical Thought and Historiography in Republican Rome, Stuttgart. Rossi, A. (2000). “The tears of Marcellus: history of a literary motif in Livy”, Greece & Rome 47, 56–66. Roth, J.P. (2006). “Siege narrative in Livy: representation and reality”, in S. Dillon & K. Welch (eds.), Representations of War in Ancient Rome (Cambridge & New York): 49–67. Roth, U. (2018). “The Gallic ransom and the Sack of Rome: Livy 5.48.7–8”, Mnemosyne 71, 460–484.

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    Roth, U. (2020). “Was Camillus right? Roman history and narratological strategy in Livy 5.49.2”, Classical Quarterly 70, 212–229. Roveri, A. de (1956/1982). “Tyche bei Polybios”, in K. Stiewe & N. Holzberg (eds.), Polybios (Darmstadt): 297–326. (orig. published as “Tyche in Polibio”, Convivium 24, 275–293). Sacks, K. (1981). Polybius on the Writing of History, London, Berkeley & Los Angeles. Schepens, G. & Bollansée, J. (eds.) (2005). The Shadow of Polybius: Intertextuality as a Research Tool in Greek Historiography, Leuven. Shorey, P. (1921). “Τύχη in Polybios”, Classical Philology 16, 280–283. Strohm, H. (1944). Tyche: Zur Schicksalsauffassung bei Pindar und den frühgriechischen Dichtern, Stuttgart. Tränkle, H. (1977). Livius und Polybius, Basel & Stuttgart. Walbank, F.W. (1957/1970). A Historical Commentary on Polybius, vol. 1, Oxford. Walbank, F.W. (1972). Polybius, London, Berkeley & Los Angeles. Walbank, F.W. (2007). “Fortune (tychê) in Polybius”, in J. Marincola (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography (Oxford & Malden, MA): 349–355. Warde Fowler, W. (1903). “Polybius’ conception of Τύχη”, Classical Review 17, 445–449. Williams, J.H.C. (2001). Beyond the Rubicon: Romans and Gauls in Republican Italy, Oxford. Witte, K. (1910). “Über die Form der Darstellung in Livius’ Geschichtswerk”, Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 65, 270–305, 359–419. Ziegler, K. (1952). “Polybios”, Realencyclopädie der Classischen Altertumswissenschaft, vol. 21.2, 1440–1578.

    Chapter 6

    Livy’s Faliscan Schoolmaster Christina Shuttleworth Kraus 1

    History and comparatio

    The fifth book of Livy’s History is famously balanced between two great panels, the siege and capture of the Etruscan city of Veii and the Gallic siege and capture of Rome.1 That balance suggests a kind of parity between the big powers Rome and Etruria, while with the interplay among Rome and its neighbors, Livy explores ethnographical differences. In the middle of the book lies an ethnogeography of Etruria and Gaul, which has extensive ties both to Book 1 and to later Livian portrayals of Hannibal and (one presumes) of Caesar, though those books of the Ab urbe condita are lost.2 The ethno-geography faces in two directions, first toward Etruria – it begins with Clusium (33.1) – and then toward Gaul, anchoring the larger narratives. The space of Book 5 is thus densely inhabited by people and peoples who will someday become Roman. Livy is not sparing in his portrayal of the violence attending that “Romanisation”, a process that begins with the History’s very first sentence (“Now first of all, it is generally agreed that after the capture of Troy”, iam primum omnium satis constat Troia capta, 1.1.1).3 With their concentration on multiplicity, development, and often violent change, much of the first five books of the Ab urbe condita is devoted to understanding how these Trojan refugees form the immigrant state of Rome, and how it functions. How are its different, varied parts related, and how do they come together to make a unity – if they do? Which historical actions and their outcomes are healthy, and which are not? How does exemplarity, the engine that drives Livy’s history, contribute to growth, and how does it threaten it? That exploration is concentrated at the 1 For the balance of the book, see Burck 1934, 109; Ogilvie 1970, 626; Levene 1993, 175; Oakley 2015, 230–1. For an in-depth treatment of the Gallic sack of Rome in Livy (and Polybius), see Roth in this volume. 2 Khellaf 2018, 166–91. On these Livian (and other) ethno-geographies in Roman literature, see also Khellaf in this volume. 3 In this, Livy is in company with Virgil, among others; for the historical process of “Romanisation”, with critique of that over-simple term, see Johnston (2017, 3–7 and passim) and Roth 2019, both with further bibliography.

    © Christina Shuttleworth Kraus, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004445086_008

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    pentad’s conclusion, Book 5, in which Latins, Etruscans, Italians, Greeks, and Gauls – many, from Livy’s authorial standpoint, now enfranchised Romans – occupy the busy stage, while Romans behave like Gauls (36.1), and a pirate king like a Roman (28.3). This paper examines one of the book’s shorter “individual stories”, or Einzelerzählungen: the account of the Faliscan schoolmaster and the surrender of Falerii Veteres.4 I go on to analyse issues arising from that account in Livy’s text, with particular attention to Liparae and the role of Camillus. I consider how in these Livy deploys the principle of comparatio, which is both a rhetorical and a historiographical trope in which comparison (including simile, contraries, analogies, etc.) is used to enhance enargeia (“narrative clarity”, Rhet. Her. 4.60), to give clarity to an argument (Rhet. Her. 4.59), and to prove a point (Rhet. Her. 4.59, Cic. Inu. 1.46–49).5 Rhetorically, comparatio is used to compare and contrast character, actions, and story parts, often in legal or forensic argument; it forms the basis of formal elements such as the priamel and is particularly useful in structures of praise and blame.6 Historiographical comparatio is an essential tool not only for evaluating actions and their consequences, but also – in its incarnations as the figures of simile, metaphor, synecdoche, and metonymy (e.g. Quint. Inst. 8.6.8–9)  – for demonstrating how otherwise incomprehensible, unique actions resemble, surpass, or fall short of experience(s) we have already grappled with, and in some ways already understand. If new events are by definition inusitata atque inaudita (“unseen and unheard”), the historian can bring them comprehensibly before our eyes by showing how they are like, or unlike, things we already know.7 Such comparative representations often self-consciously become models for the narratives of later historical events. For a Roman historian, comparatio and exemplarity are inextricably entwined.8 4 The fundamental discussion of Livian “episodes” is Witte 1910. See also Roth in this volume, p. 124. 5 Like all ancient rhetorical terms, comparatio has a number of synonyms/subsections and is broadly defined; for discussion of the Roman terminology, see McCall (1969, esp. 57–86) on the Ad Herennium; cf. Kneepkens 1994; Lausberg 1960/1998, 625–6 (Index). On energeia, see esp. Walker 1993; Webb 1997 and 2016. 6 Cf. Lausberg 1960/1998, §394–397. 7 Christopher Krebs reminds me that the ethnographical rhetoric of “otherness” is key here; see Hartog 1980/1988. 8 See e.g. McCall 1969, 78–9 (on Rhet. Her. 4.62); cf. Kraus 2009; on Roman exemplarity in general, see Chaplin 2000; Langlands 2018; Roller 2018. For a brief discussion of assimilating the unknown to the known in Roman contexts, see Bek 1976, 154–5; Oakley 1997, 9–10.

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    figure 6.1 The story of the Faliscan Schoolmaster has inspired various artistic creations. Left: “Camillus and the Schoolmaster of Falerii”, by Domenico Corvi (1721–1803). Right: “School-boys flogging the School-master”, by John Leech (1817–1864).

    2

    Faliscan Learning

    The account of Falerii comprises chapters 26 and 27 of Book 5; it is teased in 5.24 and capped in 5.28. After the capture of Veii in 396BC, the Romans engage in mopping-up operations on two fronts: internally, there are serious problems about the distribution of booty from the wealthy Etruscan city; externally, local conflicts continue with some Veian allies, especially the Capenates and the Faliscans.9 Capenae is briskly dealt with by a scorched-earth policy (5.24.2–3). Falerii, defended both by its terrain and by its stubborn inhabitants, will take a little longer. We will return to the first stage of that war; but once the Faliscans have retreated inside their settlement – variously called an oppidum (12.5, 26.5, 9) or an urbs (26.3, 7, 9, 27.2)10 – the Roman commander Camillus mounts a full-blown investment with siege works (obsidio inde et munitiones, 26.9). Sieges are by definition sedentary. But because they offer potential for actions to be witnessed by captive audiences on one or both sides of the conflict, 9 On Capena, see Oakley 1997, ad 6.4.4. 10 A.J. Woodman suggests to me that by using urbs Livy may be inviting us to think of Rome, and hence deepening the comparatio between the two settlements. On oppidum, see BNP s.v. “oppidum”; on urbs ~ oppidum in Caesar, see Krebs (Forthcoming, ad Gal. 7.15.1 urbes), who well compares Servius’ interpretation of Anna’s use of urbs: Serv. ad Verg. A. 4.40: ad terrorem ‘urbes’ posuit: nam in mapalibus habitabant, “he uses ‘cities’ to inspire terror: for [the Carthaginians] lived in huts”.

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    they play an outsized role in military narrative.11 In this case, Livy takes advantage of his introductory statement that time was being “worn away” (teri tempus, 26.9), to expend narrative energy in what one might characterise as a trite, domestic story about children and their teacher, in which the peripheral becomes central, and where narrative time slows down considerably to suggest the longeurs of the siege and the repetitive action of the schoolmaster’s daily field trips.12 The ethnographical tag which introduces the story, mos erat Faliscis (“there was a custom among the Faliscans”, 27.1), suggests a digressive moment, but that moment, it is soon revealed, is instead the historiographical center of the city’s fall. The action is set in the theatrical space between Roman and Etruscan lines, between the circumvallation and the town walls (5.27): mos erat Faliscis eodem magistro liberorum et comite uti, simulque plures pueri, quod hodie quoque in Graecia manet, unius curae demandabantur. principum liberos, sicut fere fit, qui scientia uidebatur praecellere erudiebat. is cum in pace instituisset pueros ante urbem lusus exercendique causa producere, nihil eo more per belli tempus intermisso, [dum] modo breuioribus modo longioribus spatiis trahendo eos a porta, lusu sermonibusque uariatis, longius solito ubi res dedit progressus, inter stationes eos hostium castraque inde Romana in praetorium ad Camillum perduxit. ibi scelesto facinori scelestiorem sermonem addit, Falerios se in manus Romanis tradidisse, quando eos pueros quorum parentes capita ibi rerum sint in potestatem dediderit. quae ubi Camillus audiuit, ‘non ad similem’ inquit, ‘tui nec populum nec imperatorem scelestus ipse cum scelesto munere uenisti … sunt et belli, sicut pacis, iura, iusteque ea non minus quam fortiter didicimus gerere … eos tu quantum in te fuit nouo scelere uicisti: ego Romanis artibus, uirtute opere armis, sicut Veios uincam’. denudatum deinde eum manibus post tergum inligatis reducendum Falerios pueris tradidit, uirgasque eis quibus proditorem agerent in urbem uerberantes dedit. ad quod spectaculum concursu populi primum facto, deinde a magistratibus de re noua uocato senatu, 11 For an overview of Roman sieges with special emphasis on morale, see Roth 2006 and Levithan 2013; for the urbs capta, see Paul 1982 and Kraus 1994b, both with further bibliography. The teichoskopia has been a popular topos, from Homer to Monty Python; there is a relatively precise parallel for the location of the Faliscan story in Caesar Gal. 7.78, between the town walls and the Roman circumvallation (cf. 7.79.3: erat ex oppido Alesia despectus in campum, “one looked down from the town of Alesia onto the plain”). 12 The relation of narrated to narrative time is a cornerstone of narratology; for a theoretically informed discussion of it in the Greek historians, see Rood 2007, 120–2, 137–9, 150–3, 167–72.

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    tanta mutatio animis est iniecta ut qui modo efferati odio iraque Veientium exitum paene quam Capenatium pacem mallent, apud eos pacem uniuersa posceret ciuitas. fides Romana, iustitia imperatoris in foro et curia celebrantur; consensuque omnium legati ad Camillum in castra, atque inde permissu Camilli Romam ad senatum, qui dederent Falerios proficiscuntur. Introducti ad senatum ita locuti traduntur: ‘patres conscripti, uictoria cui nec deus nec homo quisquam inuideat uicti a uobis et imperatore uestro, dedimus nos uobis, rati, quo nihil uictori pulchrius est, melius nos sub imperio uestro quam legibus nostris uicturos. euentu huius belli duo salutaria exempla prodita humano generi sunt: uos fidem in bello quam praesentem uictoriam maluistis; nos fide prouocati uictoriam ultro detulimus … nec uos fidei nostrae nec nos imperii uestri paenitebit’ … pace data exercitus Romam reductus. There was a custom among the Faliscans to employ the same man as teacher and companion of their children, and several boys used to be entrusted to one man’s care, a custom which exists even today in Greece. As tends to happen, the man who seemed to excel in learning instructed the children of the leaders. This man had started the practice, in peacetime, of taking the boys before the city for games and exercise; not abandoning the custom in time of war, drawing them sometimes a shorter, sometimes a longer distance from the gate, keeping up play and varied conversations, when the chance offered he went on farther than usual, and thence took them among the enemy outposts, into the Roman camp and up to Camillus in his headquarters. There he added to his wicked act a wickeder utterance: he had delivered Falerii into the hands of the Romans, since he had given those boys, whose fathers were the heads of affairs there, into their power. Hearing this Camillus said, ‘You have not come to a nation or a commander like yourself, you wicked man with your wicked gift … There are rights of war as of peace, and we have learned to wage them no less rightfully than bravely … You, as far as you could, have conquered these by unprecedented wickedness; I shall conquer them as I did Veii, by Roman arts, courage, strategy, force of arms.’ Stripped and with his hands tied behind his back, he delivered the schoolmaster to the boys to be led back to Falerii; he gave them rods with which to drive the traitor while beating him back into the city. The people at first rushed together to see the sight, then the magistrates convened the senate to discuss the unprecedented matter; such a change of feeling came over them that the very people who just now, maddened with hate and anger, had practically preferred the death of the Veians to the peace of the Capenates,

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    now found the entire state asking them for peace. The Roman sense of honour, the justice of the commander, were celebrated in the forum and the senate-house, and with the agreement of all, ambassadors went to Camillus in the camp, and thence with Camillus’ permission to the senate in Rome, to surrender Falerii. Introduced into the senate, they are reported to have spoken thus: ‘Conscript fathers, conquered by you and your general in a victory which neither god nor man can grudge, we surrender ourselves to you, thinking … that we will live better under your rule than under our own laws. Through the outcome of this war two salutary exempla have been set forth for mankind: you have preferred good faith in war to a victory in your hands; we, called out by your good faith, have voluntarily given you that victory … Neither shall you regret our loyalty, nor we your rule.’ … After the peace was granted, the army was led back to Rome. Wherever we decide this siege narrative starts  – whether with obsidio inde at 26.9 (see above) or mos erat Faliscis at 27.1 (the beginning of the modern paragraph)  – it closes with a typical historiographical finale at 27.15, where characters and narrative return to Rome following a capping ablative absolute (pace data exercitus Romam reductus).13 A well-framed episode suggests a tidy meaning.14 Just so, Livy’s account of the magister liberorum et comes, or παιδευτὴς  … καὶ διδάσκαλος (“educator and teacher”, Plut. Cam. 10.3), as Plutarch calls him,15 tidily compares and contrasts the temperaments and character of Faliscans and Romans. Each actor synecdochically represents a larger group. Livy’s Camillus stands in for the Romans (sometimes the Senate deals directly with the schoolteacher, as in Valerius Maximus); the Faliscan parents are capita rerum, “heads of affairs”, and the children are Falerii itself. The idea of a person being representative of a type of action or of a national trait is at the heart of exemplarity, the mode of interpretation that dominates Rome’s historiographical imagination and its cultural memory. Exemplary action is repeatable action: so the schoolmaster offers Camillus a model, a script which the Roman refuses, replacing it with the inverse action: similar (taking a symbolic object across space; in both cases, the children) but reversing the 13 14 15

    For the kind of language, see Oakley 1997, 122–5, 128; on this particular closural motif, see Kraus 1994a ad 6.4.1. On frames and how they affect our reading/seeing, see Goffman 1974; Duro 1996; Platt & Squire 2017 with further bibliography. Other versions of the schoolmaster are at D.H. 13.1.1–2, V. Max. 6.5.1 (“Concerning justice”), Fron. 4.4.1 (“Concerning justice”), Plut. Cam. 10, Flor. 1.6.5, Polyaen. 8.7.1, D.C. 6.24.2–3, De uir. illus. 23.1.

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    original direction (and the power relationship, as the children now drive the teacher), and with it the meaning of the deed. The repetition of tradidisse in tradidit (27.4  ~  27.9) underscores the relationship between the two actions, while Camillus’ iura … didicimus (27.6) replaces the Greekish schoolmaster’s scientia (27.2) with homegrown wisdom.16 Exemplary action demands communal witnessing to recognise and ratify it: someone has to see the action, compare it with its original, and judge its success or failure.17 The return of the schoolmaster in the beating hands of his pupils is a spectaculum which causes a crowd to form (27.10). This, in turn, produces a new gathering of the Faliscan senate and a change of heart, with peace demanded by the entire state (uniuersa posceret ciuitas, 27.10), a clear indication of communal acceptance and ratification through imitation of the exemplary demonstration of Roman fides and iustitia. In consequence of Falerii’s promise of their own fides to Rome, together with their submission, neither town nor inhabitants plays any further role in the book. They have effectively become part of the greater imperium Romanum, losing their differences.18 It is perhaps Livy’s full stop at 27.15 that has led scholars to accord this episode a surface reading,19 in which it has been found interesting primarily as a textbook example of an exemplum. The account, in Gowing’s view, “sets up a conflict of Greek vs. Roman values, an exemplum serving as a specimen uirtutis”; it appears to be “a self-contained episode with an explicit and moral message delivered by the historian’s surrogates”.20 As the quotation from Gowing shows, the end of 5.26 has encouraged this reading: uidebaturque aeque diuturnus futurus labor ac Veiis fuisset, ni fortuna imperatori Romano simul et cognitae rebus bellicis uirtutis specimen et maturam uictoriam dedisset (“the work 16 Scientia implies technical skill or knowledge (OLD 2) and is also often used to translate the philosophical term ἐπιστήμη (OLD 1b; cf. Glucker 1995, 118). Livy has the word four times in the extant History, only here unqualified by a genitive – otherwise at 32.12.3 (scientia et genere armorum, “skill and type of arms”), 37.30.2 (sc. remigum, “of oars”), and 39.40.5 (sc. iuris, “of law”) –, suggesting that at 27.2 he intends “philosophy” rather than “know-how” or “expertise”. 17 Roller 2018, 6; see also Wilcox 2006 for audiences validating exemplary actions. 18 For the history of Falerii Veteres, see Cifani 2013; Farrell 2014; on the Capenates and Faliscans, see now Tabolli & Neri 2019. 19 For an introduction to the idea of “surface reading”, see Best & Marcus 2009, esp. 9: “A surface is what insists on being looked at rather than what we must train ourselves to see through”. 20 Gowing 2009, 339 (channelling Ogilvie 1970, 685–6). The second quotation is from Chaplin 2015, who goes on to deepen and broaden our understanding of Livy’s Camillus; she rightly sees the Falerii episode as initially inviting a simple response. On Camillus, see further note 51 below.

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    seemed likely to be as long as at Veii, had not fortune granted the Roman commander at once a model of that uirtus which had already been known/proved in deeds of war, and an early victory”, 26.10).21 Livy here appears to direct us unswervingly toward understanding the upcoming story as a “proof” or “sign” of uirtus, and hence to read it as one of the stories Ogilvie liked to point out – and dismiss – as involving a “great personality or … stirring legend”.22 Specimen has both the sense of “evidence” and of “example” (OLD 1, 2). Fortuna gave Camillus an opportunity to display the Roman uirtus that had already been recognised or proven (cognitae) in war, and allowed him to provide a model of it for future generations/readers. Models do not, however, produce simple copies.23 The language here is difficult;24 but whatever reading we choose, Livy characteristically reminds us of the reciprocal temporality of exemplary action. Every exemplum points both at the past, i.e. to the time of action, and at the future, i.e. to the time of imitation.25 That temporal gap is in turn an interpretative gap, which the reader must bridge: what should be imitated, what avoided, and how? What are the consequences of imitation or of avoidance? The key language in 26.10 directs us not so much toward passive inspection as toward active evaluation, and a sense of the counterfactual possibilities implicit in any historical narrative. In his Preface to Books 1–5, Livy invites us to a collaborative enterprise between author and reader;26 and throughout his history, where he does explicitly model ways of interpreting historical events, he uses words such as intueri, documentum, cognitio, or specimen, all of which suggest active participation through intellectual action. What, then, can we see in this story? The siege of Falerii begins with one of Livy’s favourite reciprocities, between besieger and besieged: obsidio inde urbis et munitiones … et teri tempus neutro inclinata spe, cum frumentum copiaeque aliae ex ante conuecto largius obsessis quam obsidentibus suppeterent (“Thence [began] a siege of the city and fortifications  … Time was being worn away and hope inclined to neither side: since grain and other supplies had been previously collected, the besieged 21 22 23 24 25 26

    On the role of fortune in Livy (and Polybius), see Roth in this volume. Ogilvie 1970, 567. There is no better treatment of this than Rimmon-Kenan 1980. On the text, see Ogilvie 1959, 283–4. Chaplin 2000, 197–8. Praef. 10: hoc illud est praecipue in cognitione rerum salubre ac frugiferum, omnis te exempli documenta in inlustri posita monumento intueri; inde tibi tuaeque rei publicae quod imitere capias, inde foedum inceptu foedum exitu quod uites, “There is this exceptionally beneficial and fruitful advantage to be derived from the study of history, that you see, set on a welllit monument, teaching examples of every possible type. From these you may select for yourself and your country what to imitate, and also what, as being foul in its inception and foul in its issue, to avoid”; see Moles 1993; Kraus 1994a, 13–5 and passim.

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    were better provisioned than the besiegers”, 26.9).27 The verbal structure is reflected by the built structures in 27.2, where the action hovers in the space between the besieged (urbis) and the besiegers (stationes). The besieged are paradoxically in the better position, having supplied the town in advance with grain and other necessities, and being able to move outside Falerii, while the Romans apparently keep to their fortifications. The episode concludes with another favourite reciprocity, between victor and vanquished. The Faliscans speak: patres conscripti, uictoria cui nec deus nec homo quisquam inuideat uicti a uobis et imperatore uestro, dedimus nos uobis, rati … melius nos sub imperio uestro quam legibus nostris uicturos (27.12, translation above). Here paronomastic play opens up the future of Falerii not just to being defeated (uicti) but to life under Roman rule (uicturos).28 The centre of the episode comprises balanced sections, starting with the movement of teacher and pupils across space, from urbs to stationes, followed in the Roman camp by oratio obliqua as the magister surrenders his charges (27.4), then by Camillus’ oratio recta (27.5–8). A second scene of movement takes teacher and pupils across the same space, reversing their direction, as we have seen, followed by implied oratio obliqua as Falerii decides to surrender (27.10–11), then by oratio recta in the Roman Senate (27.12–14).29 In these counterpoised sections, the concept of equality, what is aequus (“equal” or “fair”, but literally “even” or “level”) is explored by repeated use of comparison and contrast.30 Immediately following on the comparative expression largius obsessis quam obsidentibus (26.9) is the sentence we have considered above, for specimen uirtutis (26.10). Here Livy proposes a potential historical parallel for the current siege, to which it immediately presents a counterargument. The investment of Falerii Veteres would have been aeque diuturnus, “equally long”, as that of Veii – but it was not.31 This suggestion of near equivalence invites us to look for comparative structures in what follows. Indeed, the account is full of them. The apparent flatness of the static siege, in which time was worn away with neither side gaining the advantage, gives way to polar expressions denoting 27 28 29 30 31

    For the topos of hungry besiegers, see Vell. 2.51.2 with Woodman 1983, ad loc., with good examples of the polyptotic obsessi ~ obsidentes. For the so-called “confessio imperii”, continued in 27.13, see Vell. 2.90.1 with Woodman 1983, ad loc.; for further bibliography on the serious business of paronomasia, see Kraus 1998. An ABab, or interwoven, structure. For word order patterns structuring thought on a large scale, see Kraus 1994a, 21–4 (on Livy’s patterns) and Quint 2018 (an extended discussion of chiasmus in Virgil). For comparatio and aequitas, see Cic. Top. 68–71 with Reinhardt 2003, ad loc. For counterfactuals in Livy, see Morello 2002; more generally Brodersen 2000; Pelling 2013.

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    spectra of active and passive, high and low, near and far. The magister seemed to excel all others in knowledge (qui scientia uidebatur praecellere, 27.2) but is proven to be of low enough status to be beaten by children.32 The distances that the children travel are measured as “longer” (longioribus), “shorter” (breuioribus), and “longer than usual” (longius solito) rather than by definitive numbers; wickeder word is added to wicked deed (scelesto facinori scelestiorem sermonem addit), a repetition that Camillus himself repeats in refusing the similarity (non ad similem … tui … scelestus ipse cum scelesto munere uenisti). The web of reciprocal and repeating language further showcases a remarkable number of coordinated conceptual pairs: war and peace (sunt et belli sicut pacis iura, 27.6); society and nature (societas … natura, 27.6); word and deed (facinori … sermonem, 27.4); power and law (imperio … legibus, 26.12); god and man (nec deus nec homo, 26.12); parents and children (pueros … parentes, 26.4); people and magistrates (populi … magistratibus, 26.10); citizens and enemies (et ab hostibus et a ciuibus, 26.15); Roman and non-Roman. This antitheticallystructured rhetoric in its density pushes the reader to question the nature and inevitable self-deconstruction of such polar opposites.33 These pairs open up wider ramifications. Though Livy introduces the episode as a specimen given to the Roman leader of military uirtus, the Faliscan embassy offers a reinterpretation of the action, identifying two paradigms arising from the matter for the whole human race, comprising the Roman valuation of fides over victory, and the consequent Faliscan granting of victory without force. The connection to Livy’s historiographical theory is evident from the Faliscans’ use of language familiar from Praef. 10 (quoted in note 26 above): euentu (~ exitu) huius belli duo salutaria (~ salubre) exempla (~  exempli) prodita humano generi sunt: uos fidem in bello quam praesentem uictoriam maluistis; nos fide prouocati uictoriam ultro detulimus (27.13, translation above). Insistence on extending the field of relevance of a given action is a key aspect of exemplary thought. That wider significance should already have been apparent to readers tracking ethnographical details. The Faliscans are introduced as a people who had a custom that still remains today, in Greece (27.1), a detail recalling Falerii Veteres’ legendary Argive foundation34 and forming part of the web of connections set up in Book 5 with the wider world, including

    32 33 34

    Here, of course, the idea of the biter bit – shades of plagosus Orbilius – comes into play (Ogilvie 1970, 685). On antithesis, see Bek 1976; Lausberg 1960/1998. See Horsfall 2000, ad Verg. A. 7.723–732.

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    Greece (e.g. 15.3) as well as Etruria, other Italic tribes, and Gaul.35 But the emphatic hodie quoque reminds us, of course, that at the time of writing, the Faliscans had Roman customs. And indeed, when Camillus returns the schoolteacher to Falerii, the scene becomes distinctly Roman, with a concursus populi, magistrates, a Senate, a forum, and a curia. When the Faliscans are granted permission to go to Rome, they speak with confidence in that Senate, using language borrowed from Livy’s Preface, as we have just seen; they also insert themselves into the dynamics of iustitia and fides, claiming that their own fides will in turn be of benefit to the Romans. It is possible to dismiss this language, despite its density, as typical interpretatio Romana – in effect anticipating Falerii’s eventual assimilation to Rome (above, note 28) –, but the wider context merits a closer look. Livy frames the Faliscan story in such a way that readers may question whether the episode is really closed at 27.15 (exercitus Romam reductus). Upon Camillus’ return to Rome, Livy compares his behaviour to that of his triumphal glory after Veii (28.1; cf. 23.4–6): Camillus, meliore multo laude quam cum triumphantem albi per urbem uexerant equi insignis, iustitia fideque hostibus uictis cum in urbem redisset, taciti eius uerecundiam non tulit senatus quin sine mora uoti liberaretur. Camillus returned to the City with far better praise than when white horses had carried him in his triumph, having conquered the enemy by justice and good faith. Though he was silent, the senate could not bear the mild shame of their own position (uerecundiam), but at once freed him from his vow. This is the final appearance in this part of Book 5 of a recurrent comparison between the two city captures.36 Here, at the end of the war with Falerii, Livy singles out uerecundia, a kind of “mild and strategic sort of fear” which “animates the art of knowing your proper place in every social transaction”.37 Earlier, just before the war, the Senate agreed to thank Delphic Apollo for the oracle that had helped secure victory over Veii (25.10–12):

    35 36 37

    For comparing peoples across time in Greco-Roman historiography, see Krebs 2010, 210. Falerii compared to Veii: 5.26.10, 27.8, 27.10, 28.1 (later, less explicitly, at 37.1, 43.7). Kaster 2005, 16, 27.

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    crateram auream fieri placuit quae donum Apollini Delphos portaretur. simul ab religione animos remiserunt, integrant seditionem tribuni plebis; … absentes ferociter increpant; praesentium, cum se ultro iratis offerrent, uerecundiam habent. It was decided that a golden bowl should be made and carried to Delphi as a gift to Apollo. As soon as the religious question no longer burdened their spirits, the tribunes of the plebs renewed the unrest … [The multitude] fiercely rebuked their opponents when these were absent; but when [the senators] came of their own accord up to the angry crowd, they experienced uerecundia in their presence. The echo of uerecundia at 28.1, together with the detail about the crater (quoted in 28.2, below), opens up the frame of the Faliscan story to different narrative emphases. This wider frame revives the issue of distributing the Veian spoils and includes yet another ethnographical scenario, the curious detail of Liparae (5.28.2–5):38 crateramque auream donum Apollini Delphos legati qui ferrent, L. Valerius L. Sergius A. Manlius, missi longa una naue, haud procul freto Siculo a piratis Liparensium excepti deuehuntur Liparas. mos erat ciuitatis uelut publico latrocinio partam praedam diuidere. forte eo anno in summo magistratu erat Timasitheus quidam, Romanis uir similior quam suis; qui legatorum nomen donumque et deum cui mitteretur et doni causam ueritus ipse multitudinem quoque, quae semper ferme regenti est similis, religionis iustae impleuit, adductosque in publicum hospitium legatos cum praesidio etiam nauium Delphos prosecutus, Romam inde sospites restituit. hospitium cum eo senatus consulto est factum donaque publice data. Ambassadors – L. Valerius L. Sergius A. Manlius – were sent to carry the golden bowl, a gift to Apollo, to Delphi, in a single warship; not far from the Sicilian strait they were captured by Liparan pirates and taken to Liparae. It was the custom for the state, as if through public brigandage, to distribute the plunder thus acquired. By chance that year in the supreme magistracy was a certain Timasitheus, a man more like the Romans than 38

    Burck (1934, 121) remarks on the continuation of the theme of ancient Roman mores; see Khellaf (2018, 245–6) for the tendency of digressions to take place on the sea (the most famous example, of course, is the Usipi, on whom see Ash 2010).

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    his own people. As he himself respected the names of the ambassadors and the gift and the god to whom it was being sent and the reason for the gift, he filled the multitude – who are generally like their ruler – with a proper religious feeling as well; he gave the ambassadors official hospitality, attended them also to Delphi with a protecting escort of ships, then brought them back safe to Rome. An official friendship was established with him by senate decree, and gifts publicly bestowed. Every Camillan action in Book 5 is entwined with questions of managing victory: how to apportion booty (20.1–2, 23.8, 25.4, etc.), how to triumph appropriately (23.3–6), how to endure a fall from military glory (32.9, 43.6), how to follow senatorial procedure even when in exile (46.10), how to resist the lure of success when it tempts a state to abandon its founding principles (51–54). The most pressing and socially divisive issue at the time of Veii’s capture, and one in which Camillus was prominently involved, was whether to let the populus help itself to the opulent spoils.39 This was initially allowed (20.10), though later a kind of compromise was reached by which the populus felt betrayed (25.4, 12). The continuing plebeian unhappiness will eventually result in Camillus’ exile (32.8–9). The nagging consciousness of the importance of and distress caused by the praeda Veientana is revealed by the density of pars, parta, partita, praemia, and praeda throughout the middle of the book.40 At Liparae, the habit of letting the populus keep parta praeda is presented as a foreign custom worthy of note (mos erat ciuitatis, 28.3). Livy also implicitly labels this habit un-Roman: it is the action of a leader more like Romans (uir Romanis similior) than his own people which countermands the local customs and sends the crater on its way to Delphi. Far from being an otherwise irrelevant ethnographical tidbit, the Liparan interlude caps and recapitulates the Faliscan narrative.41 Like that episode, 39

    Johan Vekselius draws my attention to the important comparandum of Marcellus’ actions at the siege of Syracuse, which equally explores fides and clementia, Roman identity and morals, booty, and triumphal behaviour (cf. Vekselius 2018, 172–82); on booty, see Coudry & Humm 2009. 40 Pars, parta, partita, praeda, praemia in 5.19–32 (Veii capture > exile of Camillus): 19.8 praeda, pars, 19.11 partes, 20.1 praedae, 20.2 praedae partitae, 20.3 de praeda, 20.4 particeps esse praedae, 20.6 praemia, praedator, partem, 20.8 praedae, 20.10 praedam, 21.2 partem praedae, 21.5 partem praedae, 21.10 pars ×3, 21.14 ad praedam, 22.1 praedae, 23.8 praedae partem, 23.9 praedam, pars, 23.10 praedam, partis, 24.2 praedae, 24.8 partem ×2, 25.1 partem, 25.6 praeda, 25.7 partem, 25.13 parte, 26.5 partim ×2, 26.8 praeda, 28.3 partam praedam, 29.4 pars, 30.7 parti, 32.4 praedas, 32.8 praedam, pars. 41 The clearest echo, mos erat (27.1 ~ 28.3), ties Faliscans and Liparans to Gauls (ut mos eis est, 39.1); it is worth noting that none of these “ethnographical tags” actually occurs in

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    it begins with a parallel with what happened at Veii; and like that episode, it contains a remarkable density of comparison, expressed both explicitly (uelut  … similior  … similis) and implicitly through repetition (deuehuntur  ~ diuidere; donum ~ doni ~ dona; ueritus ~ 28.1 uerecundiam; publico ~ publicum ~ publice; hospitium ~ hospitium). The meta-language underscores how through comparatio examples of “Roman” behaviour can be demonstrated and measured outside Rome. Such behaviour, as Luce has shown, though an ideal rather than a reality, is dependent on the historical process, which allows for learning from outsiders.42 That process, of course, is as much historiographical as lived. Episodes such as this demonstrate Livy’s historically conscious view that any understanding of the past – or of the non-Roman – can be achieved only through comparative study.43 One last element of the Liparan story deserves attention: the double interception of crater and legati, first by the pirates and then by Timasitheus. Book 5 is peppered with significant objects and persons moving from one place to another, many of which are intercepted on their way.44 Each is in some way representative of something else, often of a whole narrative. The capture of the old Etruscan haruspex who tells how Veii can be taken is both a prediction and a microcosm of that city’s capture; the seizure of the exta (“internal organs”) inside the animal by Roman soldiers swarming out of the tunnel inside the enemy citadel represents metonymically the seizure of Veii; the Faliscan children, whose capture prefigures the town’s fall, are miniatures of their parents; the crater physically represents the wealth of Veii (being constructed from its spoils) and symbolises its cession to the Romans. When Timasitheus changes the direction of the crater’s travel, putting it back on track to Delphi, he recapitulates and reorients the earlier interceptions, realigning the motion of significant objects and their contained narratives. In the same way, by enabling

    Book 5’s formal ethno-geography. By deploying these tags outside of their expected places, Livy complicates our expectations of the internal genres of historiography. 42 Luce 1977, 230–97; Luce argues strongly for Livy’s isolationism (e.g. pp. 284–5), but has many examples in which Romans learn from non-Romans; see also note 56 below. 43 This is a topic that could occupy much more space than I have at my disposal here. On comparatio in historiography, see Kraus 2009 with further bibliography; cf. Grethlein & Krebs 2012. 44 Persons and objects in motion in Book 5 (those violently intercepted are marked with an asterisk): *Etruscan haruspex (15.4–7); *exta at Veii (21.8); soldiers in the tunnel; statue of Juno (22.3–7); captiuus at Falerii (26.6); *pueri at Falerii (27.2); *crater and legati en route to Delphi (28.2–5); Roman sacra to Caere (40.7–10); Fabius Dorsuo on the Quirinal (46.2–3); Pontius Cominius from Ardea (46.8–11); *Gauls climbing the Roman arx (47); *the ransom gold (49.1).

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    fulfilment of the vow to Delphi, his Roman-likeness begins the reorientation of the Romans themselves toward a better future.45 3

    Concluding Connections

    I turn to one final element of the Falerii narrative, moving backward to the declaration and first stage of the war (5.26.1–8): comitiis tribunorum militum patres summa ope euicerunt ut M. Furius Camillus crearetur. propter bella simulabant parari ducem; sed largitioni tribuniciae aduersarius quaerebatur … principio anni tribuni plebis nihil mouerunt, donec M. Furius Camillus in Faliscos, cui id bellum mandatum erat, proficisceretur. differendo deinde elanguit res, et Camillo quem aduersarium maxime metuerant gloria in Faliscis creuit. nam cum primo moenibus se hostes tenerent tutissimum id rati, populatione agrorum atque incendiis uillarum coegit eos egredi urbe. sed timor longius progredi prohibuit; mille fere passuum ab oppido castra locant, nulla re alia fidentes ea satis tuta esse quam difficultate aditus, asperis confragosisque circa, et partim artis, partim arduis uiis. ceterum Camillus, captiuum indidem ex agris secutus ducem  … prima luce aliquanto superioribus locis se ostendit  … ibi impedire opus conatos hostes fundit fugatque; tantumque inde pauoris Faliscis iniectum est, ut effusa fuga castra sua … praelati urbem peterent  … castra capta; praeda ad quaestores redacta cum magna militum ira; sed seueritate imperii uicti eandem uirtutem et oderant et mirabantur. In the election of military tribunes the senators succeeded by the utmost exertion in electing M. Furius Camillus. They pretended that because of the wars they were providing a general; in fact they were seeking an adversary to the tribunician largesse … At the beginning of the year the tribunes of the plebs made no move until Camillus set out against the Faliscans. Because of the delay the matter withered, and the glory of Camillus, the adversary whom they most dreaded, grew among the Faliscans. For as the enemy at first kept within their walls, thinking this the safest course, by devastating their fields and burning their farms he compelled them to come out of the city. But fear kept them from going 45 On this reorientation, see Ogilvie 1970, 720; Luce 1971; Levene 1993, 194–5; Oakley 2015, 236–7.

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    too far; about a mile away from the hill fort they set up camp, trusting that this was safe enough especially because of the difficulty of approaching, as the area around was rough and broken, and the roads in part narrow, in part steep. Camillus, however, following a captive from the locale as his leader … showed himself at first light in a considerably higher position … When the enemy tried to hinder the work of fortification, he defeated and routed them, and such a panic seized the Faliscans that in flat-out flight they were carried past their own camp … and made for their city … The camp was taken; the booty collected for the quaestors, to the great anger of the soldiers; but conquered by the sternness of [Camillus’] imperium, for the very same uirtus they felt both hatred and wonder. Roman devastation of the ager Faliscus lures the townspeople from their walls, but only so far. They rely then for defence primarily on the local terrain, which is indeed riddled with ravines and hard to cross.46 Whereas at Veii, whose topography is similar, Camillus used a tunnel to rabbit into the arx (19.10–11, 21.10), here he anticipates the Gauls’ action at the siege of Rome – a strategic move which goes back at least to the siege of Sardis (Hdt. 1.84)47  – and follows local knowledge to find a path through the formidable landscape. The use of the captiuus reflects the book’s recurrent pattern of movement through difficult space, which in turn finds analogies in the interception of traveling objects and people.48 Lest we miss the connection, Livy’s language in the lead-up to Camillus’ stratagem echoes the stories of the Veian haruspex and of the Faliscan schoolmaster: longius occurs only three times in the book, at these three moments, each time with a form of progredior (15.7, 26.5, 27.2). And though Camillus’ Faliscan stratagem seems devoid of violence, that too lurks in captiuus – which in turn recalls the story of the haruspex, twice called a captiuus uates.49 The tactic, then, doubles the story of the haruspex and prefigures that of the schoolmaster. But it also suggests a reversibility of roles: Camillus follows a dux rather than being one himself; after the camp is captured it is the Roman soldiers, rather than the Etruscan enemy, who are said to be conquered. There is a close interaction between domestic and military affairs here. Camillus is both the target of plebeian anger and the leader of the military 46 47 48 49

    See note 18 above; for Veii’s topography and history, see Cascino, Di Giuseppe & Patterson 2012. Brescia 1997, 27–33. Cf. note 44, above. On Livy’s emphasis on movements in Book 5, see also Khellaf in this volume. 16.8, 17.1; these are three out of only five occurrences of captiuus in the book; the others at 30.3 and 45.8.

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    tribunes, and so it is no surprise that his commanding seueritas arouses the ire of both plebs and soldiers concerning the division of praeda (Veian and Faliscan, respectively). The external war is a pretext for his appointment, which is really directed against internal plebeian largitio; plebeian action wanes while Camillus’ glory grows. I have given relatively short shrift to the internal narrative of Book 5, but Camillus is at the center of that, too, controlling and distributing praeda, and leading the opposition to the plebeian suggestion of colonising (and then moving to) Veii (25.1, 51–54). Livy interweaves the narratives of res externae and res internae in a particularly deliberate way, which can be best seen in contrast with Plutarch’s method. Plutarch makes the Delphic donation and the encounter with the pirates follow immediately upon Veii’s capture (Cam. 8); Livy – who is not writing a biography – alternates his account of the gift to Apollo with other material, not all exclusively involving Camillus. Similarly, Plutarch uses Camillus’ refusal to distribute Falerii’s booty as a lead-in to the events after the city’s surrender, including Camillus’ exile (Cam. 11–12); Livy embeds it in the middle of the longer Falerii story, where it suggests a parallel between the hating/wondering milites (28.8) and the hating/changed Faliscans (27.10). This interweaving is typical of Livian narrative, but it is particularly strong in Book 5, where it emphasises parallels and crossconnections between the narrative threads domi and militiae, at home and in the field.50 Despite this patterning, and to a degree rare in the first decade, Camillus stands out as what we could call a “main” character, a “grand homme” who serves as a focal point for the book’s exploration of what it means to be Roman.51 As scholars have noted, however, Camillus has little personality, even by ancient standards.52 He is less a person than a concept, a construction which illuminates ways in which Roman uirtus and the exercise of imperium can enjoy success or run into trouble. Many have regarded him as a kind of stand-in for Augustus.53 Livy is not generally so simplistic: but the issues pervading Book 5 are ones which repeatedly arise in the course of Roman history, most recently in the civil conflict between Antony and Octavian, and in the aftermath of the Caesarian civil wars. Camillus is particularly visible in places where doubling, 50 51 52 53

    For more detail on the Greek versions of the story, see Gowing 2009. On Camillus as “grand homme”, see Momigliano 1942, 111: “Livy’s ideal man”; cf. Bernard (2000, 338–58), who distinguishes Camillus and Scipio from the other “grands hommes”, and Coudry & Späth 2001, 221–47. E.g. Bruun 2000, 41–2. For background, see the items cited in Gaertner 2008, nn.1–2; notable are Mommsen 1878, 515; Miles 1995, 92–3 (in the course of a larger argument); Mineo 2015b, 146–8. For a useful corrective, see Feldherr (1998, 49–50, 78–81) on Camillus the historian.

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    division, reciprocity, and comparison force us to consider the pars latent in imperium. How can Rome share its power? How many leaders can it tolerate? How unitary is the Roman state, and how impervious to change, migration, or debasement are its values? Is division the same as doubling? Does doubling or inverting central authority inevitably lead to civil war, or can power be shared? The patterns of doubling and reversal which form the rhythm of Book 5 in turn demonstrate Livy’s larger historiographical methods and judgment. We have noticed the counterpoised sacks of Veii and Rome, and within that gross structure have explored more subtle instances of equipoise in the Faliscan narrative and its surrounding text. But equipoise – balance – can also threaten replacement. Some of the most memorable scenes from Book 5 involve proposals to colonise Veii either from Rome or in replacement of it, initially as a more attractive spill-over city for colonising than the Volscian territory (5.24), then as an easier place to live than in the ravaged capital after the withdrawal of the Gauls (5.49).54 Veii becomes a supplement in both senses, something that adds to and simultaneously takes the place of.55 That dangerous supplementarity adheres even to Camillus, whose very Roman exemplarity allows the stranger to become one of us by mindfully copying him.56 Concomitant with asking, “what makes a Roman?”, the book asks also, “where does, or can, Roman-ness happen? To what extent does the engine of exemplarity, in which a model can be imitated in ways that may challenge the intention of its first performer, threaten the stability of the Roman moral system?” T.J. Luce has taught us to read Livy with close attention to centres and peripheries, to the way history is shaped by the historian’s interpretation. Like a good ancient poet, Livy tends to prioritise the middle of his books.57 Though we tend to describe Book 5 as hinging on the Gallo-Etruscan ethnography (above, note 1), it is in fact Falerii that Livy has set in the precise middle of this text. Despite its seemingly happy surface moral lesson, the stories of the Faliscan schoolmaster and of Falerii’s surrender in imitation of Roman fides are a core illustration of the potentially destabilising power of the central Roman value of exemplarity,58 the mechanism that drives their usage of the past. 54 55

    On migration in republican Rome with a special focus on Livy 5, see Isayev 2017. On supplementarity, see Kraus 1998, with further bibliography; on the dangers of analogy, see Feeney 1992; on Livy’s Veii, see Kraus 2019. 56 Cf. Chaplin (2000, 77, 82, 86) on the difficulties non-Romans have with exempla. 57 Luce 1977 is fundamental, especially pp. 27–8 and 35: “Livy was also fond of selecting episodes for special treatment in the middle of books”. See also Vasaly 2002 and 2015. 58 On ambiguous exempla, see Kraus 1994a: 146–7, 170, 214; Krebs 2012, 149–51; see also the works cited in note 8 above.

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    Acknowledgements

    I would like to thank audiences at Oxford and the University of Virginia for helpful comments and reactions to this piece; I am also grateful to the editors and to Christopher Krebs and Johan Vekselius for their help in improving this paper and its bibliography, and to Joe Farrell, Andrew Johnston, Christopher Smith, and Tony Woodman for discussion of particular points. All translations are by Roberts 1905, often considerably modified. Ancient references without author’s name are to Livy; references without book number are to Livy 5. Bibliography Ash, R. (2010). “The Great Escape: Tacitus on the Mutiny of the Usipi (Agricola 28)”, in C.S. Kraus, J. Marincola & C. Pelling (eds.), Ancient Historiography and its Contexts: Studies in Honour of A. J. Woodman (Oxford & New York): 275–293. Bek, L. (1976). “Antithesis: A Roman Attitude and its Changes as Reflected in the Concept of Architecture”, in K. Ascani, T. Fischer-Hansen, F. Johansen, S.S. Jensen & J.E. Skydsgaard (eds.), Studia Romana in Honorem Petri Krarup Septuagenarii (Odense): 54–66. Bernard, J.E. (2000). Le portrait chez Tite-Live: Essai sur une écriture de l’histoire romaine, Brussels. Best, S. & Marcus, S. (2009). “Surface Reading: An Introduction”. Representations 108, 1–21. Brescia, G. (1997). La scalata del Ligure: Saggio di commento a Sallustio, Bellum Iugurthinum 92–94, Bari. Brodersen, K. (ed.) (2000). Virtuelle Antike: Wendepunkte der alten Geschichte, Darmstadt. Bruun, Chr.F.M. (ed.) (2000). The Roman Middle Republic: Politics, Religion and His­ toriography, c. 400–133 B.C., Rome. Burck, E. (1934). Die Erzählungskunst des T. Livius, Berlin. Cascino, R., Di Giuseppe, H. & Patterson, H.L. (eds.) (2012). Veii: The Historical Topo­ graphy of an Ancient City, London. Chaplin, J.D. (2000). Livy’s Exemplary History, Oxford & New York. Chaplin, J.D. (2015). “Livy’s Use of Exempla”, in B. Mineo (ed.), A Companion to Livy (Oxford & Malden, MA): 102–113. Cifani, G. (ed.) (2013). Tra Roma e l’Etruria: Cultura, identità e territorio dei Falisci, Rome. Coudry, M. & Humm, M (eds.) (2009). Praeda: Butin de guerre et société dans la Rome républicaine / Kriegsbeute und Gesellschaft im republikanischen Rom, Stuttgart.

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    Coudry, M. & Späth, T. (eds.) (2001). L’Invention des grands hommes de la Rome antique. Die Konstruktion der groβen Männer Altroms, Paris. Duro, P. (1996). The Rhetoric of the Frame, Cambridge & New York. Farney, G.D. & Bradley, G.J. (eds.) (2019). The Peoples of Ancient Italy, Berlin & New York. Farrell, J. (2014). “The Poet in an Artificial Landscape: Ovid at Falerii (Amores 3.13)”, in D. Nelis & M. Royo (eds.), Lire la Ville: Fragments d’une archéologie littéraire de Rome antique (Bordeaux): 215–236. Feeney, D.C. (1992). “ ‘Shall I Compare Thee …?’ Catullus 68B and the limits of analogy”, in T. Woodman & J. Powell (eds.), Author and Audience in Latin Literature (Cambridge): 33–44. Feldherr, A. (1998). Spectacle and Society in Livy’s History, London, Berkeley & Los Angeles. Feldherr, A. (ed.) (2009). The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Historians, Cambridge. Gaertner, J.F. (2008). “Livy’s Camillus and the Political Discourse of the Late Republic”, Journal of Roman Studies 98, 27–52. Glücker, J. (1995). “Probabile, Veri Simile, and Related Terms”, in J.G.F. Powell (ed.), Cicero the Philosopher: Twelve Papers (Oxford): 115–144. Goffman, E. (1974). Frame Analysis: An Essay on the Organization of Experience, Cambridge, MA. Gowing, A.M. (2009). “The Roman Exempla Tradition in Imperial Greek Historiography: The Case of Camillus”, in A. Feldherr (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Historians (Cambridge): 332–347. Grethlein, J. & Krebs, C.B. (eds.) (2012). Time and Narrative in Ancient Historiography: The ‘Plupast’ from Herodotus to Appian, Cambridge & New York. Hartog, F. (1980/1988, transl. by J. Lloyd). The Mirror of Herodotus: The Representation of the Other in the Writing of History, London, Berkeley & Los Angeles. (orig. published as Le Miroir d’Hérodote: Essai sur la représentation de l’autre, Paris). Horsfall, N. (2000). Virgil, Aeneid 7: A Commentary, Leiden, Köln & Boston. Isayev, E. (2017). Migration, Mobility and Place in Ancient Italy, Cambridge. Johnston, A.C. (2017). The Sons of Remus, London & Cambridge, MA. Kaster, R.A. (2005). Emotion, Restraint, and Community in Ancient Rome, Oxford & New York. Khellaf, K. (2018). The Paratextual Past: Digression in Classical Historiography, Diss. Yale. Kneepkens, C.H. (1994). “Comparatio”, in C. Ueding (ed.), Historisches Wörterbuch der Rhetorik (Tübingen): 293–299. Kraus, C.S. (1994a). Livy: Ab Vrbe Condita Book VI, Cambridge. Kraus, C.S. (1994b). “‘No Second Troy’: Topoi and Refoundation in Livy, Book V”, Transactions of the American Philological Association 24, 267–289.

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    Kraus, C.S. (1998). “Dangerous Supplements: Etymology and Genealogy in Euripides’ Heracles”, Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 44, 137–157. Kraus, C.S. (2009). “The Tiberian Hexad”, in A.J. Woodman (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Tacitus (Cambridge): 100–115. Kraus, C.S. (2019). “Fabula and History in Livy’s Narrative of the Capture of Veii”, in J. Baines et al. (eds.), Historical Consciousness and the Use of the Past in the Ancient World (Sheffield & Bristol, CT): 345–358. Krebs, C.B. (2010). “Borealism: Caesar, Seneca, Tacitus, and the Roman Discourse about the Germanic North”, in E.S. Gruen (ed.), Cultural Identity in the Ancient Mediterranean (Los Angeles): 202–221. Krebs, C.B. (2012). “M. Manlius Capitolinus: The Metaphorical Plupast and Meta­ historical Reflections”, in J. Grethlein & C.B. Krebs (eds.), Time and Narrative in Ancient Historiography: The ‘Plupast’ from Herodotus to Appian (Cambridge & New York): 139–155. Krebs, C.B. (Forthcoming). Caesar: Bellum Gallicum VII, Cambridge & New York. Langlands, R. (2011). “Roman exempla and Situation Ethics”, Journal of Roman Studies 101, 100–122. Langlands, R. (2018). Exemplary Ethics in Ancient Rome, Cambridge & New York. Lausberg, H. (1960/1998, ed. by D.E. Orton & R.D. Anderson; transl. by M.T. Bliss, A. Jansen & D.E. Orton). Handbook of Literary Rhetoric, Leiden, Köln & Boston. (orig. published as Handbuch der literarischen Rhetorik: Eine Grundlegung der Literaturwissenschaft, Munich). Levene, D.S. (1993). Religion in Livy, Leiden & Boston. Levithan, J. (2013). Roman Siege Warfare, Ann Arbor. Luce, T.J. (1971). “Design and Structure in Livy: 5.32–55”, Transactions of the American Philological Association 102, 265–302. Luce, T.J. (1977). Livy: The Composition of his History, Princeton, NJ. McCall, M.H. (1969). Ancient Rhetorical Theories of Simile and Comparison, Cambridge, MA. Miles, G.B. (1995). Livy: Reconstructing Early Rome, London & Ithaca, NY. Mineo, B. (ed.) (2015a). A Companion to Livy, Oxford & Malden, MA. Mineo, B. (2015b). “Livy’s Historical Philosophy”, in B. Mineo (ed.), A Companion to Livy (Oxford & Malden, MA): 129–152. Moles, J.L. (1993). “Livy’s Preface”, Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 39, 141–168. Momigliano, A. (1942). “Camillus and Concord”, Classical Quarterly 36, 111–120. Mommsen, T. (1878). “Die Gallische Katastrophe”, Hermes 13, 515–555. Morello, R. (2002). “Livy’s Alexander Digression (9.17–19): Counterfactuals and Apologetics”, Journal of Roman Studies 92, 62–85.

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    Oakley, S.P. (1997). A Commentary on Livy, Books VI–X, vol. 1, Oxford. Oakley, S.P. (2015). “Reading Livy’s Book 5”, in B. Mineo (ed.), A Companion to Livy (Oxford & Malden, MA): 230–242. Ogilvie, R.M. (1959). “Livius resartus”, Classical Quarterly 9, 269–284. Ogilvie, R.M. (1970). A Commentary on Livy Books 1–5, 2nd ed., Oxford. Paul, G.M. (1982). “Vrbs capta: Sketch of an Ancient Literary Motif”, Phoenix 36, 144–155. Pelling, C. (2013). “Historical Explanation and What Didn’t Happen: The Virtues of Virtual History”, in A. Powell (ed.), Hindsight in Greek and Roman History (Swansea), 1–24. Platt, V. & Squire, M. (eds.) (2017). The Frame in Classical Art, Cambridge & New York. Quint, D. (2018). Virgil’s Double Cross: Design and Meaning in the Aeneid, Oxford & Princeton, NJ. Reinhardt, T. (2003). Cicero’s Topica, Oxford & New York. Rimmon-Kenan, S. (1980). “The Paradoxical Status of Repetition”, Poetics Today 1, 151–159. Roberts, Rev. C. (transl.) (1905). Livy: The History of Rome, vol. 1, London. Roller, M. (2009). “The exemplary past in Roman historiography and culture”, in A. Feldherr (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to the Roman Historians (Cambridge): 214–230. Roller, M. (2018). Models from the Past in Roman Culture, Cambridge. Rood, T. (2007). “Herodotus”; “Thucydides”; “Xenophon”; “Polybius”, in I.J.F. de Jong & R. Nünlist (eds.), Time in Ancient Greek Narrative (Leiden & Boston): 115–182. Roth, J.P. (2006). “Siege Narrative in Livy: Representation and Reality”, in S. Dillon & K.E. Welch (eds.), Representations of War in Ancient Rome (Cambridge & New York): 49–67. Roth, R. (2019). “Beyond Romanisation: Settlement, Networks and Material Culture in Italy, c. 400–90 BC”, in G.D. Farney & G.J. Bradley (eds.). The Peoples of Ancient Italy (Berlin & New York): 295–317. Tabolli, J. & Neri, S. (2019). “The Faliscans and the Capenates”, in G.D. Farney & G.J. Bradley (eds.), The Peoples of Ancient Italy (Berlin & New York): 559–578. Vasaly, A. (2002). “The Structure of Livy’s First Pentad and the Augustan Poetry Book”, in D.S. Levene & D.P. Nelis (eds.), Clio and the Poets: Augustan Poetry and the Traditions of Ancient Historiography (Leiden, Köln & Boston): 275–290. Vasaly, A. (2015). “The Composition of the Ab Vrbe Condita: The Case of the First Pentad”, in B. Mineo (ed.), A Companion to Livy (Oxford & Malden, MA): 217–229. Vekselius, J. (2018). Weeping for the res publica: Tears in Roman Political Culture, Diss. Lund. Walker, A.D. (1993). “Enargeia and the Spectator in Greek Historiography”. Transactions of the American Philological Association 123, 353–377.

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    Webb, R. (1997). “Imagination and the Arousal of Emotion in Greco-Roman Rhetoric”, in S.M. Braund & C. Gill (eds.), The Passions in Roman Thought and Literature (Cambridge): 112–127. Webb, R. (2016). “Sight And Insight: Theorizing Vision, Emotion and Imagination in Ancient Rhetoric”, in M. Squire (ed.), Sight and the Ancient Senses (London & New York): 205–219. Wilcox, A.R. (2006). “ ‘Exemplary Grief: Gender and Virtue in Seneca’s Consolations to Women”, Helios 33, 73–100. Witte, K. (1910). “Über die Form der Darstellung in Livius’ Geschichtswerke”, Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 65, 270–305, 359–419. Woodman, A.J. (1983). Velleius Paterculus: The Caesarian and Augustan Narrative, Cambridge.

    Chapter 7

    From Thrasea Paetus to Calgacus – or Was It the Other Way Around? An Example of Tacitean Intratextuality Aske Damtoft Poulsen 1

    Introduction

    When Eprius Marcellus steps onto the senate floor to deliver his accusation against Thrasea Paetus in the fragmentarily preserved sixteenth book of Tacitus’ Annals, the fate of the absent senator is long sealed. The reader has already been informed about how Paetus’ non-participation in civic and political life had aroused the displeasure of the emperor (16.21.1–2) and how Capito Cossutianus – through a concoction of hearsay and imaginative inferences – had drawn out the allegedly revolutionary implications of Paetus’ behaviour in private conversations with the emperor: uninterested in the emperor’s preservation, disdainful of his successes, perhaps even secretly elated by his griefs and pains, he is a second Cato, ready for factionalism, secession, and civil war (16.21.3–22.5).1 For Marcellus, then, it remains only to refine the accusatory roadmap drafted by Cossutianus and find the words through which Paetus’ seemingly harmless behaviour and manifest innocence of any criminal act may be (mis)construed as treasonous. When Tacitus finally unleashes the 1 Nero’s hostility towards Paetus is augmented by his conspicuous exit from the senate when celebrations were decreed after the killing of Agrippina the Younger, the emperor’s mother (cf. 14.12.1); his “insufficiently conspicuous service” (parum spectabilem operam) at the Juvenalian Games, a slight aggravated by the fact that he did participate on stage in games held in his native city of Padova; and his absences from the senate meeting wherein divine honours were decreed to Poppaea and her funeral. Paetus’ only “active act” remarked upon by Nero is his procurement of a softer punishment (exile rather than death) for Antistius Sosianus, who had written some slanderous poems aimed at the emperor (cf. 14.48–49). To these Cossutianus adds Paetus’ avoidance of the annual oath to treat as valid all acts of the emperor, dodging of his priestly duty to participate in the enunciation of vows, lack of sacrifices for the health (and heavenly voice) of the princeps, and three-year long absence from the senate, most notably when the senators had recently convened to condemn L. Torquatus Silanus and L. Vetus (the episode is related, without mention of Paetus, at 16.7– 11). As if to underline the threat inherent in inactivity, Cossutianus claims that the provinces and armies eagerly await news of the things Paetus has not done.

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    full rhetorical force of this (mis)construction in the senate through Marcellus’ “stinging eloquence” (acri eloquentiae, 16.22.5),2 the result is both sophisticated and terrifying.3 While Nero experienced Paetus’ non-participation as a personal slight and Cossutianus stressed how it posed a threat to the emperor’s position, Marcellus demonstrates how it may be portrayed as treason towards Rome and wholesale rejection of the Roman civilising project (16.28). He starts by crying out that the highest matters of state are at issue and by designating the behaviour of Paetus and his alleged followers as contumacia, “obstinacy” (OLD 1), but also – in a legal sense and especially for non-appearance at trials – “wilful disobedience to a judicial order” (OLD 2), i.e. “contempt (of court)”.4 He states that 2 My translation. Translations of Annals are from Woodman 2004, unless otherwise noted. 3 On Tacitus’ account of the accusation against Paetus, see Rudich 1993, 158–79; Galtier 2002; Wilson 2003, 538–41; Strunk 2010, 133–9; 2017, 114–21; Keitel 2014, 67–8; O’Gorman 2020, 64–5, 121–3; Bartera Forthcoming. As noted by Rudich (1993, 133), “Tacitus devotes at least fifteen chapters, perhaps more, to the events surrounding the trial and suicide of Thrasea, a length surpassing that of any other individual (Ann. 16.21–35)”, making him (p. 134) “arguably the most important individual for Tacitus’ account of senatorial politics in the Neronian books”. It is a mark of Paetus’ centrality in Tacitus’ literary career that he appears also in Agricola (named at 2.1, unnamed at 42.3; see discussion below) and Histories (4.5–8). His significance stretches beyond his own lifetime. Scholarship on Tacitus’ treatment of Paetus has tended to revolve around whether or not the historian approved of his behaviour. While some claim that Tacitus portrays Paetus’ resistance as reckless and/or impractical (Paratore 1951, 465; Walker 1952, 229–32; De Vivo 1980/1998, Ginsburg 1986, 539; Städele 1990; Shotter 1991, 3315; cf. Sailor 2008, 16–24), others argue that the Paduan senator is portrayed, in the words of Strunk (2010, 137), as a “principled moderate”; cf. Martin 1981, 176–7; Heldmann 1991; Rudich 1993, 56–7, 76, et passim; Galtier 2002; Devillers 2002; Strunk 2017, 120–1. For attempts to move beyond such a limited inquiry, see Pigoń 2003 on narrative devices in Tacitus’ treatment of Paetus, Sailor (2008, 11–33, 315–8) on Tacitus’ use of the martyrs in his self-presentation, and O’Gorman (2020, 148–56) on his portrayal of Paetus’ political tactics. More generally on Paetus and the threat he posed to Nero, see Wirszubski 1950, 138–43; Murray 1965, 52–5; Rudich 1993, 31–4, 38–40, 56–8, 76–81; Lendon 1997, 142–5; Rutledge 2001, 115–8; Turpin 2008, 378–89. For Paetus in other ancient sources, see Plin. Ep. 8.22, Suet. Nero 37, and D.C. 62.15, 26–27.1. 4 “In Roman law contumacia meant above all the defendant’s failure to obey a legal summons in the exercise of extraordinaria cognitio” (BNP, s.v. “contumacia”). Cf. Berger 1953, s.v. “contumacia”: “Non-obedience to an order of a magistrate in general, to a judicial magistrate or a judge in particular, the refusal to answer or another form of contempt in court. A specific form of contumacia is non-appearance in court in spite of a summons or hiding to avoid a summons.” See also Plessis 2015, 80. For some examples, see CIL X 7852.12, Javol. Dig. 4.8.39, and Plin. Ep. Tra. 10.57.2. As noted by Shotter (1991, 3325), the accusation of contumacia against Paetus recalls Tacitus’ criticism of those whose resistance to the emperor did no good (Agr. 42.3): Domitiani uero natura praeceps in iram et, quo obscurior, eo inreuocabilior, moderatione tamen prudentiaque Agricolae leniebatur, quia non contumacia neque inani iactatione libertatis famam fatumque prouocabat. sciant, quibus moris est inlicita mirari, posse etiam sub malis principibus magnos uiros esse, obsequiumque ac modestiam, si industria ac

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    Paetus’ absences – from the senate, from the enunciation of vows, and from the swearing of the oath – equal defection (desciscentem, 16.28.1), and indeed reveal him as a self-professed traitor and enemy of the state (proditorem palam et hostem, 16.28.2). It would be easier, he claims, to tolerate Paetus’ erstwhile habits of censuring proposals and protecting the disparagers of the emperor than to put up with “the silence of his universal condemnation” (silentium … omnia damnantis, 16.28.2): in other words, limited opposition – which also entails, of course, limited collaboration with and consequent legitimation of the imperial regime – is more acceptable than self-imposed depoliticization and absolute absence.5 Then, conjuring up still more (imaginative) implications of nonparticipation, Marcellus speculates that Paetus might be displeased with worldwide peace and bloodless victories and exhorts his fellow senators not to fulfil the twisted ambition of a man who laments the public good, regards Roman civilisation as a wasteland, and threatens his own exile (16.28.3):

    uigor adsint, eo laudis excedere quo plerique per abrupta, sed in nullum rei publicae usum ambitiosa morte inclaruerunt, “In fact, Domitian was by nature a man who plunged into violence and the more he concealed his feelings the more implacable he was. However, he was mollified by the self-restraint and good sense of Agricola, who was not one to court renown and ruin by defiance and an empty parade of freedom. Those whose habit is to admire what is forbidden ought to know that there can be great men even under bad emperors, and that duty and discretion, if coupled with energy and a career of action, will bring a man to no less glorious summits than are attained by perilous paths and ostentatious deaths that do not benefit the Commonwealth” (translations of Agricola are from Birley 1999, unless otherwise noted). There is perhaps a certain irony at play at Ann. 16.28, given that access to the senate is blocked by armed men. Paetus’ absences from the funeral of Nero’s daughter Augusta (15.23) and from the reception of Tiridates in Rome (16.24.1) were likewise due to lack of invitations. In Strunk’s interpretation (2010, 134–5), the accusations against Paetus “reveal the twisted logic of the Neronian principate, for Nero had isolated Thrasea and was now seeking his condemnation based on that isolation.” Moreover, Nero too is absent from the senate meeting, preferring to deliver a veiled attack on Paetus through his personal quaestor (12.27.1–2); cf. Galtier 2002, 319: “les deux protagonistes sont paradoxalement absents du procès.” 5 Cf. Strunk 2017, 117: “Thrasea merely attempted to remove himself from the crimes of the Principate, yet this itself was a threat: the Principate demanded complicity or indifference.” On Paetus’ non-participation and its significance, see also Rudich 1993, 161–79; Lendon 1997, 119–20; Wilson 2003, 538; Turpin 2008, 385; Damon 2010a, 268–9. As noted by Wilson (p. 538), “the key to the success of Marcellus’ case, as Tacitus has summarised it, was his criminalising of passivity and silence, in that Thrasea’s absence from the senate and failure to join in the oath of allegiance were portrayed as a kind of implicit censure of the Emperor … Thrasea’s non-participation, Marcellus was able to claim, was a flagrant insult to his princeps, his senatorial colleagues and his country.”

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    pacem illi per orbem terrae, an uictorias sine damno exercituum displicere? ne hominem bonis publicis maestum, et qui fora theatra templa pro solitudine haberet, qui minitaretur exilium suum, ambitionis prauae compotem facerent. Was it peace across the globe or victories without loss to the armies that displeased him? A man sorrowful at the public good, who regarded forums, theaters, and temples as a wilderness, and who threatened his own exile, should not have his twisted ambition fulfilled. The speech ends with the ambiguous yet menacing assertion that Paetus, since he has either lost grip with reality or cast aside his affection for Rome (which amounts to more or less the same thing), should sever his life from the city.6 2

    An (Historically) Impossible Allusion

    As noted by Stephen Laruccia, the juxtaposition of pax and solitudo at the end of Marcellus’ speech recalls the famous dictum spoken by Caledonian freedom fighter and one-hit-wonder Calgacus in Agricola (30.5): auferre trucidare rapere falsis nominibus imperium, atque ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant, “They plunder, they butcher, they ravish, and call it by the lying name of ‘empire’. They make a desert and call it ‘peace’.”7 In what follows, I will argue that 6 Galtier 2002, 318: “En fin de compte, il est présenté comme un ennemi de l’humanité en général, attristé par le bonheur public et incapable di vivre dans l’harmonie avec les autres hommes”. Cf. Rudich 1993, 174: “the defendant’s animus nocendi, ‘subversive intent’, is postulated in terms of sheer perversity, if not madness”. See also Bartera Forthcoming, ad loc. 28.1 s.v. “descicentem” and “in isdem furoribus”; cf. Woodman 2006 on the mutinies of Annals 1.16– 49. On how Paetus’ accusers undermine the exemplary power of his behaviour by characterising it as unproductive for the state, see O’Gorman 2020, 70–3. On the menace suggested by the final phrase of Marcellus’ speech, see Bartera Forthcoming, ad loc. 28.3 s.v. “abrumperet uitam”. 7 Laruccia 1980, 410–1; cf. Fratantuono 2018 and Bartera Forthcoming, ad loc. 28.3. The expression solitudinem facere enters extant Latin literature at Liv. 1.53.6, when Sextus Tarquinius deceives the Gabini into believing that his father has extended his oppression to include also family and kin: liberorum quoque eum frequentiae taedere, ut quam in curia solitudinem fecerit domi quoque faciat, ne quam stirpem, ne quem heredem regni relinquat, “Even his children were too many to please him, and the solitude which he had caused in the senate-house he wished to bring to pass in his own home also, that he might leave no descendant, no heir to his kingdom” (transl. by B.O. Foster 1919, LCL). Sextus refers to his father’s efforts to curb the power of the senate through extrajudicial killings of leading senators and a gradual diminution of its number (Liv. 1.49.2–7). In Livy, see also how – with the departure of soldiers

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    we are dealing with an intended allusion whose interpretive force extends beyond the immediate context of Marcellus’ speech, urging readers to reconsider the key themes of Tacitus’ first published work. Firstly, the speeches of Calgacus and Marcellus both share a preoccupation with the distinction between reality and display in evaluations of Roman imperial(istic) power. While Calgacus claims that the Romans call (appellare) the wastelands that they create by the name of “peace”, Marcellus claims that Paetus considers (habere pro) forums, theatres, and temples as a wasteland. Secondly, the tricolon of buildings mentioned by Marcellus ( fora theatra templa) recalls a similar tricolon in the relation of Agricola’s efforts to civilise the Britons (Agr. 21.1): namque ut homines dispersi ac rudes eoque in bella faciles quieti et otio per uoluptates adsuescerent, hortari priuatim, adiuuare publice ut templa, fora, domos extruerent. His intention was, in fact, that people who lived in widely dispersed and primitive settlements and hence were naturally inclined to war should become accustomed to peace and quiet by the provision of amenities. and plebeians to the Sacred Mount in 449BC – “an unfamiliar solitude had made everything desolate in Rome” (uasta Romae omnia insueta solitudo fecisset, 3.52.5; my translation) and how Camillus in his 338BC speech in the senate laid out two alternative ways to ensure a lasting peace with the recently defeated Latins (8.13.14–15): di immortales ita uos potentes huius consilii fecerunt ut, sit Latium deinde an non sit, in uestra manu posuerint; itaque pacem uobis, quod ad Latinos attinet, parare in perpetuum uel saeuiendo uel ignoscendo potestis. uoltis crudeliter consulere in deditos uictosque? licet delere omne Latium, uastas inde solitudines facere, unde sociali egregio exercitu per multa bella magnaque saepe usi estis, “The immortal gods have given you such absolute control of the situation as to leave the decision in your hands whether Latium is henceforward to exist or not. You are therefore able to assure yourselves of a permanent peace, in so far as the Latins are concerned, by the exercise of either cruelty or forgiveness, at your discretion. Would you adopt stern measures against those who have surrendered or been vanquished? You may blot out all Latium, and make vast solitudes of those places where you have often raised a splendid army of allies and used it through many a momentous war” (transl. by B.O. Foster 1926, LCL). After Livy (and before Tacitus), the expression occurs once in Pliny the Elder (Nat. 6.182: nec tamen arma Romana ibi solitudinem fecerunt, “but nevertheless it was not the arms of Rome that made the country [Ethiopia] a desert”, transl. by H. Rackham 1942, LCL) and twice in Curtius Rufus (8.8.10: ueni enim in Asiam non ut funditus euerterem gentes nec ut dimidiam partem terrarum solitudinem facerem sed ut illos quos bello subegissem uictoriae meae non paeniteret, “For I came into Asia, not in order to overthrow nations and make a desert of a half part of the world, but in order that those whom I had subdued in war might not regret my victory”; 9.2.24: postquam solitudinem in Asia uincendo fecistis, “after you have made a desert in Asia by your victories”, transl. by J. Henderson 1946, LCL).

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    Hence he gave encouragement to individuals and assistance to communities to build temples, market-places, and town houses. While using lists of civic buildings to refer metonymically to the community as a whole is common enough in Roman literature,8 the plain (i.e. unadorned by adjectives uel sim.), tricolonic, asyndetic form used in the two passages cited is distinctive and corroborates the allusive relationship between them.9 From a literary perspective, then, we may be fairly certain that Marcellus is casting Paetus in the role of Calgacus, that is, as an un-Roman enemy of Rome. In one mordant phrase, he has gathered two of the most memorable lines of Agricola. From a strictly chronological perspective, however, the allusion is impossible. Marcellus’ accusation against Paetus took place 17 years before Calgacus is imagined to have delivered his pre-battle speech at Mons Graupius (AD66 and 83, respectively). The “real-life” Eprius Marcellus could not have alluded to an event that had not yet taken place. It is equally unsatisfactory to assume that it was Calgacus who had alluded to Marcellus (and that readers of Agricola were either aware of this even before the publication of Annals or made aware of it by the publication of Annals). While it may be considered unlikely that a Roman senator was familiar with a pre-battle speech delivered 8 The tricolon “forum, theatre, temple” occurs also in Seneca’s consolation to Marcia (Dial. 6.11.2): hoc omnis ista quae in foro litigat, in theatris plaudit, in templis precatur turba dispari gradu audit, “Toward this [death], at different paces, moves all this throng that now squabbles in the forum, that looks on at the theatres, that prays in the temples” (transl. by J.W. Basore 1932, LCL). The tricolon “temple, forum, house” occurs also in Ovid’s description of omens in the city before the death of Julius Caesar (Met. 15.796): inque foro circumque domos et templa deorum, “In the marketplace and around men’s houses and the temples of the gods” (transl. by F.J. Miller 1916, LCL). For lists of civic buildings in Ciceronian accounts of attacks on the Republic, see Dom. 5, Har. 6, and Parad. 4.30. 9 The plain, tricolonic, asyndetic relation emphasises the symbolic value of these buildings as places where civic life and civilisation “takes place”. As such, in Marcellus’ speech they stand in sharp contrast to the wasteland (solitudo) with which they are paired. While the semantic field covered by solitudo is wide – encompassing both natural and man-made wastelands, charming spaces of peace and quiet as well as sterile places of deathly silence (see discussion below) –, it always describes a condition where civic life comes to a halt and civilisation proper is impossible. As noted by Bartera (Forthcoming, ad loc. 28.3, s.v. “qui fora theatra templa pro solitudine haberet”), fora and templa pick up, respectively, the accusations that Paetus had neglected his civic and religious duties, while theatra alludes to what displeased Nero more than anything else, i.e. his poor performance at the Juvenalian Games (cf. 16.21.1). The substitution of theatra for domus also allows Marcellus to avoid summoning up images of Nero’s emerging “Domus Aurea”, whose woods and open spaces Tacitus specifically likens to wastelands (in modum solitudinum, 15.42.1). Alternatively, it might reflect the growing importance of the theatre as a political space during the Principate in general and under Nero in particular (cf. Dench 2005, 205–6).

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    by a Caledonian chieftain, it begs disbelief that a Caledonian chieftain would have had any knowledge of what was said in the Roman senate.10 The ­temporal conundrum illustrates well the literariness of Roman historical writing: these are characters who inhabit a story-world of their author’s creation and whose circumstances and realms of action are different from those of their “real-life” alter-egos. Since the Tacitean Eprius Marcellus is a later creation than the Tacitean Calgacus, he is free to express himself in emulation of this “predecessor”.11 Given their knowledge of the order in which past events had occurred, Roman readers of historical texts were hardly insensitive to such chronological somersaults. The nature of historical writing, in other words, meant that allusions to older texts on more recent history would necessarily be two-pronged. Both the new and the old text were influenced by intertexts between them. This peculiar form of intertextuality in historical texts, among other things, provided historical writers with an opportunity to offer retroactive interpretations of already published texts, including their own.12 10 On real-life imitation (how people of the past consciously modelled their behaviour on others) and how it might affect intertextuality in historiography, see Damon 2010b; Marincola 2010, 265–6; Levene 2010, 85; cf. Ginsburg 1993, 92. 11 Unlike Eprius Marcellus, of course, Calgacus might be a Tacitean creation; cf. Clarke 2001/2012. On Flavus, brother of the more (in)famous Arminius, as a Tacitean creation, see Ash 2006, 130–1; Damtoft Poulsen 2018, 52. On speeches in Tacitus, see Miller 1964; Adams 1973; Keitel 1991; Levene 1999 and 2009; Mayer 2010; van den Berg 2012; cf. Ash 2018, 23. On (the invention of) speeches in ancient historiography, see Miller 1975 and Marincola 2007. On the characteristics and consequences of direct vs. indirect speech, see Laird 1999, 94–101, 116–52. 12 The classic example is Livy’s use of Sallust’s Catiline (and Jugurtha) in his portrayal of Hannibal. As noted by O’Gorman (2009, 238–9; cf. Walsh 1973, ad loc.; Clauss 1997, 169– 85; Levene 2010, 99–104), two (chrono)logically impossible things occur when the early 1st century AD Livy models his 3rd century BC Hannibal on the 1st century BC Sallust’s portrayal of his contemporary Catiline: Hannibal alludes to a man not yet born, Catiline influences a man long dead. Regardless of these impossibilities, however, the legacy of Catiline is contaminated through association with one of Rome’s greatest enemies. We cannot help but (re-)read Sallust’s account of Catiline differently after we have read Livy’s account of Hannibal: Livy has changed our perception of Catiline by casting over him the shadow of Hannibal. In the words of O’Gorman (p. 239), “intertextuality as an event, in other words, disrupts ordinary temporality by challenging our sense of what is temporally prior and inviting us to consider the authority implicit in temporal priority. This challenge disrupts one’s assumptions of historical understanding; to analyse Hannibal’s significance by reference to Catiline could be regarded as seriously anachronistic. Yet intertextuality here brings out how the conflation of past and present is an ever-present element in understanding the past.” On the nature of intertextuality in historiography, see also Woodman 1979 and 2009; Pelling 1999, 2013, and 2019; O’Gorman 2006; Levene 2010, 82–163; Marincola 2010; Damon 2010b; Haimson Lushkov 2013; Elliott 2015. On

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    While Tacitus is not the first historian to employ an anachronistic allusion of this sort, the particular make-up of the Tacitean corpus means that its intratexts invariably follow this illogical logic. Since Tacitus’ literary career is constituted by a gradual withdrawal into the increasingly more distant past, it is the primary (almost exclusive) form of intratextuality in his corpus: Agricola and Germania cover relatively recent, even contemporary events (AD40–93 and ca. AD98, respectively), Dialogus purports to describe a conversation held in AD75, Histories deals with the Flavian dynasty (AD69–96, of which the preserved fragments cover little beyond the inaugural year of four emperors), and Annals treats the Julio-Claudian dynasty (AD14–68). As a consequence of this advance into the past, Tacitean intratexts tend to work both ways, raising questions about the finality of any historical interpretation and encouraging readers to ponder who is alluding to whom. 3

    Empire and/as Solitude

    As noted by Don Fowler, an allusion without a story to tell is nothing of the sort. While markedness (verbal and/or thematic similarity) may be enough to establish a parallel, the identification of an allusion depends also on sense and function: meaning has to be created and effect has to be achieved.13 Since the alleged allusion under discussion here is spoken by a character in the text, it ought to carry out a function for the speaker as well as for the writer, for Marcellus as well as for Tacitus. What, then, does Marcellus achieve with his accusation that Paetus considers Roman civilisation a wasteland? And what does Tacitus achieve by making him do so? In order to appreciate the power of Marcellus’ attack and the interpretive significance of its intertexts, we need to unpack the connotations of solitudo in the Tacitean corpus and its connection with pax. The juxtaposition of the two words in Marcellus’ speech activates a recurring theme in the Tacitean corpus: the delicate – and often blurred – distinction between Roman imperialism and imperial power, between “Empire” (a relationship between Romans and non-Romans) and “Principate” (a relationship between Romans and other Romans).14 As noted by Laruccia in his study of

    13 14

    intertextuality in Latin poetry, see Conte 1974/1986 and 2017; West & Woodman 1979; Barchiesi 1984; Thomas 1986 and 1999; Fowler 1997/2000; Hinds 1998; Edmunds 2001. On intertextuality in Roman historical drama (i.e. the Octauia), see Ginsberg 2017, esp. 5–16. Fowler 1997/2000, 19–20; cf. Thomas 1986, 174. See also Woodman 2009, 5–7; Levene 2010, 83–4. Sailor 2012, 29.

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    Tacitus’ portrayal of the “Pax Romana”, the Romans leave a track of desolation all the way from Agricola to the end of Annals: “Tacitus reveals that both provincials and Romans are caught up in the wasteland of peace.”15 Solitudo makes a total of 19 appearances in Tacitus’ writings, the first being that of Calgacus (Agr. 30.5) and the last that of Marcellus (Ann. 16.28.3), with an additional two in Dialogus (9.6, 39.3), two in Histories (3.84.4, 4.73.2), and thirteen in Annals (2.52.2, 3.74.3, 4.41.3, 53.1, 67.2, 69.1, 6.1.1, 6.2, 11.32.3, 13.55.2, 14.8.3, 15.42.1, 50.4). The word, derived from solus, “alone”, has a fairly straightforward primary meaning: “the state of being alone or unaccompanied” (OLD 1). Additionally, it may designate “the state of having no friends, protectors, or sim., loneliness, forlornness” (OLD 2a) or “uninhabited or deserted condition (of a place), emptiness, solitude” (OLD 3). Despite the seemingly uncontentious semantic field covered, however, solitudo harbours potentially powerful political connotations. The significance of being alone, after all, depends on a range of contextual factors, such as cause (who/what has created the condition?), subject (who/what occupies the condition?), agency (has the subject chosen to occupy the condition?), aim (for what purpose has the condition been created?), and contrast (what is the alternative to the condition?). Solitudo, in other words, comes in different guises. It may refer to a naturally “uninhabited country or a tract of it, a desert, waste (usu. pl.)” (OLD 4a), as when it describes the differently unhospitable landscapes of Germania (Hist. 4.73.2; cf. Caes. Gal. 4.18.4) and North Africa (Ann. 2.52.2, 3.74.3; cf. Sal. Jug. 17.2, 55.1, 74.1, 75.1, 80.1, 89.4);16 however, it may also refer to man-made wastelands, as when Calgacus uses it to unveil the brutality inherent in the Roman civilising mission (Agr. 30.5) or when the Ampsivarian chieftain Boiocalus, urging the Roman commander Dubius Avitus to allow his people to settle uninhabited lands along the border, uses it as a contrast to friendly peoples (13.55.2): seruarent sane receptus gregibus inter hominum famem, modo ne uastitatem et solitudinem mallent quam amicos populos, “Naturally they should reserve 15

    16

    Laruccia 1980, 407; for some examples of questionable peace, see Hist. 1.2.1 (opus … ipsa etiam pace saeuum, “a work  … savage even through peace itself”, transl. from Damtoft Poulsen 2018, 6 n.13), 50.2 (saeuae pacis, “savage peace”), Ann. 1.10.4 (pacem … cruentam, “peace  …, but gory”), 1.17.4 (sterilem pacem, “barren peace”), 3.44.3 (miseram pacem, “wretched peace”), and 12.33 (qui pacem nostram metuebant, “those who dreaded peace with us”). On the importance of peace in imperial ideology, see Cornwell 2017, esp. chaps. 4–5; on concord and consensus, see Lobur 2008. See also Pomponius Mela’s relation of a rumour (opinio) about life in, presumably, subSaharan Africa (3.95): cum in his nihil culti sit, nullae habitantium sedes, nulla uestigia, solitudo in diem uasta et silentium uastius, nocte crebri ignes micant … “while there is nothing civilised in these regions, no dwelling places, no tracks, by day a vast wasteland and an even vaster silence, by night numerous fires gleam …” (my translation).

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    refuges for flocks even though humans were starving, provided only that they did not prefer desolate wastes to friendly peoples!”17 Solitudines, however, are created not only along and beyond the borders of the Empire, but also in its very heart, in Italy and in Rome. When Tiberius secludes himself on Capri in Annals 4, solitudo is used to refer to the island’s isolation, free from the hustle and bustle of Rome (Ann. 4.41.3) as well as from public scrutiny (Ann. 4.67.2, 6.1.1, 6.6.2). The book highlights the consequences of Tiberius’ seclusion, as the recluse emperor produces solitudo also for his subjects:18 he condemns Agrippina the Elder to loneliness (solitudini, 4.53.1) by refusing her request to re-marry, and he fosters both the false imitation of privacy (solitudinis facies, 4.69.1) wherein Titius Sabinus is overheard making treasonous comments against the emperor, and the very real solitude wherefrom he is eventually dragged away to punishment (4.70.2): quo intendisset oculos, quo uerba acciderent, fuga, uastitas, deseri itinera fora, “But, wherever he directed his gaze, wherever his words fell, there was flight and desolation: the streets and forums were deserted.” While the word solitudo is admittedly absent from this description, the general idea that imperial power creates solitude in Rome is clearly present, not least through the word uastitas (paired with solitudo by Boiocalus above).19 In the words of Keitel, the episode illustrates “the 17 After Avitus’ laconic rejection of the petition (13.56.1: patienda meliorum imperia, “they should tolerate the commands of their betters”) and a show of force by the Romans, the Ampsivarii withdraw and subsequently disintegrate as a political entity. As a Germanic tribe, they ought perhaps to have known better. According to Caesar, the Germani considered it praiseworthy to maintain a wide cordon of wastelands (solitudines) around one’s borders, not only as a mark of courage but also to prevent sudden incursions (Gal. 6.23.1– 3): ciuitatibus maxima laus est quam latissime circum se uastatis finibus solitudines habere. hoc proprium uirtutis existimant, expulsos agris finitimos cedere, neque quemquam prope audere consistere; simul hoc se fore tutiores arbitrantur repentinae incursionis timore sublato, “Their states account it the highest praise by devastating their borders to have areas of wilderness as wide as possible around them. They think it the true sign of valour when the neighbours are driven to retire from their lands and no man dares to settle near, and at the same time they believe they will be safer thereby, having removed all fear of a sudden inroad” (transl. by H.J. Edwards 1917, LCL). Cf. Gal. 4.3.1; see also Mela 3.27. On the parallels between the speeches of Boiocalus and Calgacus, see Liebeschuetz 1966/2012; Laruccia 1980. 18 On the link between the recluse Tiberius and his creation of solitudines in Rome, see Laruccia 1980, 409–10. The link between the emperor as dweller in and creator of solitudo is expressed most clearly by Pliny the Younger (Pan. 48.5): see text and translation below. 19 The semantic field of solitudo overlaps with that of uastitas = (OLD 1a) “unpopulated or untended condition (of a place)”; (1b) “desolation caused by war or hostile acts, ravaged state, devastation”; (1c) “(quasi-concr.) a dreary or desolate expanse, a wilderness, waste”. (2a): “vast or awe-inspiring size or extent, hugeness, immensity”; (2b) “fearful intensity (or a condition, etc.)”. See also uasto = (OLD 1) “to make (a place) desolate or untended, leave

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    devastation of civic life by the poisonous mix of adulation, maiestas charges and a paranoid princeps … Rome resembles the aftermath of a battle or a captive city complete with flight from and desolation of the city center”.20 Less sinister, perhaps, but no less revealing, are the plans of Nero’s architects Severus and Celer to construct and incorporate natural landscapes in the shape of wildernesses (in modum solitudinum, Ann. 15.42.1) within the Golden House. While obviously harmless, the construction of these artificial solitudes not only illustrates the perversity of Nero’s designs, but also underlines ironically how the emperor is creating literal wastelands within Rome herself.21 The dangers of finding oneself in a solitudo are illustrated also in the final moments of a range of key characters: (i) When Messalina is abandoned by all but three of her followers, Tacitus remarks that “such was her sudden isolation” (id repente solitudinis erat, Ann. 11.32.3); (ii) when Agrippina the Younger is abandoned by her household servants while soldiers break into her villa, she reflects that the solitude (solitudinem, Ann. 14.8.3) wherein she finds herself does not bode well; and (iii)  when the emperor Vitellius is abandoned even by his slaves, he shudders at the solitude and silence inside the palace (Hist. 3.84.4): terret solitudo et tacentes loci; temptat clausa, inhorrescit uacuis.22 The dangers of being trapped in such a solitudo is underlined by their fates: while Messalina (thanks to Claudius’ hesitation) is not despatched until the end of the book, neither Agrippina nor Vitellius survives for more than sixteen Teubner lines after their abandonment is made clear. Finally, Subrius Flavus daydreams about setting fire to Nero’s house and, capitalising on “the opportunity of his solitude” (occasio solitudinis, Ann. 15.50.4), killing him while he roams the streets unguarded and alone. The two appearances of solitudo in Dialogus reveal not only the same impossibility of political and civic activity, but also the same tension between voluntary seclusion and imposed isolation. In his attack on poetry, M. Aper without a sign of life”; and uastus = (1a) “(of places) lacking signs of civilization or human presence, desolate; (of persons) deserted, forlorn”; (1b) “(of conditions or activities not marked by human presence; esp. of silence)”; (1c) “desolate as a result of destruction, laid waste”. On the use of uastus with silentium, see note 38 below. 20 Keitel 2014, 65. Keitel (p. 68) notes the parallel with Marcellus’ accusation against Paetus. On Sabinus’ murder, see also Heinz 1975, 58–62. 21 On Nero waging war against Rome, see Keitel 1984, 307–9; 2009, 137; 2010, 342–4; Woodman 1992, 185; Ash 2018, 11, 27. On Tiberius doing the same, see Woodman 1988, 186–90. On the Principate as institutionalised civil war, see Christ 1978, 482; Keitel 1984 and 2014; Ash 1999 and 2009; Strunk 2017, 62–7, 118–9. 22 “The solitude and the silent spaces filled him with fright: he tried the rooms that were closed and shuddered to find them empty” (transl. by C.H. Moore 1925, LCL). Cf. Liv. 5.41.6, where the Gauls looting Rome are “frightened by solitudo itself”, ipsa solitudine absterriti.

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    claims that poets, in contrast to orators, must withdraw into the woods and groves, id est in solitudinem (Dial. 9.6), in order to compose their verses.23 Although the claim that poetry is inherently unpolitical may be effectively countered – not least by referring to the very raison d’être of the text, i.e. that Curiatus Maternus had attracted the ire of someone powerful with a tragedy about Cato (Dial. 2.1) –, Aper’s usage of solitudo is clearly meant to invoke an unpolitical and non-civic sphere.24 The second appearance in Dialogus, on the other hand, puts the imperial(istic) undertones of the word into relief. While explaining the decline of oratory under the imperial regime, Maternus takes aim at the conditions wherein the orator pleads his case, most notably the lack of audiences (Dial. 39.3): unus inter haec dicenti aut alter assistit, et res uelut in solitudine agitur, “All the time the speaker has only two or three for an audience, and the hearing goes forward in what is a scene of desolation.”25 The usage of solitudo draws attention to itself in light of Maternus’ earlier claim that the long period of tranquillity and leisure guaranteed by the emperor’s superior governance had led to a pacification of eloquence, indeed of all things (Dial. 38.2): longa temporum quies et continuum populi otium et adsidua senatus tranquillitas et maxima principis disciplina ipsam quoque eloquentiam sicut omnia alia pacauerat, “a long stretch of peace, the unbroken inactivity of the people, the unremitting calm of the Senate, and the great discipline of the princeps had thoroughly pacified even eloquence itself, like everything else.”26 Given the frequently violent implications of pacare and the instances where this violence manifests itself specifically in the creation of wastelands, Maternus’ seemingly trivial and naïve complaint against the lack of audiences strikes a rather more subtle and menacing tone.27 In the words of Laruccia, “the orator is compelled to plead his case as if in a wasteland”.28 These examples illustrate the contradiction inherent in solitudo: its promise of safety and privacy versus its potential for isolation and forsakenness. They also reveal a pattern. The various conditions designated as solitudo – from the natural solitudes of Germania and North Africa to the man-made solitudes in Rome and on the borders of the Empire – have in common a shortage of 23 As noted by van den Berg (2014, 141), Maternus replies by designating the woods and groves a secretum, a “refuge” (Dial. 12.1). 24 Pliny the Younger found solitudo stimulating for his thoughts (Ep. 1.6), while Cicero sought solitudo to mourn the death of his daughter (Att. 12.9). 25 Transl. by W. Peterson & M. Winterbottom 1970, LCL. 26 Transl. by van den Berg 2014, 191. 27 On the notions of conquest and violence inherent in pax and pacare, see esp. Lavan 2017; cf. Laruccia 1980, 408; Rich 2003/2009; Mastino & Ibba 2012. 28 Laruccia 1980, 408.

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    mutually interdependent human relationships and an impossibility of sustaining civic life, thus entailing a renunciation of the idea of civilisation. Solitudines are sterile conditions devoid of civilised interaction and consequently politically lifeless. As such, when the word is used to describe the brutal effects of Roman imperialism along the border and the violent suppression of civic life in Rome herself, it unmasks imperial claims to promote civilisation and guarantee peace. Through its power to undermine the legitimacy of the Principate at home and abroad, it is a keyword of resistance.29 4

    Agricola Revisited

    The chronological impossibility of the allusion to Calgacus makes it no less effective within Marcellus’ speech or within the Tacitean literary corpus. Indeed, the claim that Paetus’ non-participation in political life entails a wholesale rejection of Roman civilisation – that he considers the buildings symbolic of Roman civilisation to be solitudines (wastelands) – is powerful. Firstly, by imputing to Paetus an appraisal of Roman civilisation similar to that of Calgacus, the claim sows doubt about his dedication to Rome and commitment to the Roman civilising mission. Not only does this isolate him from the source of his authority as a senator of Rome, it also opens up a chasm between him and his fellow senators: they, after all, are still working within and with the imperial system. Secondly, by tapping into a reasonable doubt about the usefulness and patriotism of refusal to cooperate with the regime, the claim promises to reveal both the hypocrisy of those who oppose the emperor and their disloyalty to Rome. Moreover, it does so through appropriation of a key term from the opposition playbook, throwing the accusations made by the emperor’s enemies right back at them: rather than the emperor’s monopolisation of power and persecution of alleged insurgents, it is their withdrawal from political life that threatens to create a wasteland in Rome. 29 Cf. Rutherford 2010, 467–8. The creation of civic and political wastelands strikes at the heart of Roman republican politics, which were characterised by human interaction and (ideally) manifested in a spirit of coming together for the sake of a shared community: friendship (amicitia), trust (fides, fidelitas), mutual dependence (meritum, beneficium), shared effort (particeps, minister) for a shared community (res publicae), the freedom to congregate (coire, coitio, coitus, comitium), to roam around (ambire, ambitio, ambitus), to join in agreement (consentire, consensio, consensus), and to help one another (­adiuuare, adiutor, auxilium). For discussion of the terms and their political significances, see Hellegouarc’h 1963. On the tension between self-promotion and community solidarity in Roman (male, upper class) ethics, see Kaster 2005, esp. 3–4, 52–6.

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    The reader who accepts the premise that Roman imperialism was an undeniable force for good and that Calgacus, however brave, was misguided in his resistance against Roman imperialism, may thus safely dismiss Paetus as a traitor and/or a madman. According to this reasoning, if his position can be equated with that of Calgacus, Paetus must be an enemy of Rome. However, given that Agricola arguably portrays Calgacus in a more positive light than it portrays the consequences of Roman imperialism, the allusion – at least at the point of readerly reception – is susceptible to various (by Marcellus unintended) interpretations. In other words, the evocation of Calgacus is a doubleedged sword, as it activates both sides of his character: barbarian enemy of Rome and brave freedom fighter. The suggestion that Paetus’ non-participation in imperial politics stems from a world-view similar to that which spurred (i.e. will spur) Calgacus’ armed insurrection against Rome and, as such, signifies a rejection of Roman civilisation tout court prompts the reader to look for additional similarities between the two men. While such similarities may indeed be found in the texts, they work against the conclusions that Marcellus would wish his audience to draw: rather than demonising Paetus through association with Calgacus, they appear to encourage a re-evaluation of Calgacus and a reflection on the nature of Roman imperialism. The two character traits shared by Calgacus and Paetus, after all, are virtue (uirtus) and commitment to freedom (libertas). Firstly, the account of the accusation against Paetus is introduced by Tacitus’ remark that “Nero finally desired to extirpate virtue itself by killing Thrasea Paetus and Barea Soranus” (ad postremum Nero uirtutem ipsam exscindere concupiuit interfecto Thrasea et Barea Sorano, 16.21.1).30 Calgacus, who is remarkably roughly sketched in Agricola, is described simply as “outstanding among their many leaders in virtue and birth” (inter plures duces uirtute et genere praestans, Agr. 29.4).31 Secondly, Paetus’ commitment to freedom is on show when it explodes the servitude of his fellow senators during the trial against Antistius and when it strikes fear into Nero in the build-up to the accusation (libertas Thraseae, Ann. 14.49.1; libertatem insontis, 16.24.2). Calgacus’ commitment to freedom shines through his pre-battle speech at Mons Graupius (Agr. 30.1, 30.3, 31.4, 32.3). Tacitus, in other words, uses both characters to explore what happens when a virtuous man is forced to choose between collaboration with and resistance to an imperial(istic) project,

    30 31

    On this remarkable designation of the two men (and its possible Stoic connotations), see Turpin 2008, 378–9. My translation. On the significance of Calgacus’ uirtus, see Clarke 2001/2012.

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    between fighting for uncontaminated freedom and accepting (a form of) slavery.32 This thematic similarity is underlined by Paetus’ two appearances in Agricola, first as an individual who was praised (2.1) and then as a member of a collective whose political conduct was to be criticised (42.3).33 Unlike the coincidence – caused by the loss of the final books of Annals – that the blood of Paetus both inaugurates (Agr. 2.1) and closes (Ann. 16.35.2) the Tacitean corpus,34 his role in framing Agricola is a result of design, which supports the idea that Tacitus had this text in mind when narrating his high-profile accusation in Annals.35 Moreover, both the opinions attributed to Paetus by Marcellus and the claims made by Calgacus in his speech are validated by their surrounding narratives. Although Paetus never – at least not openly – criticises Nero’s policies as conducive to the creation of wastelands, Marcellus’ accusation nonetheless reminds the reader that the emperor has indeed created solitudines both within the borders of the Empire (Agrippina the Younger’s villa, Ann. 14.8.3) and inside Rome herself (the Golden House, Ann. 15.42.1). What is more, the claim that imperial power was (or could be) responsible for the destruction of civic life, prepared already by the account of Tiberius’ seclusion and its consequences in the fourth book of Annals (Agrippina the Elder at Ann. 4.53.1; Titius Sabinus at Ann. 4.70.2) and suggested by Maternus in Dialogus (see above on Dial. 38.2, 39.3), would become a key element in Pliny the Younger’s denigration of Domitian in Panegyricus, in which the defunct Flavian emperor is portrayed both as a dweller in and a creator of solitudo (Pan. 48.5): non adire quisquam non adloqui audebat, tenebras semper secretumque captantem, nec umquam ex solitudine sua prodeuntem, nisi ut solitudinem faceret, “None dared approach him, none dared speak; always he sought darkness and mystery, and only emerged from the desert of his solitude to create another.”36 32

    On dedication to libertas as a key trait of both Calgacus and Thrasea Paetus, see Whitmarsh 2006, 316. On freedom and slavery in Agricola, see Damtoft Poulsen 2017; cf. Liebeschuetz 1966/2012; Woodman 2014, 15–25; Lavan 2013, 127–42. On the link between peace and freedom in the Tacitean corpus, see Giua 2014. 33 Agr. 2.1: legimus, cum Aruleno Rustico Paetus Thrasea, Herennio Senecioni Priscus Heluidius laudati essent, capitale fuisse, “We have read how Arulenus Rusticus’ eulogy of Paetus Thrasea and that of Priscus Helvidius by Herennius Senecio were treated as capital offences”. For Agr. 42.3, see note 4 above. On the difficulties of accommodating the various evaluations of Paetus’ political conduct in the Tacitean corpus, see Devillers 2002, 306–7; Strunk 2010, 121. 34 Sailor 2008, 11; cf. Heldmann 1991, 211–2. 35 On Paetus’ presence in Agricola, see esp. Liebeschuetz 1966/2012. 36 Transl. by B. Radice 1969, LCL. On links between Panegyricus and the Tacitean corpus, see Bruère 1954, who argues that the Panegyricus was influenced by Tacitus’ minor works and

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    Calgacus’ vision of Roman pacification as equivalent to the creation of wastelands is supported by the deafening silence which meets the Romans when they return to the battlefield after their victory at Mons Graupius (Agr. 38.2): proximus dies faciem uictoriae latius aperuit: uastum ubique silentium, secreti colles, fumantia procul tecta, nemo exploratoribus obuius, “At dawn next day the scale of the victory was more apparent: the silence of desolation on all sides, the hills lonely, homesteads smouldering in the distance, not a man to encounter the scouts.”37 The use of uastus with silentium underlines the lack of human life, the silence inherent in desolation as well as the terrifying immensity of silence. Given that proximus dies suggests this is a day-time scene while combinations of uastum and silentium are generally used to describe night-time scenes, it would appear that Tacitus is here employing his literary powers to turn day into night.38

    37 38

    subsequently influenced Histories and Annals. Given that the link between solitudo and pax is made already in Agricola and Dialogus, it would appear that it passed from Tacitus to Pliny and then back to Tacitus. On Plinian usage of Agricola, see Marchesi 2008, 189–96; Whitton 2010, with further references; 2013, 80–1. On literary interactions between Pliny and Tacitus (and Quintilian), see also Whitton 2018. The extent of interaction between Tacitus’ two major historical works and the Plinian corpus suggests that the historian fulfilled his friend’s request to be enrolled in the annals of history (Ep. 7.33; cf. Marchesi 2008, 147), though perhaps not in the way that Pliny had imagined. On lack of speech as a characteristic feature of solitudines, see note 40 below. Whitmarsh 2006, 318; Woodman 2014, ad loc. The phrase uastum silentium enters extant Latin literature with Livy’s description of the sight that meets the Romans making their way into the evacuated Samnite city of Feritrum (Liv. 10.34.6). Early imperial epic poets use various combinations of the two words to describe either the Underworld (Ov. Met. 10.30: uastique silentia regni) or night-time scenes, e.g. inside Caesar’s camp (Luc. 5.508: uasta silentia), outside Hannibal’s bedchamber (Sil. 1.67: uasta silentia), and during Polynikes’ journey to Argos (Stat. Theb. 1.367–369): non segnius amens / incertusque uiae per nigra silentia uastum / haurit iter, “Distraught and doubtful of his way, no less swiftly did he devour his desolate route through the black silences” (transl. by D.R. Shackleton Bailey 2003, LCL). Tacitus uses the expression to describe the initial silence among Vitellius’ soldiers when they see the statues of their emperor overthrown (Hist. 3.13.2: sed ubi totis castris in fama proditio, recurrens in principia miles praescriptum Vespasiani nomen, proiectas Vitellii effigies aspexit, uastum primo silentium, mox cuncta simul erumpunt, “But when the news of the treason spread through the whole camp, the soldiers ran to headquarters, where they saw Vespasian’s name put up on the standards and the statues of Vitellius overthrown; at first there was utter silence, and then all their rage burst out”, transl. by C.H. Moore 1925, LCL), as well as a nightly Thracian breakout attempt (Ann. 4.50.4): et ingruebat nox nimbo atrox, hostisque clamore turbido, modo per uastum silentium, incertos obsessores effecerat, “Night closed with a frightful rain; and the enemy with his turbulent shouting, but sometimes across a desolate and awful silence, had induced uncertainty in the blockaders”.

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    The words spoken by the Caledonian chieftain even appear to resonate with the subsequent description of Domitianic Rome, whose conditions do not differ greatly from those in conquered Britain. The weapons (armatorum … arma, 37.3), slaughter (caesa, 37.6), and flight (fugam, 37.5) inherent in imperialistic pacification are mirrored in Domitian’s terror in Rome (45.1): the senate surrounded by armed men (armis), consulars slaughtered (caedes), and honourable women in flight and exile (exilia et fugas).39 The desolate silence in the aftermath of the first stage of imperialistic pacification (uastum ubique silentium, 38.2) finds its parallel in Domitian’s suppression of freedom of speech, e.g. when the emperor dismisses Agricola “with a brief kiss and without a word” (breui osculo et nullo sermone, 40.3).40 Finally, Calgacus’ attacks on the obsequiousness demanded (obsequium, 30.3; patientia, 15.1) and servitude imposed (seruituri, 31.1; cf. 13.1, 14.2, 15.1, 16.1, 21.2, 29.3, 30.1–2, 31.2, 32.4) by the so-called Roman peace materialise in the servility required by the emperors of their subjects (patientiae … seruitute, 2.3; seruitutis, 3.3; obsequi … obsequendo, 8.1–3; seruientium, 40.3; obsequium, 42.4). Given that Nero, too, is seriously implicated in Agricola’s portrayal of the un-civic consequences of imperial rule (otium, inertia, and silentium at 6.3–4; obsequium at 8.1–3; scelera at 45.2), these are hardly the interpretive links that Marcellus would have wished to activate. As noted above in the tour of Tacitean solitudines, the construction of Nero’s Golden House – whose extent, despite Nero’s promise to keep his domus and the res publica separate (Ann. 13.4.2), equals almost the entire city (Ann. 15.43.1) – transforms Rome into an unnatural wilderness. The emperor literally “re-wilds” the city and even encourages/ forces his subjects to act the(ir) part(s) by behaving like wild animals within the solitudo that he is creating.41 In these perverse wildernesses there is no room for the exercise of traditional civic and political duties. The permanence (and consequent re-readability) of a text means that it may derive meaning also from intertexts with future texts. Our understanding of Calgacus in Agricola cannot remain the same after we have read Marcellus’ accusation against Paetus in Annals 16. It influences our subsequent rereading(s) of Agricola. As we are led back to Agricola for the context necessary to appreciate Marcellus’ rhetorical niceties, we are simultaneously pressed to 39 40

    Cf. Laruccia 1980, 408; Whitmarsh 2006, 318. My translation. In Agricola, silence is used repeatedly to stress the lack of civic life under Nero (6.4, 18.6) and Domitian (Agr. 2–3, 39.2). On the various meanings and functions of silence in Tacitus, see Strocchio 1992; on Agricola in particular, see Haynes 2006; Damtoft Poulsen 2017, 847–50. 41 Woodman 1992: Woodman argues that Nero is transforming Rome into a second Alexandria.

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    re-evaluate our understanding of Calgacus in light of the account of Paetus – and vice versa. The congruence between the two characters contributes to dismantle the tenuous distinction between “Empire” and “Principate” not only in Agricola but also in the Tacitean corpus more generally.42 The deeper we go into Tacitus’ text, the more intertwined are Empire and Principate. 5

    Conclusions

    Although wariness is required when considering the significance(s) of an intertext between a Roman senator and a Caledonian chieftain, I hope to have demonstrated in this paper that we may in fact speak of an allusion to Agricola in the speech of Eprius Marcellus in Annals 16: not only are there marked verbal and thematic parallels between the passages, the appreciation of these parallels unleashes stories about imperial rhetorical strategies, about sensitivity among Roman historians to the blurred lines between imperial and imperialistic power, and about the inherent literariness of Roman historical writing and the peculiarly ahistorical intertextuality that underpins it.43 While the allusion to Calgacus helps Marcellus portray his victim as an enemy of the state, the juxtaposition of solitudo and pax activates a conceptual field over which he has little control and in which Tacitus’ Roman and barbarian worlds tend to coalesce. In this way, the allusion serves to deconstruct the intertwined ideologies of benevolent imperialism and imperial benevolence. Where Agricola uses the political conduct of an unnamed Paetus as a foil to that of its eponymous hero, Annals uses Calgacus to blur the lines between resistance to imperial power and resistance to Roman imperialism. Paradoxically, this effect is achieved through the deadly eloquence of an imperial accuser. 42 As noted by Marincola (2010, 278–9), speeches in historiography may serve to collapse time as well as to measure the difference between time periods. Regarding the speeches of Calgacus and Marcellus (which, after all, are only 17 years apart) and the resulting congruence between Calgacus and Paetus, however, we might perhaps speak of a geographical – rather than a temporal – collapse, that is, between the experiences of a Roman senator fighting for freedom in Rome (the Principate) and a barbarian chieftain fighting for freedom on its frontiers (the Empire). On the distinction between “Empire” and “Principate”, see p. 176 above. The nature of the relationship between the British and Roman narratives of Agricola is contested: Lavan 2013 sees a clear parallel between them, while Woodman (2014, 15–25), although he acknowledges the similarities in theme and vocabulary, insists on a more rigid distinction; see also Damtoft Poulsen 2017. 43 On markedness and sense as the prerequisites of allusion, see note 13 above.

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    If anything, the discussion above illustrates that usages of the past in Roman historical writing may be more convoluted and may raise more (and different) questions than is immediately obvious. While the allusion to Calgacus/ Agricola in Marcellus’ speech is presumably a Tacitean invention – given that the accuser could hardly have referred to an event that had not yet taken place or a text that had not yet been published –, we cannot discount entirely the possibility that the expression originated with Eprius Marcellus during the trial, that it came to the attention of Tacitus – either from the senatorial records of from an eyewitness, e.g. his (at that point future) father-in-law Julius Agricola –,44 and that the historian subsequently put it into the mouth of his Caledonian chieftain. In any case, the apparent comfort of chronology is undermined, and the past resembles a painting of simultaneously (re-)occurring events rather than an orderly succession of “befores” and “afters”, of causes and effects. If Tacitus’ Marcellus is anything to go by, it would appear that Roman historical writers were comfortable letting their characters choose and pick from this smorgasbord of events, free from chronological constraints.45 Whether to help or to harm, the entire historical canvass was available. As noted by Christina S. Kraus in her discussion of usages of the past in Tacitus’ minor works, “the past … can serve either as a safe haven or as a threat”.46 For the Tacitean Thrasea Paetus the latter turns out to be the case, his fate sealed by a future event in a past text.

    Acknowledgements

    I would like to express my gratitude to Christina S. Kraus, Monika Asztalos, Arne Jönsson, and Ellen O’Gorman for their perspicuous and inspiring comments on previous versions of this paper. The latter deserves an extra word of

    44 45

    46

    Cf. Rudich 1993, 166. On the possibility that Tacitus might be reproducing, to some extent, Marcellus’ oratory, see Bartera 2020, ad loc. 28–29. Rather than necessarily less aware of historical and literary precedents than their real-life counterparts (as implied by Damon 2010b, 381), it may be argued that literary characters can in fact enjoy a wider sphere of allusive action, since they may (be allowed to) allude to both earlier and later events. For some examples of Livian characters acting anachronistically, see Chaplin 2000, 98–9 (discussed in the introduction of this volume). On the potential of intertextuality to embrace anachronism and disrupt ordinary temporality, see O’Gorman 2006; 2009, 239 (quoted above in note 12). Kraus 2014, 220.

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    Part 3 The Frontiers of Historiography



    Chapter 8

    The Staging of Death: Tacitus’ Agrippina the Younger and the Dramatic Turn Rhiannon Ash 1

    Introduction

    This volume poses some central questions about the Roman historians’ distinctive reconstructions of their collective past. How do such writers create these historical narratives so as to stand out from this heavyweight and wellpopulated genre? How comfortably do semi-fictionalising narrative techniques expressive of authorial creativity dovetail with the need to convey an objective historical truth (if there is such a thing)? Does entertainment and enjoyment always come at the cost of accuracy? And do some historical episodes intrinsically lend themselves better than others do to imaginative authorial reconstructions that allow scope for generic fusion?1 These important questions have a significant impact on assessing the reliability of our surviving historical narratives from the ancient world. One sequence drawing together many of these questions is Tacitus’ extraordinary account of the events culminating in Agrippina the Younger’s death in AD59 (Ann. 14.1–13), including the infamous and dramatic incident of the “collapsible ship” (solutilis nauis, Suet. Nero 34.2).2 This is a particularly expressive section of Tacitus’ narrative when considering his distinctive attitude to “usages of the past”. Firstly, it raises central questions about the relationship between plausible fiction (inuentio) and facts (res). What does it mean when a notorious incident from the past is presented to readers in a historical narrative 1 Hutchinson (2013, 223) analyses history, oratory, and philosophy as prose “super-genres” and sees the emergence of rhythmic prose as central to their evolution. 2 This spectacular episode has naturally attracted scholarly attention. Barrett (1996, 181–95) and Ginsburg (2006, 46–54) discuss the depiction of Agrippina’s murder; Muller 1994 analyses tragic elements; Foucher 2000b considers intertextuality, including engagement with Accius’ Atreus and Seneca’s Hercules Oetaeus; Hind 1972 sees links with the end of Seneca’s Oedipus; Baltussen 2002 explores connections with the finale of Euripides’ Electra; Devillers 1995 considers Tacitus’ arrangement of his material and possible modifications of his sources; Piecha 2003 analyses the parallel tradition to highlight distinctive elements in Tacitus; and Grethlein (2013, 131) sees the episode as exemplifying “the dramatic and graphic qualities for which Tacitus’ historiography is praised”.

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    as if it were the finale of a staged drama unfolding before their very eyes? Is a historian’s credibility compromised when “real life” is given a dramatic fictionalised turn in this way? Is this misusing the past?3 Secondly, the episode also crystallises how and why we pinpoint the generic boundary between prose historiography and verse drama. There are certainly examples of authors crossing (and re-crossing) that boundary when poets versify a historian’s narrative. So, for example, we know about one “metamorphosis” into tragedy of Herodotus’ story of Gyges of Lydia enacted by an unnamed writer of the Hellenistic era.4 As we will see, Tacitus’ episode of the collapsible ship is packed with details mimetic of staging, and various aspects of the presentation enhance the sense that we are looking onto a stage. Ginsburg calls it “one of the most dramatically reported episodes in the Annals”, noting that “some, indeed, have read it as owing its inspiration to a tragedy”.5 This deathscene is useful for considering such questions about genre because, fortuitously, the failed murder-attempt and killing of Agrippina also feature in the pseudoSenecan Octauia, although the presentation there (as we shall see) diverges significantly from Tacitus’ version: strikingly, the episode comes across as less “stagey” in [Seneca]’s choral ode than it does in Tacitus’ historical narrative.6 The episode appears also in Cassius Dio (61.12–14), albeit (again) with some pointed differences,7 and Suetonius offers a brief version (Nero 34.2–4) under the unusual rubric parricidia et caedes, “parricides and murders” (Nero 33.1).8 One distinctive aspect of all these narratives is their internal balance, whereby the prelude (the unsuccessful murder attempt through the collapsible ship) almost overshadows the successful matricide.9

    3 Dawson (1968–9, 254) calls Tacitus’ account of Agrippina’s death “a farrago of lies and absurdities”. 4 P. Oxy. xxiii (1956) no. 2382, with Murray 1972, 203–4. The text is also published as Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta 2 F 664 and in Kotlińska-Toma 2015, 178–85. Travis 2000 is illuminating on the relationship between the fragment and Herodotus’ version. Other sections of Herodotus’ Lydian logos have been analysed for the influence of tragedy (Chiasson 2003). See further Nielsen 1999; Saïd 2002. 5 Ginsburg 2006, 46. 6 [Seneca’s] anapaestic choral ode (the drama’s first) depicts both the unsuccessful and successful matricide (Oct. 309–376). See Ferri 2003, 205–26; Boyle 2008, 151–68. Ferri 1998 compares accounts of Octavia’s death ([Sen.] Oct. 929–946; Tac. Ann. 14.63–4), arguing that Tacitus was inspired by [Seneca]. Kragelund 2000 also compares the two works. 7 See Bartsch (1994, 214 n.39) and Piecha 2003 on these differences. 8 Jos. BJ 2.250 and Mart. 4.63 are the earliest surviving mentions of the matricide. 9 Collapsible ship: [Sen.] Oct. 309–360, Suet. Nero 34.2–3, Tac. Ann. 14.3–6, D.C. 61.12–13. Matricide: [Sen.] Oct. 361–376, Suet. Nero 34.3–4, Tac. Ann. 14.7–9, D.C. 61.13–14.

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    figure 8.1 One artist’s representation of Agrippina’s narrow escape: “The Shipwreck of Agrippina”, by Gustav Wertheimer (1847–1902) Photograph Courtesy of Sotheby’s, Inc. © 2007

    Ancient historiography and poetry were sometimes seen as broadly intertwined. Quintilian regards history-writing as proxima poetis (“very close to the poets”, 10.1.31), and epic poets and historians can have overlapping historical subject matter, so that, for example, Livy the historian and Silius Italicus the poet traverse the same terrain.10 Moreover, historical narratives had a longstanding relationship with staged historical dramas through their poetic counterparts, the fabulae praetextae.11 As Lightfoot observes in connection with Dionysius of Alexandria and ancient geographical writing, “prose and poetry are equally exploitable, and can be combined, tessellated, and harmonised”.12 Even so, particular types of scene within Roman historiography show especially strong cross-fertilisation with drama. These are above all scenes involving

    10 See too Arist. Poet. 1451b. Foucher 2000a and the essays in Levene & Nelis 2002 and Woodman & Miller 2010 consider such inter-connections between history and poetry. See Tipping 2010 on Livy and Silius Italicus. 11 On the genre of fabula praetexta ([Seneca]’s Octauia is the only surviving example), see Flower 1995; Manuwald 2001 and 2011; Kragelund 2002. Wiseman 1998 considers the relationship between fabula praetexta and Roman historical writing. 12 Lightfoot 2014, 13.

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    high-ranking women and the murky world of the domus: here, broad shifts in political power affecting the outside world are often triggered by transgressive relationships within the family played out behind closed doors.13 Precisely because the power-games of the imperial domus unfolded in such an elusive place, the familiar world of the tragic stage was invaluable for authors seeking verisimilitude for their narratives: inuentio became plausible when audiences could evoke already familiar poetic models. We can think here of Livy signalling the impending narrative of king Servius Tullius’ murder – at the hands of Tarquinius Superbus but orchestrated by his wife, Tullius’ daughter, Tullia – as sceleris tragici exemplum, “an example of a crime worthy of tragedy” (1.46.3): although not formally accused, Tullia is strongly implicated in the murder.14 Of course, efforts to illuminate complex historical and political questions by pointing the spotlight at relationships between individual human beings mirror wider interpretative patterns. We find similar dynamics, for example, in myths about Helen’s abduction triggering the Trojan war, or the series of rapes opening Herodotus’ Histories, or Lucretia’s rape by Sextus Tarquinius leading to Tarquinius Superbus’ expulsion and the foundation of the Roman republic. Such personalised explanations, keeping things “in the family” and providing accessible, individualised motives, simplify and clarify some elaborate causes of messy events. This human angle also adds entertainment and shock value to these narratives. It is no wonder that such individualised stories are so central to drama (tragedy especially). Yet we might legitimately question their place in the causal nexus of historiography, even if under the Principate the nature of the autocratic system and dynastic succession mean that such “biostructuring” becomes a particularly illuminating narrative mode.15 In Agrippina’s case, for example, the matricide might potentially be considered psychologically revealing about Nero’s own character and development. So Suetonius highlights the emperor’s disturbing dream after the murder as he steers a ship, only to have the tiller wrenched from his hands (Nero 46.1). Yet this is a psychological consequence of the matricide: Suetonius conspicuously leaves undeveloped the scene of the murder itself. In a historical narrative, the detailed “staging” of the murder-attempt (as opposed to exploring the 13 D.C. 53.19 highlights historians’ difficulties when reconstructing decisions taken within the imperial domus. 14 Wiseman (2009, 207) emphasises that events surrounding Lucius Brutus and the Tarquins’ expulsion had been cast as drama long before Livy. There were two fabulae praetextae entitled Brutus: Accius wrote one in the late second-century BC and an unknown author by the name of Cassius wrote another, twice cited by Varro in his de Lingua Latina. Manuwald 2001 (pp. 220–37 on Accius, 237–43 on Cassius) assembles the fragments. 15 Pelling 1997.

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    consequences of its successful execution) might expose a historian to accusations of sensationalising the past. In ancient historiography, writers narrating extraordinary incidents had to strike a delicate balance between pleasure and utility.16 And material striking audiences as alluringly miraculous or sensational risked debasing a weighty historical narrative. Such dangers prompt historians to use distancing strategies and to offer pre-emptive defences. So Tacitus, describing serpents guarding the baby Nero, edgily calls this fabulosa et externis miraculis assimilata, “material evoking tall-tales and assimilated to foreign wonders” (Ann. 11.11.3).17 Before narrating the wedding between Messalina and Silius, Tacitus declares haud sum ignarus fabulosum uisum iri tantum ullis mortalium securitatis fuisse in ciuitate omnium gnara et nihil reticente, “I am well aware that it will seem unbelievable that any mortals felt such complacency in a community aware of everything and silent about nothing” (Ann. 11.27.1).18 In this instance, Tacitus deftly and surprisingly uses the label fabulosum to describe the couple’s lack of concern, not to describe the ostentatiously Bacchic wedding which follows (for which fabulosum might be considered an apt tag). Yet through Tacitus’ authorial intervention, the association with mythical material and the tragic stage is planted. Such “apologies” play an important part in shaping perceptions of authorial identity. Tacitus foregrounds his sensitivity about incorporating extraordinary subject matter into a grand genre but also whets readers’ appetites for what is to come. This was a delicate balance to strike. Material which was too readily associated with lowlier genres (including paradoxography, the novel, or even drama)19 or which aligned the work discreditably with other subfields within the genre perceived as declassé, such as sensationalising Hellenistic historiography, could cause headaches for 16 Walbank 1990 is crucial on the contrast between history for instruction and history for pleasure (a running theme in Polybius’ history: 1.4.11, 2.56.11, 5.75.6, 6.2.8, 7.7.8, 11.19a.1–3, 15.36.3, 31.30.1). 17 Malloch 2013, 194–5. See too Suet. Nero 6.4 and D.C. (Xiphilinus) 61.2.4 (though the epitomised story preserved here is less sensational than the Latin versions). Tacitus elsewhere hesitates before narrating incredibilia (Hist. 2.50.2, Ann. 4.11.3), even apparently denying that his narrative will give pleasure compared with republican historiography (Ann. 4.33.3), with Woodman 1988, 183–5; 2018, 182–4. 18 Malloch 2013, 392–468. Tacitus’ account of Messalina’s final days is also strongly marked by performative elements evoking and blending together different varieties of drama, including the “adultery mime” (Dickison 1977) and Euripides’ Bacchae (Santoro l’hoir 2006, 234–7). 19 Drama presented risks. Cf. Livy’s memorable digression on the ludi scaenici (7.2.4–13) and drama as coming from small but respectable beginnings until an institution initially introduced for religious reasons became an almost intolerable insania (Livy says). Cf. Oakley 1998, 40–71 (p. 40: “No other chapter in books vi-x has generated so extensive a bibliography”).

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    historians.20 Against this backdrop, Tacitus needed to be careful in staging his “drama” of events preceding Agrippina’s death. As Oakley summarises, “since historia was expected to narrate the truth, no historian would want it to be said that his work contained fabulae.”21 Even so, Tacitus’ presentation of Agrippina’s end could still potentially deliver serious moralising reaching beyond the matricide’s intrinsic shock value. Scholars have chewed over the theatricality of Nero’s Principate and the warped reality created by that ubiquitous showiness, not just within the imperial domus but also in society more broadly.22 Exploiting the stage to highlight transgressions also reflected contemporary responses to Nero’s Principate, as when the actor Datus in an Atellan farce enhanced a song beginning ὑγίαινε πάτερ, ὑγίαινε μῆτερ, “Good health father, good health mother!”, by miming drinking and swimming to recall the deaths of Claudius and Agrippina (Suet. Nero 39.3).23 Where Nero’s contemporaries resorted to dark wit after these sensational family murders, Tacitus as historian could exploit the matricide for his own purposes: the more elaborately staged Agrippina’s death, the sharper the indignatio unleashed against Nero. This paper will first show how Tacitus vividly “stages” the attempted matricide and accentuates its theatricality (which extends even to the murder itself). I will outline a range of techniques whereby Tacitus’ account stands out from other versions in the parallel tradition by offering details which cumulatively and pointedly evoke staging and the genre of tragedy. Then I will turn briefly to [Seneca]’s Octauia to see what light the alternative narrative in this fabula praetexta can shed on Tacitus’ version of events. Finally, I will suggest that Tacitus’ dramatisation of Agrippina’s death is designed to intensify his denunciation of Nero by deploying powerful generic fusion in a carefully demarcated sequence. Through such creative techniques, Tacitus satisfies the moralising agenda of his unique brand of historiography.

    20 Polybius 3.47.6–48 is important, identifying Hannibal crossing the Alps as a setting where “paradoxology” had disrupted proper historical writing in his sources. See Feldherr 2009, 313. 21 Oakley 1998, 102. Oakley also illuminates the broad connotations of the term fabula in historiography. 22 Bartsch 1994 is crucial. Shumate 1997, Beacham (1999, 197–254), and Cowan 2009 discuss theatricalised experience under Nero. 23 D.C. 61.13.2 echoes this phrase during the murder, ventriloquising Nero bidding his mother farewell for the last time (μῆτέρ … ἔρρωσό μοι καὶ ὑγίαινε, “Mother, I wish you strength and good health”).

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    Matricide in Historiography: Tacitus’ Version (Annals 14.1–13)

    How does Tacitus set up his account? The events culminating in the matricide are structurally prominent, since they open both the year AD59 and the book Annals 14: their location thus demarcates and sets into relief a distinct narrative unit, enhancing the impression of an embedded drama. Indeed, Tacitus anchors Nero’s diu meditatum scelus (“long-contemplated crime”, Ann. 14.1.1) right next to his announcement of the consuls for the year.24 As Bartera observes, “the fact that Tacitus chose, uniquely in the extant portion of Annals 12–16, to open the new book with a new year, gives special  – almost exemplary  – meaning to this event”.25 Moreover, Tacitus locates the matricide here, even though chronologically the murder fell during the festival of Quinquatrus for Minerva (March 19th–23rd; Ann. 14.4.1, 14.12.1).26 This arrangement thereby accentuates the book’s first dynastic murder, establishing a dialogue with Octavia’s killing at the book’s close.27 Strikingly, Tacitus’ narrative of the whole year AD59 runs from Ann. 14.1–19, with AD60 beginning at 14.20. The events surrounding the matricide thus get the lion’s share of the annalistic space for the year (Ann. 14.1–13): only six chapters remain for all the other events of AD59.28

    24 Cf. Livy’s sceleris tragici exemplum (1.46.3), discussed and translated earlier. 25 Bartera (2011, 168) also notes that Agrippina’s disappearance from the narrative for the previous three years further contributes to Tacitus’ careful build-up. 26 See Ov. Fast. 3.809–76 on the Quinquatrus. Barrett (1996, 246) seeks precision over the accident’s timing: “Dio says that Agrippina sailed after midnight, and that the accident occurred fairly soon after embarkation; some time before 2am would therefore be a reasonable assumption. Dio and Tacitus both indicate that the night was moonless … The night of 26 or 27 March would be a good candidate. On that night (in 59) the moon rose at about 2.30am; it would have risen approximately 50 minutes 30 seconds earlier on each of the preceding nights.” 27 Ginsburg (2006, 46) notes that “the roles attributed to Poppaea Sabina and Anicetus in both murders establishes a parallel between the two episodes”. See further O’Gorman 2000, 142. 28 As a source for these events, Tacitus certainly consulted the senior senator Cluvius Rufus (FRHist no. 84), cited specifically at Ann. 14.2, who under Vespasian wrote a history which perhaps began with Caligula, certainly covered Nero, and may have tackled the civil wars. The first fragment from his history demonstrates his interest in drama. It concerns the Latin term histriones and how, after a plague in Rome had killed those appearing on stage, actors came from Etruria (Plut. Mor. 289C–D; FRHist no. 84, F1). Cluvius Rufus also served as a herald for Nero’s performances at the second Neronia and on the Greek tour (Suet. Nero 21.2, D.C. 63.14.3). Levick, commenting in volume three of Cornell 2013 on FRHist no. 84, F1, wonders specifically whether (p. 617) “some of Tacitus’ accounts of theatrical scenes may go back to him. In particular, the digression of Ann. 13.21 [on the theatre] may be a reworking of a Cluvian predecessor”.

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    2.1 Embedded Speech-Acts Various aspects of Tacitus’ presentation suggest the mechanics of a drama, and these I will now outline in turn. Take for example the many embedded references to speech-acts. First, at Ann. 14.1, we have the sarcastic Poppaea despairing of her marriage and criticising Nero for being under his mother’s thumb. As the opening turn, she resembles a Fury kindling the emperor to act. Tacitus vividly describes Nero as flagrantior in dies amore Poppaeae, “more aflame day by day with love for Poppaea” (14.1.1).29 Poppaea’s presence evokes the opening scene of Seneca’s Thyestes, where the Fury forces Tantalus’ ghost to infect his family with his impious spirit.30 We can also compare Tacitus’ figurative language about the conspirator Epicharis (15.51.1): accendere et arguere coniuratos, “she fired up and criticised the conspirators”.31 The argument that Poppaea is placed prominently here for dramatic purposes is endorsed because Tacitus quickly drops the idea that Poppaea had any meaningful role in prompting Agrippina’s murder. As critics point out, Nero only married Poppaea three years later.32 Also conspicuous here is the emphasis on the hostile relationship between Poppaea and Agrippina. As Ginsburg observes: “Once again the literary tradition represents an event with important political implications as a contest between women; in a sense the Agrippina-Poppaea rivalry is a repetition of that between Agrippina and Acte earlier” (13.12.1).33 So the impetus of personalised causation (discussed in the introduction) strikes again. Then, at Annals 14.2 in another speech-act, Seneca sends Nero’s old flame, the freedwoman Acte, to defuse Agrippina’s influence by telling Nero about his mother’s boasts of committing incest with him and reminding him that the soldiers will not tolerate a profanus princeps, “perverted emperor”. At Ann. 14.3 Anicetus, the ingenious architect of the collapsible ship, delivers a suasoria to persuade Nero. Conversation also peppers the final banquet (pluribus sermonibus, 14.4.4) and the ship’s fateful voyage, as Acerronia per gaudium memorabat (“cheerfully recalls”, 14.5.1) the reconciliation between son and mother. That emphasis on happiness before unforeseen disaster – unforeseen at least by the protagonists – recalls the chorus’ deluded and short-lived celebration of an apparent reconciliation between Atreus and Thyestes in Seneca’s Thyestes 546–622. In another memorable speech-act, Acerronia fatally “shouts 29 30 31 32 33

    Such intense passion from a man recalls dubious models e.g. Spitamenes’ deadly passion for his wife (Curt. 8.3.1–15). Suetonius suggests that after the murder, Agrippina’s ghost and the Furies pursued Nero with lashes and burning torches (Nero 34.4). See further Tarrant 1985, 85–116. Ash (2018, 233–4) highlights Epicharis’ role as a Fury. Barrett 1996, 182; Ginsburg 2006, 47. Ginsburg 2006, 52.

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    out that she was Agrippina and that they should bring help to the emperor’s mother” (se Agrippinam esse utque subueniretur matri principis clamitat, 14.5.3). We also hear about Agrippina’s freedman Agermus, sent to Nero to announce that, by the gods’ kindness and his good fortune, she had escaped a serious disaster (14.6.2); and another unnamed messenger rushes to tell Nero that Agrippina had escaped, slightly injured (but aware of who had instigated the shipwreck, 14.7.1).34 Subsequently, at Ann. 14.7.3–4, Seneca (himself a playwright) and Burrus play their parts in the miniature crisis-management council culminating in Anicetus being told to finish what he started by orchestrating Agrippina’s death. Perhaps the most conspicuous scene for speech-acts is the actual murder of Agrippina (14.8). First, she addresses her departing maid in direct speech (14.8.4): tu quoque me deseris?, “Are you too deserting me?”. Tacitus would have had scope subsequently for recalling this moment during Nero’s suicide: in Suetonius, for example, Nero, deserted by everyone and alone in his bedroom, asks ergo ego … nec amicum habeo nec inimicum?, “Do I then have neither friend nor foe?” (Nero 47.3). Tacitus’ Agrippina also confronts Anicetus, the prefect of the fleet, in indirect speech (14.8.4): si ad uisendum uenisset, refotam nuntiaret, sin facinus patraturus, nihil se de filio credere, “If he had come to visit, he might report that she had recovered; but, if he was intending to commit a crime, she would not believe it of her son”. Finally, she delivers her bitter last words, this time in direct speech (uentrem feri!, “Strike my belly!”, 14.8.5), expressively enhanced by the gesture of stretching forth her belly (or uterum, “womb”, as Tacitus puts it).35 As O’Gorman suggests, this command also enacts a final revenge: “By asking the centurion to strike at her womb, moreover, Agrippina delivers a symbolic blow to the future of the Julio-Claudian family … Agrippina’s words, read as a curse against the dynastic succession, could also be said to point up the extent to which tradition and repetition subsume individual characters into narrative tropes.”36 After Agrippina’s death, Tacitus, recalling the Chaldaeans’ earlier prediction that Nero would become emperor but kill 34 35

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    Nero has received such dramatic interventions from third-party messenger figures before: in AD56 the prominent pantomime actor Paris is sent to Nero to accuse Agrippina of conspiracy (Ann. 13.21.1). Cf. Seneca Oed. 1038–9, where Jocasta urges her right hand to stab her uterum capacem, “capacious womb”, which bore both husband and sons (cf. Eur. Phoen., where she stabs herself through the neck), and Seneca Phoen. 447, where she urges her sons hunc petite uentrem, qui dedit fratres uiro, “strike this belly, which gave a husband brothers”. As Boyle (2011, 353) observes, [Seneca] Oct. 368–372 models Agrippina’s final words on those of Seneca’s Jocasta, and “Tacitus’ later account of Agrippina’s death at Annals 14.8.4 seems to fuse the two Senecan Jocasta scenes”. O’Gorman 2000, 141.

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    his mother, quotes her pithy reaction to this grim possibility (14.9.3): occidat … dum imperet, “Let him kill provided that he achieves command”. This alludes to and ironically adapts a famous quotation from Accius’ Thyestes: oderint dum metuant, “Let them hate provided that they are afraid”.37 This flashback triggers another association with the tragic stage and may even reflect the historical Agrippina’s manipulation of tragedy. We should remember that Agrippina herself had literary aspirations and wrote memoirs which Tacitus had consulted (Ann. 4.53.2).38 Another suggestive connection with tragedy occurs when Tacitus describes how Nero’s delayed reaction to the matricide leaves him mentis inops (“having lost control of his mind”, 14.10.1). This resonates with Cicero considering the psychological impact of matricide on perpetrators and comparing poets’ stories about Furies pursuing sons who have killed their mothers. Although Orestes and Alcmaeon are not directly named here, they are tangibly present, as they were after Agrippina’s murder (D.C. 61.16.2): καὶ ἦν μὲν καὶ ἀναγινώσκειν πολλαχόθι ὁμοίως γεγραμμένον “Νέρων Ὀρέστης Ἀλκμέων μητροκτόνοι”, “In many places one could read the graffito ‘Orestes, Nero, Alcmaeon, all matricides’ ”.39 Cicero notes that mental incapacity is a consequence, not a cause, of killing a parent (S. Rosc. 66): magnam uim, magnam necessitatem, magnam possidet religionem paternus maternusque sanguis; ex quo si qua macula concepta est, non modo elui non potest uerum usque eo permanat ad animum ut summus furor atque amentia consequatur. Great power, great obligation, great sanctity is contained in a father’s and mother’s blood; if any stain is formed from it, not only can it not be washed away, but it permeates all the way through to the mind, with the result that the greatest frenzy and madness follows after. Nero’s reaction to the murder replays this pattern of mental instability. Finally, speech-acts feature after the murder, as centurions and tribunes scramble to congratulate Nero on his escape (14.10.2) and deterrimus quisque (“every worst 37 Cic. Sest. 102, Off. 1.97, Phil. 1.34, Sen. Ira 1.20.4, and Cl. 1.12.4, 2.2.2 preserve the quote, Caligula’s favourite (Suet. Cal. 30.1), but modified by Tiberius (Suet. Tib. 59.2): oderint dum probent, “Let them hate as long as they assent”. 38 Woodman 2018, 262. 39 Suetonius (Nero 21) cites Nero’s stage-performance as Orestes; and Nero 39.2 has the same graffiti. Cf. Luc. 7.778 (Caesar dreaming of Orestes after the battle at Pharsalus).

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    individual”, 14.13.1) at Nero’s court urges him to return to Rome from Campania, confident of a warm welcome. The sheer variety of speakers in Tacitus’ “play”, with multiple voices articulating the drama, is striking: such a wide range of people spanning a broad social spectrum speak memorably to and about Nero from different perspectives, magnifying the scope for stirring indignatio in Tacitus’ readers and satisfying his moralising agenda. The more voices are present, the more dialogic the narrative (and the more complex its moral-critical undertones). In comparison, Dio makes Nero the dominant voice, replacing Tacitus’ polyphony primarily with one ventriloquised emperor.40 Dio also has more direct speech than Tacitus does. In Dio, Nero’s shocking words also prompt indignatio (in an even more sensationalising register): concerning Nero’s mistress who resembled his mother, we hear that καὶ αὐτῇ τε ἐκείνῃ προσπαίζων καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις ἐνδεικνύμενος ἔλεγεν ὅτι καὶ τῇ μητρὶ ὁμιλοίη, “when he dallied with the girl or showed her off to other men, he would say that he was sleeping with his mother” (61.11.4); at the banquet, Dio’s Nero says μῆτέρ … ἔρρωσό μοι καὶ ὑγίαινε· ἐν γὰρ σοὶ καὶ ἐγὼ ζῶ καὶ διὰ σὲ βασιλεύω, “Mother, I wish you strength and good health. For because of you I live and through you I rule” (61.13.2);41 and finally he observes over his mother’s corpse, in a nasty moment of scopophilia, οὐκ ᾔδειν ὅτι οὕτω καλὴν μητέρα εἶχον, “I did not know I had such a beautiful mother” (61.14.2).42 These dynamics are Oedipal (or parodic of Oedipal dramas). Dio’s Agrippina also speaks to some extent, first after the shipwreck (61.13.4: καὶ ἐλθοῦσα οἴκαδε οὔτε προσεποιήσατο οὔτ᾿ ἐξέφηνε τὸ ἐπιβούλευμα, ἀλλὰ καὶ πρὸς τὸν υἱὸν ἔπεμψε κατὰ τάχος, καὶ τό τε συμβεβηκὸς αὐτῇ ὡς κατὰ τύχην συμπεπτωκὸς ἔλεγε, καὶ ὅτι σώζοιτο εὐηγγελίζετο δῆθεν αὐτῷ, “After getting home, Agrippina affected ignorance about the plot and did not reveal it, but quickly sent word to her son, said that she had suffered an accident, and told him the ‘good news’ that she was safe”), and then at her death (61.13.5): “παῖε”, ἔφη, “ταύτην, Ἀνίκητε, παῖε, ὅτι Νέρωνα ἔτεκεν”, “Strike here, Anicetus, strike here, for this belly bore Nero”. Dio articulates what Tacitus leaves implicit (cf. 14.8.5: uentrem feri!, “Strike my belly!”). The epanalepsis and direct address to Anicetus is more melodramatic than the pithy two-word rendition from Tacitus’ Agrippina as the centurion bears down

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    Cf. Damon 2014, 39: “For biography, the ‘high art’ of comparandum is obviously historiography, and the treatment of ‘other people’s words’ is one of the most salient distinctions between the two genres.” This closely resembles what [Seneca]’s Agrippina says at Oct. 335–337. Baldwin 1979 compares the versions which appear in Tacitus, Suetonius, and Dio (exploring a possible connection with Euripides’ Bacchae). Only Dio has the direct speech.

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    on her with his sword.43 Above all, Dio’s Nero is the most dominant voice so that the polyphony of Tacitus’ version has been much muted. In this respect, Dio’s more limited cast evokes the sphere of mime, where a small cast (one or two actors) offsets a much more prominent figure, the archimimus.44 This also reflects the “three-actor” rule in Greek tragedy, where one actor got the largest part, leaving others to play multiple roles.45 Conspicuously, Dio (and/or his epitomisers) eliminates several of Tacitus’ memorable speakers.46 One absentee is Acerronia and her “Spartacus moment” during the shipwreck, when she proclaims that she is the emperor’s mother.47 Even this move evokes the tragic stage: in Pacuvius’ Chryses, Orestes and Pylades are captured in Tauris and brought before the king who decides to kill Orestes, but then each man claims to be Orestes. Cicero (Amic. 24) says that the friends’ mutual loyalty so impressed the audience that there was a standing ovation.48 Conversely, Tacitus’ Agrippina is a much more dominant and distinctive speaker than her counterpart in Dio: her voice resonates throughout, not just in her final words. Yet most striking of all is how Tacitus as historiographical stage-director, at the same time as he amplifies other voices, mutes Nero almost completely: extraordinarily, the emperor does not speak in his own voice in this drama – which is symptomatic of Tacitus’ wider efforts in the Annals to devalue Nero’s words.49 This is an apt squib for presenting a Dio’s epanalepsis reprises the same effect in [Sen.] Oct. 371–372: hic est, hic est fodiendus … / ferro, “Stab here with your steel, here!” 44 Beacham 1991, 132. 45 Damen 1989; Ashby 1995. 46 Dio’s Roman History, opening with Aeneas’ arrival in Italy and covering events until AD229, originally filled 80 books. The narrative is extant for the period 69BC to AD46 (36.1.1–60.28.1), albeit with significant lacunae for the material after 6BC. For the period AD46–229 (60.28.2 to the end of book 80), there are substantial fragments preserved by (i)  the 11th century Byzantine monk Joannes Xiphilinus, whose work condenses Dio’s Books 36–80, covering events from Pompey to Severus Alexander (on Xiphilinus’ narrative techniques, see Mallan 2013), and (ii) the 12th century Byzantine writer Joannes Zonaras, whose ambitious Epitome historiarum (running from the “creation” to 1118) drew on various writers (including Dio) for Roman history. Mallan (2018, 366) urges that Zonaras “should be thought more as a serious historian rather than an epitomator”. On speeches and speakers in Dio generally, see Fomin 2016. 47 Stanley Kubrick’s film Spartacus (1960) includes an iconic scene where recaptured slaves are asked to identify Spartacus in exchange for leniency; instead, each slave proclaims himself to be Spartacus, thus sharing his fate. 48 Beacham 1991, 155. 49 Tacitus generally accentuates Nero’s performances (whether lyre-playing, acting tragedies, or dancing pantomimes), but imposes a kind of damnatio memoriae on his writings and words, at least in what survives of the last hexad. Courtney (1993, 357–9) and Blänsdorf (2011, 323–8) have the testimonia and fragments.

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    princeps who was said to need aliena facundia, “somebody else’s eloquence” (13.3.2). Despite some internal focalisation of Nero, such as his thoughts on why Agrippina must be removed (14.3.1), the emperor’s own “performance” is largely restricted to the banquet at Bauli where his falsely jovial acting seems ham-fisted and he is given no words. His final leave-taking of Agrippina is largely restricted to disturbing glances and creepy physical gestures (14.4.4): artius oculis et pectori haerens, “gazing particularly closely at her eyes and clinging to her breast”. That leering gaze and eroticised contact between Nero and Agrippina implicitly endorses Tacitus’ earlier story of incest (14.2; whether initiated by the mother or son) and recalls his initial welcoming of her manu et complexu, “with his hand and an embrace” (14.4.2). Tacitus does not go as far as Suetonius, however, who luridly depicts Nero “even kissing her breasts at the departure” (in digressu papillas quoque exosculatus, Suet. Nero 34.2).50 Tacitus does include some powerful indirect characterisation of Nero, for example, through Anicetus’ arguments in his suasoria, especially his suggestion that after the murder, the princeps could add a “temple, altars, and all other manifestations of devotion” (templum et aras et cetera ostentandae pietati, 14.3.3). The polysyndeton underscores the argument’s perversity. Anicetus’ gambit, clearly meant to appeal to the emperor, is revealing about both men as well as about the warped standards of the shallow, showy Neronian Principate. 2.2 Actors in the Text Another feature of Tacitus’ account is broadly mimetic of the theatre. We have already considered the expansive cast of speaking characters populating Tacitus’ account compared with Dio’s version. Yet Tacitus in his dramatis personae is also keen to emphasise, through repeated labelling, the prevalence of lower-class people within the action: we meet Acte liberta, the “freedwoman” (14.2.1), Anicetus libertus, the “freedman” (14.3.3), Creperius Gallus and Acerronia e numero familiarium, “from the number of her householders” (14.5.1), Agermus libertus, another “freedman” (14.6.2; cf. 14.10.3: ex intimis Agrippinae libertis, “from Agrippina’s most intimate freedmen”), two non-speaking parts (Herculeius trierarchus, “commander of the triereme”, and Obaritus centurio classiarius, a “marine centurion”, 14.8.4), and finally a third libertus, Mnester, who kills himself at Agrippina’s pyre (14.9.2). This last freedman recalls his

    50

    That compound post-Augustan verb exosculor is especially extravagant. Tacitus reserves it for moments of heightened emotion, as when the soldiers kiss the dead Otho’s suicidewound (Ash 2007, 213).

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    namesake, the low-class lover of Poppaea’s mother, Mnester the mimus (11.4.1, 11.36.1–2).51 Since actors generally came from lower social strata, Tacitus’ repeated emphasis on the freedwoman and freedman status of many participants implicitly conjures up the theatrical world and the acting profession. As Rawson observes of actors during the Republic, “many of course were slaves and freedmen”.52 That is one reason why Tacitus is troubled when aristocratic Romans appear on the stage or in the arena under Nero (e.g. at 15.32).53 Actors’ status was generally seen as unrespectable. Cicero refers to the “trivial art of actors” (histrionum leuis ars, de Orat. 1.18), and Cornelius Nepos distinguishes between Greece, where it was acceptable to appear on stage, and Rome, where “all these acts are regarded as, in part dishonouring, in part, low and alien to decent behaviour” (quae omnia  … partim infamia, partim humilia atque ab honestate remota ponuntur, Praef. 5).54 Seneca speaks contemptibly about one tragic actor (Ep. 80.7): ille qui in scaena latus incedit et haec resupinus dicit, ‘en impero Argis; regna mihi liquit Pelops,  / qua ponto ab Helles atque ab Ionio mari  / urguetur Isthmos’, seruus est, quinque modios accipit et quinque denarios. That fellow who swaggers about on the stage and with head thrown back, says, ‘Look! I rule Argos! To me Pelops left his kingdom, where the Isthmus is pressed by the Hellespont and the Ionian sea’ – that man is a slave who gets his five measures of corn and his five denarii. Tacitus, by peppering his narrative with an array of low-class figures and identifying them as such, can be distinguished from the parallel tradition. Dio only has two additional characters, the “freedman” Anicetus (61.13.3) and Agrippina’s “fellow-traveller” Acerronia Polla (61.13.3). Suetonius has only one, the freedman Agermus (Nero 34.3). The technique enhances the sense of a drama being performed by a cast of actors.

    51 Beacham 1991, 145–6. 52 Rawson 1985, 112. 53 See further Bartsch 1994. One senatorial decree (19BC) penalised upper-class Romans performing on the stage or in the arena (Levick 1983; Ash 2018, 157); and efforts had been made in AD15 to curb the licence of the theatre (Ann. 1.77). 54 See Horsfall 1989, 115 (also citing Cic. Rep. 4.11, 4.13, and Liv. 24.24.3 for the contrast between Greece and Rome). Leppin 1992, Edwards 1994, and Oakley (1998, 69–70) helpfully discuss actors’ status in Rome.

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    2.3 Embedded Staging Furthermore, Tacitus describes physical space and landscapes so as to project the atmosphere of the stage and spectatorship, drawing in the audience’s gaze. Other authors also used this technique creatively. Pobjoy, for example, sees theatrical imagery when Virgil describes Carthage’s construction and the aequataque machina caelo, “crane which touches the sky” (A. 4.89).55 Tacitus uses one locale particularly to accentuate panoramic staging, namely the Bay of Naples, the discordantly picturesque backdrop for the deadly collapsible ship.56 Tacitus depicts the area impressionistically so as to evoke theatrical space. Firstly, when Agrippina arrives at Baiae, Tacitus uses the shore’s sweeping vista as a natural stage, projecting Nero’s villa (Bauli) as itself a stage-building – a kind of skene.57 Generally, the Roman skene no longer supported painted sets in the Greek manner, but relied on elaborate permanent architectural decoration through a series of complex stone buildings.58 This is the stage architecture evoked when Tacitus describes the curved shore and the villa centrally located there (14.4.2): uenientem dehinc obuius in litora (nam Antio aduentabat) excepit manu et complexu ducitque Baulos. id uillae nomen est, quae promunturium Misenum inter et Baianum lacum flexo mari adluitur. Nero met her on the shore (she was coming from Antium), welcomed her with his hand and an embrace, and led her to Bauli. That is the name of a villa which is lapped by the sea curving between the promontory of Misenum and the Baian lake. Tacitus’ “stage-direction” that Agrippina was coming from Antium is striking, as is his description of the villa, also named (Bauli), which lodges the building 55 Pobjoy 1998. 56 The essays in Augoustakis & Littlewood 2019 (including Donovan Ginsberg on Agrippina’s death in Flavian poetry) illuminate the area’s importance in the Flavian poetic imagination. 57 On the skene in a Greek context, see Mastronarde 1990 on the mechanism of the crane and the wooden skene-building’s flat roof where actors could appear climactically in a play. Vitruvius (5.6–7) describes elaborate Roman stage-structures (bearing little resemblance to their Attic counterparts). 58 “Theaters of the Roman period had towering architectural backgrounds with several levels and with columns, niches, and openings in large numbers. Backgrounds of two stories are known or assumed in Hellenistic theaters” (Mastronarde 1990, 254). See too Bieber 1961.

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    clearly in our minds’ eye.59 Suspending the action momentarily, Tacitus presents a vista of the villa seen from the sea, rather as Statius depicts Pollius Felix’s seaside villa near Surrentum, also on the Bay of Naples (Silv. 2.2.13–14): placido lunata recessu / hinc atque hinc curuae perrumpunt aequora rupes, “on this side and on that, the curved cliffs break through waters which take on a crescent shape within a tranquil cove”.60 And the shoreline returns as Tacitus’ focal point after the marine “accident” but before the murder, as the litoral “stage” is now filled with a distraught “chorus” of actors elegantly distributed around the landscape (14.8.1): interim uulgato Agrippinae periculo, quasi casu euenisset, ut quisque acceperat, decurrere ad litus. hi molium obiectus, hi proximas scaphas scandere; alii, quantum corpus sinebat, uadere in mare; quidam manus protendere. Meanwhile, people talked about the threat to which Agrippina had been exposed, assuming that it had happened by chance, and each one, having heard the news, ran down to the shore. Some scrambled up the large breakwaters, some climbed on the nearest boats; others ploughed into the sea as far as their bodies allowed; still others stretched out their hands. Tacitus’ rhetorical device of enumeratio to describe different parts of the shore and clusters of spectators (hi … hi … alii … quidam, “some … some … others … still others”) distributing themselves around the locale evokes a theatrical space and has a deictic flavour.61 In Dio’s epitomised account of the short time 59 Barrett (1996, 285–7) tries to determine whether the villa was north or south of Baiae, observing (1996, 286): (“The traditional identification of Bauli has been the modern village of Bacoli; between the southern limits of the Bay of Baiae and Cape Misenum the sea forms a slight bay near Bacoli, to which Tacitus’ flexo mari might refer”). Keppie 2011, crucial on the area’s topography, assembles (p. 36 n.20) extensive bibliography on the villa’s potential site. On the name, he observes (p. 40 n.46): “Most commentators see the place name Bauli as the ancient equivalent of modern Bacoli, just to the north of Misenum … The alternative view, following the Elder Pliny – who sets Bauli between the portus Baiarum and the Lacus Lucrinus (HN 3.61) – that it was the Roman name for the headland between Baiae and the Lucrine Lake, the present-day Punta dell’ Epitaffio, is now discounted.” Yet since Tacitus’ description is impressionistic and evocative of the stage, the real location remains elusive. 60 On Pollius Felix’s luxurious villa, see Newlands 2002, 154–98; Zeiner 2005, 178–90; Spencer 2010, 109–13. 61 Devillers (1995, 338) considers this passage in relation to Agrippina’s popular standing and her shift within Tacitus’ narrative from “une femme implacable” to victim. Cf. the depiction of people at Brundisium awaiting Agrippina’s mother, Agrippina the Elder, with

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    between the miraculous escape and the murder, there are no such staging techniques (unless the epistomiser removed them). Dio’s Agrippina safely reaches the shore by swimming and goes straight home (61.13.4).62 Tacitus’ focus on the shoreline may also play elegantly with Propertius 1.11, where Cynthia’s trip to Baiae leaves the poet desperately anxious. Propertius’ comparison between lover and mother/parent (ei mihi, non maior carae custodia matris, “ah me, my guard on my beloved mother could not be not greater”, 1.11.21; tu mihi sola domus, tu Cynthia sola parentes, “Cynthia, you alone are my household, you alone are my parents”, 1.11.23) takes on a sinister twist in Tacitus’ hands, where Nero’s mother has become his lover. Propertius ends the poem with two references to Baiae’s litora, including multis ista dabunt litora discidium, “those shores will cause many to be torn asunder” (1.11.28). Propertius talks figuratively about erotic relationships, but Tacitus’ Agrippina will face a different kind of physical disintegration in the collapsible ship. 2.4 The Death-Ship as Stage Machinery Perhaps the most conspicuous evocation of staging is the ingenious collapsible ship. In Tacitus, Anicetus, prefect of the fleet, suggests the grim maritime trap, proposing to Nero that nauem posse componi … cuius pars ipso in mari per artem soluta effunderet ignaram, “a ship could be built and part of it could be ingeniously detached while out on the open sea, causing the unsuspecting woman to tumble out” (14.3.3). Tacitus’ preliminary description of the ship is eye-catching: stabat inter alias naues ornatior, tamquam id quoque honori matris daretur: quippe sueuerat triremi et classiariorum remigio uehi, “Among the other ships a more ornate one was floating, as if this too was provided as a mark of respect for his mother. Indeed, she had generally been accustomed to travel by trireme with a crew of marines” (14.4.3).63 The alluringly ornate ship, sharply accentuated by less impressive ships around it, is carefully designed to appeal to a woman who once oversaw a naval battle re-enacted on

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    Germanicus’ ashes. Similar topographical enumeration marks the passage (Ann. 3.1.3): atque, ubi primum ex alto uisa classis, complentur non modo portus et proxima mari sed moenia ac tecta quaque longissime prospectari poterat maerentium turba, “And as soon as the fleet was seen out on the deep, not only the harbour and the area closest to the sea, but the walls and roofs and wherever afforded the furthest view were filled with a crowd of mourners.” Suetonius omits details of the escape. Agrippina’s feat of swimming recalls Lars Porsenna’s hostage Cloelia, who escaped by swimming across the Tiber but then returned and secured the release of half the hostages as a reward (Liv. 2.13, Val. Max. 3.2.2). Cf. Agrippina’s later horrified realisation that she had been deliberately summoned and “treated with special honour”, honore praecipuo habitam (Ann. 14.6.1).

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    the Fucine lake while wearing a golden chlamys (Ann. 12.56.3).64 We can compare Cleopatra’s magnificent golden barge with purple sails (Plut. Ant. 26) on which she travels along the river Cydnus, reclining beneath a canopy while her serving-women dressed as Nereids form the ship’s crew.65 Once Agrippina has boarded, Tacitus zooms in on the ship’s constituent parts including the “tiller” (gubernacula), “heavy lead roof” (tectum loci multo plumbo graue), “towering sides of the couch” (eminentibus lecti parietibus), and “pikes, oars, and naval weapons” (contis et remis et … naualibus telis, 14.5). By enumerating the ship’s parts, Tacitus draws us on board, as the scene switches from idyllic moonlit voyage to carnage (Crepereius Gallus, Acerronia) and Agrippina’s botched murder. In contrast, Suetonius omits the ship’s details and glosses over the accident, focusing instead on Nero anxiously awaiting news.66 In Dio, the ship successfully splits apart (unlike in Tacitus) and the sailors kill Acerronia in the water, but again the scene is not really elaborated. Where Dio does lavish attention is on the preliminaries where a theatrical spectacle inspires Poppaea and Seneca (61.12.2): ναῦν ἰδόντες ἐν τῷ θεάτρῳ διαλυομένην τε αὐτὴν ἐφ᾿ ἑαυτῆς καί τινα θηρία ἀφιεῖσαν, καὶ συνισταμένην αὖ πάλιν ὥστε καὶ ἐρρῶσθαι, τοιαύτην ἑτέραν ταχέως ἐναυπηγήσαντο, “After seeing a ship in the theatre which split apart all by itself, released some wild animals, and then came together again in such a way that it was strong and seaworthy, they quickly had another such ship assembled”. We can compare Seneca vividly describing the talented craftsmen who (Ep. 88.22). pegmata per se surgentia excogitant et tabulata tacite in sublime crescentia et alias ex inopinato uarietates, aut dehiscentibus quae cohaerebant aut his quae distabant sua sponte coeuntibus aut his quae eminebant paulatim in se residentibus. think up pegmata which rise by themselves, and panels which soar silently aloft, and other surprising devices, as when things which fit together fall apart, or separate things join automatically, or tall objects gradually collapse on themselves. 64

    There may be a proleptic hint of Agrippina’s hybris preceding a peripeteia (cf. Agamemnon walking on the alluring red carpet in Aeschylus’ Agamemnon). 65 See Pelling (1988, 186–9), including discussion of the sumptuous thalamegoi of the Ptolemies. On such Egyptian color, see Woodman 1992/1998 on Tacitus’ Nero transforming Rome into Alexandria. Cf. Coleman 1993 on other nautical displays. 66 Instead, Suetonius presents an alternative machina on dry-land, namely the ceiling of Agrippina’s bedroom, which had been tampered with so that the panels could drop onto her while she slept (Nero 34.2).

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    So Dio’s account transfers the theatrical element into the preliminaries, making it an explicit inspiration for Poppaea and Seneca. Tacitus instead associates the theatrical contraption with Agrippina’s opsimathia as she belatedly becomes aware of the attempted matricide.67 Horrified, she reflects on how her ship had collapsed ueluti terrestre machinamentum, “as if it were a device on dry land” (14.6.1).68 This is when she realises that she must start acting and save her life by feigning ignorance about Nero’s responsibility. 2.5 Di Ex Machina The cumulative “staginess” of Tacitus’ account compared with other versions is one of its most significant features. Two final factors further enhance this impression. Firstly, Tacitus repeatedly focuses on the gods. Tacitus generally reserves divinities as onlookers for rhetorically and emotionally charged moments. So at Hist. 1.3.2 he asserts nec enim umquam atrocioribus populi Romani cladibus magisue iustis indiciis adprobatum est non esse curae deis securitatem nostram, esse ultionem, “for never by more terrible disasters unleashed on the Roman people nor by fuller portents has it been proven that the gods do not care about our peace, but about our punishment”.69 Just before Nero’s murderattempt, Tacitus pointedly remarks noctem sideribus inlustrem et placido mari quietam quasi conuincendum ad scelus dii praebuere, “The gods, as if to prove the crime, provided a night bright with stars and peaceful with a calm sea” (14.5.1).70 Even Agrippina melodramatically evokes the gods at a pivotal moment, pretending to have been saved benignitate deum, “thanks to the gods’ kindness” (14.6.2). And at the matricide’s finale, Tacitus sweeps in and comments cynically on the gods’ indifference, since they let Nero continue as princeps for many years (14.12.2). Such references distinguish Tacitus’ version and evoke the atmosphere of the tragic stage: even Seneca can introduce the gods into his tragedies at significant moments (despite downplaying their presence compared with the model of Greek tragedy). We can contrast Dio here. Despite an expressive detail in the shipwreck narrative about the anthropomorphised sea intolerant of 67

    The phenomenon opsimathia (“learning too late”; cf. Xen. Hell. 3.3.2) appealed to Tacitus (cf. Hist. 1.10.3, Ann. 11.31.3, with Ash 2018, 323). Bartsch (1994, 20–1) underscores that Agrippina’s only hope of survival is pretending not to have understood. 68 Tacitus has “the resonant and exclusively prosaic machinamentum 4× (3× A., 1× H.; cf. machina 4×, all in H.), first attested in Sisenna (FRHist no. 26, F108), then Livy (24.34.7)” (Ash 2018, 73). 69 My focus here is on the gods’ dramatic impact on the story rather than the (potentially huge) topic of religion in Tacitus, on which see Davies 2004; Shannon-Henderson 2019. 70 Cf. Nero’s diu meditatum scelus, “long contemplated crime” (Ann. 14.1.1).

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    the “tragedy” enacted on it (61.13.3), Dio does not depict divine spectators of the grisly action unfolding during a night flooded with starlight.71 This is especially striking because elsewhere Dio happily introduces gods when it suits him, such as the eerie detail that in AD69 ἔν τε τῷ Καπιτωλίῳ ἴχνη πολλὰ καὶ μεγάλα δαιμόνων τινῶν ὡς καὶ κατεληλυθότων ἀπ᾿ αὐτοῦ ἑωράθη, “on the Capitol many huge footprints were seen which looked like some divine spirits had descended” (64[65].8.2).72 2.6 A Lexicon of Playacting and Stage-Props Finally, Tacitus includes many lexical items highlighting dissembling and pretence, further enhancing the atmosphere of acting and performance. As the party ends, Nero concentrates closely on his departing mother’s eyes and breast, siue explenda simulatione, “perhaps to complete his pretence” (14.4.4). We also get a sequence of impersonations: Acerronia pretends to be Agrippina on the fateful journey (14.5.3); Agrippina herself in order to survive feigns indifference about her accident (securitate simulata, “pretending that she was unconcerned”, 14.6.3); Agrippina orders Acerronia’s will to be found and to seal up her goods – “the only action where there was no question of pretence” (id tantum non per simulationem, 14.6.3); Nero drops a sword at Agermus’ feet after he arrives to announce Agrippina’s narrow escape quasi deprehenso (“as if caught in the act”, 14.7.6); and chillingly, with what Tacitus calls “the opposite pretence”, diuersa simulatione (14.10.2), we see Nero sorrowful after Agrippina’s death, in contrast to the “joyful” Campanian townships but equally insincere: the contrite son, acting quasi incolumitati suae infensus ac morti parentis inlacrimans, “as if resentful at his own survival and tearful at his mother’s death” (14.10.2). There is a lexical cluster of terms associated with pretence in these chapters. Four out of the five occurrences of simulatio and cognates in Annals 14 appear in Agrippina’s death-narrative (14.57 is the only other instance). Last but not least, a sprinkling of other expressions evokes the stage in various ways. Nero scaenam ultro criminis parat, “sets the stage for an accusation of his own”, by dropping a sword at Agermus’ feet (14.7.6).73 This gladius, deceptively used to condemn Agermus (and vicariously, Agrippina), smacks of 71

    See further Schulz (2019, 327) on Dio’s involvement of nature personified in this passage, as the sea recoils from the tragedy to be enacted on it. 72 Gods were perceived as bigger than humans and so the massive footprints imply that Jupiter (the biggest god) has left his temple, disgusted at the civil wars. Tacitus will playfully reverse the attempted matricide when a violent storm erupts on the Bay of Naples just when Nero seeks calm seas (Ann. 15.46.2; Ash 2018, 215–6). 73 Anyone carrying a sword in the emperor’s presence could be seen as a potential assassin. Calpurnius Piso is accused of entering the senate house armed (Ann. 4.21.2), and the

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    a stage-prop (e.g. the sword from Sophocles’ Ajax), and pointedly foreshadows the weapon so prominent during the Pisonian conspiracy against Nero (15.53.2).74 The boundary between reality and literature is blurred when the conspirators take as a template literary accounts of Julius Caesar’s assassination (e.g. Scaevinus apparently wants to play Casca, the first man to strike Julius Caesar: primas sibi partes expostulante, “demanding the leading role for himself”, 15.53.2).75 Moreover, not just the presence of the sword is relevant, but also its mode of deployment. For this gladius used to incriminate Agermus recalls a pivotal scene from Senecan drama. At Phaedra 719–35, the Nurse concocts a story that Hippolytus, after threatening Phaedra with death before raping her, then incriminated himself by dropping his sword while fleeing. The nurse then seizes this as “evidence of the crime” (pignus … sceleris, Phaed. 730) to show the Athenians.76 Elsewhere, swords from unsuccessful assassination attempts could become sacred victory trophies, as when Caligula dedicates to Mars Vltor three such swords intended for his murder (Suet. Cal. 24.3). Swords used successfully were also treated with reverence: after Otho’s suicide Vitellius dedicates the pugio to Mars (Suet. Vit. 10.3). In this case, if Seneca’s Phaedra dates from the final years of Claudius’ Principate, as critics believe, then Nero (whether in AD59 or in Tacitus’ recreation of events) could even be seen as taking inspiration from his old tutor’s tragedy in order to frame Agermus.77 3

    Matricide in Drama: [Seneca]’s Octauia 309–376

    So how does Tacitus’ highly theatricalised engagement with the past compare with the first choral ode in the pseudo-Senecan Octavia?78 Here Agrippina’s death is articulated by worried citizens in Rome, hovering outside the imperial

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    eques Gnaeus Nonius is tortured for carrying a sword when visiting Claudius (Ann. 11.22.1; Malloch 2013, 319). Ash 2018, 243–4. [Seneca]’s Octavia also highlights the actual sword with which Nero killed Agrippina (Oct. 127–130). On literary accounts of Julius Caesar’s murder as a manual for later assassination attempts, see Ash 2016. Phaedra herself will use the sword as “evidence” of the alleged rape before Theseus (Phaed. 896–897), who recognises the weapon’s provenance from a design on the ivory hilt (899–900). Tarrant 1985, 12: “the bulk of Seneca’s work in tragedy was probably completed by 54”; Coffey & Mayer 1990, 5: “the later years of Claudius”. The play predates the Annals, but opinions differ about publication: was it written to celebrate Galba’s victory in AD68 (Barnes 1982; Kragelund 1988; Usher 2013) or performed at the ludi plebeii in November AD68 (Wiseman 2004, 264–5)? Or was it an early Flavian

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    palace after hearing rumours of Octavia’s impending divorce. The chorus, struggling to understand the present, compare past events and import three paradigms of women from early Roman history. Having first reflected on the fates of Verginia (449BC), stabbed to death by her father to prevent her rape, and Lucretia (509BC), whose violation and suicide ended the regal period, they then introduce a very different kind of woman, the power-hungry Tullia, who drove her chariot across her father Servius Tullius’ corpse. In using this exemplum the dramatist may be inspired by Livy’s sceleris tragici exemplum (“example of a crime worthy of tragedy”, 1.46.3) in relation to Tullia.79 Tullia then serves as the link to the supposedly similar nefas of Nero (also fond of chariots). [Seneca]’s distinctive version of the shipwreck contrasts with Tacitus’ account in many ways.80 Firstly, his depiction is much simpler, more impressionistic and pared-down. The Octauia playwright links the murder with the regal period and early republic, accentuating how Nero’s Principate too has seen a son’s nefas (“unspeakable crime”, about which they then speak).81 However, the chorus offers no preliminaries beyond saying that Nero Tyrrhenum rate ferali / …  captam fraude parentem  / misit in aequor, “ensnared his mother by trickery and sent her out onto the Tyrrhene sea in a deadly ship” (Oct. 311–313). Nothing is said about the planning, the ship’s construction, or the preliminary banquet. Instead, the sailors simply leave from a peaceful port (Oct. 314–315): properant placidos linquere portus / iussi nautae, “At his command the crew left the peaceful port”. The focus is exclusively on the nautae, with Agrippina not even mentioned when the ship splits apart. The Octauia playwright puts the spotlight exclusively on the unnamed entourage (alii … alii, Oct. 323–325) desperately trying to save themselves. It looks like the star performer, conspicuously absent, has missed her cue. Only at Oct. 327 does Agrippina belatedly enter the action, tearing her clothes and ripping her hair before delivering a fiery tirade to her absent son (whom she instantly assumes is responsible) and blaming herself for his ascent production (Donovan Ginsberg 2017)? Or do possible echoes of Statius’ Siluae indicate that it was composed during the AD90s under Domitian (Ferri 2003, 27)? 79 Ferri (2003, 212) notes how Silius Italicus introduces a comparable catalogue of women (Lucretia, Verginia, Cloelia, Tullia) at Pun. 13.820–36. 80 Concerns of space preclude extensive literary analysis of this ode, for which see Ferri 2003, 205–26; Boyle 2008,153–68; Donovan Ginsberg 2017, 32–6; 2019, 30–6. My aim is to compare it with Tacitus’ narrative. 81 Cf. Virgil’s Aeneas, pointedly speaking about the unspeakable pain (infandum … dolorem, Aen. 2.3) that Dido is making him renew by telling her about the destruction of Troy (which he narrates for the whole book).

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    to power and the deaths of Claudius (also apostrophised) and Britannicus. This is a short speech (Oct. 332–344) whose delivery in implausible circumstances as the action is frozen differs strikingly from Tacitus’ representation of her. Ferri emphasises how “the melodramatic address … contrasts sharply with Agrippina’s cool self-control” in Tacitus.82 Boyle points to the “patently fictive, rhetorically constructed speech of self-reproach”.83 In the Octauia playwright’s version of the “accident”, there is nothing about the sailors killing Acerronia. Instead, Agrippina is rescued by members of her unnamed entourage who are flailing around in the sea. The narrative then swiftly cuts to Nero (Oct. 361), enraged that Agrippina has survived – and to her actual death-scene at the hands of Nero’s henchman. The centrepiece of the exitus scene is Agrippina’s final command to her assassin (Oct. 371–372): “hic est, hic est fodiendus” ait / “ferro, monstrum qui tale tulit”, “‘Stab here with your steel, here’, she said, / ‘where this monster was born’” (with the hic … hic suggesting accompanying deictic gestures). So the account ends. We can see how after Agrippina’s initial absence, she becomes the dominant focus, and her speech-acts exclude all other voices apart from some inarticulate clamor, “shouting”, and planctus, “wailing”, (Oct. 319–320) as the ship splits apart.84 All those multiple low-class “actors” populating Tacitus’ later account are invisible, and the emphasis on pretence and play-acting is hardly present beyond a single reference to Nero’s fraus, “trickery” (Oct. 312); the elegant “stage” created by Tacitus along the curving promontory between Misenum and the Baian lake is nowhere to be seen. The devious shipwreck (which in the Octauia works perfectly) happens out on the “deep water” (in altum, Oct. 316), and the physical setting of Agrippina’s actual murder is not described. It feels like it could have taken place anywhere. There are no di ex machina observing, and the killing’s aftermath does not seem to interest the Octauia playwright at all. Ultimately, we have two accounts of the same events, but each seems designed to trigger associations with an external genre. Tacitus’ version of the attempted murder and the matricide is constructed in ways which engage much more overtly with the idea of “staging” than does the account in an actual play. The dramatist [Seneca], instead driven by a dynamic of synkrisis, compares the matricide (not altogether convincingly) with three much earlier historical

    82 83 84

    Ferri 2003, 215. Boyle 2008, 161. As Boyle (2008, 162) observes, the phrase tollitur … clamor (319) is first in Ennius (Ann. 428 Sk.), whereas planctus (320) is not attested before Seneca and the Neronian writers.

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    exempla.85 As Boyle observes, “Tacitus’ narrative is much longer (and consequently more detailed), but self-consciously theatrical in structure”.86 All the nuances of presentation outlined in this article cumulatively show Tacitus self-consciously blending aspects associated with the dramatic stage into his account of Agrippina’s end; and paradoxically, his creative deftness in delivering this miniaturised drama becomes all the more conspicuous by comparison with the Octauia playwright. While Tacitus is hardly sympathetic to Agrippina before Annals 14, his vivid and extended account of her death throws into sharp relief Nero’s transgressive actions, hammering home the horror of these events. Tacitus’ Agrippina dies “on stage” in one of the most memorable deathsequences of the extant Annals, and Nero’s cruel and bestial qualities linger in our imagination long after the matricide. No doubt the veracity of some details of Tacitus’ sequence is questionable, but his dramatic shaping of the past is designed to further the moralising agenda of his historical account. This article has demonstrated just some of the rich layers in play concerning usages of the past within the explosively creative genre of imperial Roman historiography.

    Acknowledgements

    I would like to thank Aske Damtoft Poulsen and Arne Jönsson for inviting me to participate in their hugely enjoyable conference (“Usages of the Past in Roman Historiography”, January 2018 at Lund University). I am very grateful to them for their patient editing and helpful suggestions, which have immeasurably improved this paper, as have the perceptive comments of my fellowcontributors to the volume, Kyle Khellaf and Kai Ruffing, to whom I am much obliged. All translations of the Greek and Latin are my own. Bibliography Ash, R. (2007). Tacitus: Histories Book 2, Cambridge & New York. Ash, R. (2016). “Never Say Die! Assassinating Emperors in Suetonius’ Lives of the Caesars”, in K. de Temmerman & K. Demoen (eds.), Writing Biography in Greece and Rome: Narrative Technique and Fictionalization (Cambridge): 200–216. 85 86

    Donovan Ginsberg (2019, 33) highlights another oddity of [Seneca]’s version, namely that despite the calm sea, the poet introduces commonplace language and details associated with storms at sea. Boyle 2008, 161.

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    Ash, R. (2018). Tacitus: Annals Book 15, Cambridge. Ashby, C. (1995). “The Three-Actor Rule”, Theatre Research International 20, 183–188. Augoustakis, A. & Littlewood, R. Joy (eds.) (2019). Campania in the Flavian Poetic Imagination, Oxford & New York. Baldwin, B. (1979). “Nero and his Mother’s Corpse”, Mnemosyne 32, 380–381. Baltussen, H. (2002). “Matricide Revisited: Dramatic and Rhetorical Allusion in Tacitus, Suetonius and Cassius Dio”, Antichthon 36, 30–40. Barnes, T.D. (1982). “The Date of the Octauia”, Museum Helveticum 39, 215–217. Barrett, A.A. (1996). Agrippina: Mother of Nero, London. Bartera, S. (2011). “Year-Beginnings in the Neronian Books of the Annals”, Museum Helveticum 68, 161–181. Bartsch, S. (1994). Actors in the Audience: Theatricality and Doublespeak from Nero to Hadrian, London & Cambridge, MA. Beacham, R.C. (1991). The Roman Theatre and its Audience, London & New York. Beacham, R.C. (1999). Spectacle Entertainments of Early Imperial Rome, London & New Haven, CT. Bieber, M. (1961). History of the Greek and Roman Theatre, London & Princeton, NJ. Blänsdorf, J. (2011). Fragmenta Poetarum Latinorum Epicorum et Lyricorum, Berlin. Boyle, A.J. (2008). Octavia: Attributed to Seneca, Oxford & New York. Boyle, A.J. (2011). Seneca: Oedipus, Oxford & New York. Chiasson, C.C. (2003). “Herodotus’ Use of Attic Tragedy in the Lydian Logos”, Classical Antiquity 22, 5–35. Coffey, M. & Mayer, R. (1990). Seneca: Phaedra, Cambridge. Coleman, K. (1993). “Launching into History: Aquatic Displays in the Early Empire”, Journal of Roman Studies 83, 48–74. Cornell, T.J. et al. (2013). The Fragments of the Roman Historians, 3. vols., Oxford. Courtney, E. (1993). The Fragmentary Latin Poets, Oxford. Cowan, R. (2009). “Starring Nero as Nero: Poetry, Role-Playing and Identity in Juvenal 8.215–21”, Mnemosyne 62, 76–89. Damen, M. (1989). “Actor and Character in Greek Tragedy”, Theatre Journal 41, 316–340. Damon, C. (2014). “Suetonius the Ventriloquist”, in T. Power & R.K. Gibson (eds.), Suetonius the Biographer: Studies in Roman Lives (Oxford & New York): 38–57. Davies, J.P. (2004). Rome’s Religious History: Livy, Tacitus, and Ammianus on their Gods, Cambridge. Dawson, A. (1968–9). “Whatever Happened to Lady Agrippina?”, Classical Journal 64, 253–267. Devillers, O. (1995). “Tacite, les sources et les impératifs de la narration: le récit de la mort d’Agrippine (Annales XIV,1–13)”, Latomus 54, 324–345. Dickison, S.K. (1977). “Claudius: Saturnalicius Princeps”, Latomus 36, 634–647.

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    Kragelund, P. (1988). “The Prefect’s Dilemma and the Date of the Octauia”, Classical Quarterly 38, 492–508. Kragelund, P. (2000). “Nero’s Luxuria, in Tacitus and in Octauia”, Classical Quarterly 50, 494–515. Kragelund, P. (2002). “Historical Drama in Ancient Rome: Republican Flourishing and Imperial Decline?”, Symbolae Osloenses 73, 88–105. Leppin, H. (1992). Histrionen: Untersuchungen zur sozialen Stellung von Bühnenkünstlern im Westen des Römischen Reiches zur Zeit der Republik und des Principats, Bonn. Levene, D.S. & Nelis, D.P. (eds.) (1999). Clio and the Poets: Augustan Poetry and the Traditions of Ancient Historiography, Leiden & Boston. Levick, B. (1983). “The Senatus Consultum from Larinum”, Journal of Roman Studies 73, 97–115. Lightfoot, J.L. (2014). Dionysius Periegetes: Description of the Known World, Oxford & New York. Mallan, C.T. (2013). “The Style, Method, and Programme of Xiphilinus’ Epitome of Cassius Dio’s Roman History”, Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies 53, 610–644. Mallan, C.T. (2018). “The Historian John Zonaras: Some Observations on His Sources and Methods”, in O. Devillers & B. Sebastiani (eds.), Sources et modèles des historiens anciens (Bordeaux), 353–366. Malloch, S.J.V. (2013). The Annals of Tacitus, Book 11, Cambridge & New York. Manuwald, G. (2001). Fabulae Praetextae: Spuren einer literarischen Gattung der Römer, Munich. Manuwald, G. (2011). Roman Republican Theatre: A History, Cambridge & New York. Mastronarde, D. (1990). “Actors on High: the Skene Roof, the Crane, and the Gods in Attic Drama”, Classical Antiquity 9, 247–294. Muller, L. (1994). “La mort d’Agrippine (Tacite, Annales, 14, 1–13): Quelques éléments tragiques de la composition du récit”, Les Études Classiques 62, 27–43. Murray, O. (1972). “Herodotus and Hellenistic Culture”, Classical Quarterly 22, 200–213. Newlands, C. (2002). Statius’ Silvae and the Poetics of Empire, Cambridge. Nielsen, F.A.J. (1999). The Tragedy in History: Herodotus and the Deuteronomistic History, Sheffield. O’Gorman, E. (2000). Irony and Misreading in the Annals of Tacitus, Cambridge. Oakley, S.P. (1998). A Commentary on Livy, Books VI–X, vol. 2, Oxford. Pelling, C. (1988). Plutarch: Life of Antony, Cambridge & New York. Pelling, C. (1997). “Biographical History? Cassius Dio on the Early Principate”, in M.J. Edwards & S. Swain (eds.), Portraits: Biographical Representation in the Greek and Latin Literature of the Roman Empire (Oxford): 117–144. Piecha, R. (2003). “Wenn Frauen baden gehen … Agrippinas Ende bei Tac. Ann. 14,1– 13”, in M. Schauer & G. Thome (eds.), Altera Ratio. Klassische Philologie zwischen Subjektivität und Wissenschaft (Festschrift Werner Suerbaum) (Stuttgart): 120–135.

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    Pobjoy, M. (1998). “Dido on the Tragic Stage: An Invitation to the Theatre of Carthage”, in M. Burden (ed.), A Woman Scorn’d: Responses to the Dido Myth (London): 41–64. Rawson, E. (1985). “Theatrical Life in Republican Rome and Italy”, Papers of the British School at Rome 53, 97–113. Saïd, S. (2002). “Herodotus and Tragedy”, in E.J. Bakker, I.J.F. de Jong & H. Van Wees (eds.), Brill’s Companion to Herodotus (Leiden & Boston): 117–147. Santoro l’hoir, F. (2006). Tragedy, Rhetoric, and the Historiography of Tacitus’ Annales, Ann Arbor. Schulz, V. (2019). “Defining the Good Ruler: Early Kings as Proto-Imperial Figures in Cassius Dio”, in C. Burden-Strevens and M. Lindholmer (eds), Cassius Dio’s Forgotten History of Early Rome (Leiden & Boston): 311–32. Shannon-Henderson, K.E. (2019). Religion and Memory in Tacitus’ Annals, Oxford. Shumate, N. (1997). “Compulsory Pretence and the ‘Theatricalization of Experience’ in Tacitus”, in C. Deroux (ed.), Studies in Latin Literature and Roman History 8 (Brussels): 364–403. Spencer, D. (2010). Roman Landscape: Culture and Identity, Cambridge & New York. Sullivan, J.P. (1985). Literature and Politics in the Age of Nero, London & Ithaca, NJ. Tarrant, R.J. (1985). Seneca’s Thyestes, Atlanta, GA. Tipping, B. (2010). Exemplary Epic: Silius Italicus’ Punica, Oxford & New York. Travis, R. (2000). “The Spectation of Gyges in P. Oxy. 2382 and Herodotus Book 1”, Classical Antiquity 19, 330–359. Usher, M.D. (2013). “Teste Galba cum Sibylla: Oracles, Octauia, and the East”, Classical Philology 108, 21–40. Walbank, F.W. (1990). “Profit or Amusement: Some Thoughts on the Motives of Hellenistic Historians”, in H. Verdin, G. Schepens & E. de Keyser (eds.), Purposes of History. Studies in Greek Historiography from the 4th to the 2nd Centuries BC (Leuven): 253–266. Wiseman, T.P. (1998). Roman Drama and Roman History, Exeter. Wiseman, T.P. (2004). The Myths of Rome, Exeter. Wiseman, T.P. (2009). “A Puzzle in Livy”, Greece & Rome 56, 203–210. Woodman, A.J. (1988). Rhetoric in Classical Historiography: four Studies, London & New York. Woodman, A.J. (1992/1998). “Nero’s Alien Capital: Tacitus as Paradoxographer (Annals 15.36–7)”, in A.J. Woodman (ed.), Tacitus Reviewed (Oxford): 168–189. (orig. published in A.J. Woodman & J. Powell (eds.), Author and Audience in Latin Literature (Cambridge): 173–188, 255–258). Woodman, A.J. (2018). The Annals of Tacitus: Book 4, Cambridge. Woodman, A.J. & J.F. Miller (eds.) (2010). Latin Historiography and Poetry in the Early Empire: Generic Interactions (Leiden & Boston). Zeiner, N.K. (2005). Nothing Ordinary Here: Statius as Creator of Distinction in the Silvae, London & New York.

    Chapter 9

    Tiberius and Tears: Grief and Genre Johan Vekselius 1

    Introduction

    This chapter will explore how ancient authors used the past by looking at descriptions of the emperor Tiberius’ mourning of family and kin. Mourning by and of imperial persons was a potentially contentious issue, not only because it involved public – and highly visible – figures and often occurred in the context of the transfer of power, but also because what constituted a proper display of grief was controversial and shaped by expectations about elite behaviour and traditional gender roles. More specifically, I will analyse Tacitus’ accounts in the Annals of episodes involving the emperor Tiberius in mourning and then compare them with parallel versions in other authors active in various genres. I will consider the literary aspects of these episodes, including the significance of author and genre, and discuss the historical and political contexts, such as the norms and ideals of mourning, through comparison with descriptions of other mourning emperors, both “good” and “bad”. Finally, I will compare the literary descriptions of Tiberius’ mourning with his presentation in the SCPP, the Senatus Consultum de Cn. Pisone Patre, a senatorial decree, contemporary with the episode, addressing, among other things, Tiberius’ mourning of Germanicus. Accordingly, Tiberius’ mourning will be placed both in its literary and its historical context. Essentially, we must understand the interplay between these various contexts in order to appreciate the use made of the past in each account. From a historical perspective, Tiberius’ reputation for emotional self-control is to be understood as an aspect of his public image and self-fashioning and as an expression of grauitas and maiestas adopted for political purposes. While genre might distort how a historical event is represented and given meaning, it nonetheless reflects norms for grief and weeping, norms which arguably were present and valid in society (or sections thereof) and offered models for behaviour by providing paradigmatic exempla for posterity.1 I will also argue that Tiberius, with his emphasis on self-control, aimed to promote his own distinctive vision of what it meant to be princeps during a 1 See Vekselius 2018, 31–2, 49–56, 60, 94, 189, 191.

    © Johan Vekselius, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004445086_011

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    figure 9.1 Portrait head of Emperor Tiberius, Villa San Michele, Anacapri, Island of Capri, Italy. In 1895 Swedish physician Axel Munthe (1857–1949) bought a vineyard that had been planted on top of one of Tiberius’ villas on Capri and started construction of what would become Villa San Michele. Spurred by his expertise in psychology and his experience as court physician to the Swedish Royal Family, Munthe developed a profound interest in the enigmatic ancient owner of the site. He was particularly fascinated by the emperor’s ten-year stay at Capri, describing his life there as “the life of a lonely old man, the weary ruler of an ungrateful world, a sombre idealist, heartbroken and bitter […] He distrusted and despised his contemporaries and no wonder, for almost every man and woman he had trusted had betrayed him” (Munthe, A. 1929. The Story of San Michele, London, p. 482). It is unclear whether the portrait head of Tiberius was discovered on-site or brought to the Villa from elsewhere. Stolen in 1991, it was retrieved 22 years later by the Comando Carabinieri Tutela Patrimonio Culturale. Villa San Michele is today a museum. Photographer: Pelle Bergström. With kind permission from SKARP agent AB

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    formative period in Roman history and thus become an exemplum for future emperors. Yet he was only partially successful: Tiberius certainly became an exemplum of self-control, but both his contemporaries and posterity deemed this self-control problematic and antisocial. In addition, I will show that the ability to ignore the “script” for appropriate mourning and tears might be both an expression and a representation of autocracy. I will demonstrate that what was considered proper from a Roman perspective depended on a range of distinct factors, both literary and historical, and that it is impossible to establish a universally applicable set of rules for the correct way of mourning, as there were always subjective and culturally determined components in play. Still, by engaging with the literary and historical contexts, we can better understand how mourning was represented, assessed, and given meaning. To contextualise my argument, the discussion will move at times beyond the specific context of mourning to emotions more generally. 2

    Tiberius’ Mourning According to Tacitus

    2.1 Germanicus Tacitus’ description of Tiberius’ refusal to mourn his adoptive son and heir Germanicus is both the most elaborate and well-known account of Tiberius’ aberrant mourning behaviour.2 Tacitus tells us that Germanicus died in AD19 under murky circumstances in Antioch on the Orontes in Syria. His supporters held his political rival L. Calpurnius Piso responsible (even though he was probably innocent). Germanicus’ widow Agrippina the Elder mourned her husband fiercely and ostentatiously, demanding vengeance on Piso. She was successful in inciting collective mourning and triggering vehement public condemnation not only of Piso, but also of Tiberius, who was considered jealous of Germanicus’ popularity. Both Tacitus (Ann. 2.72, 2.82–83, 3.1–2) and Suetonius (Cal. 5–6) describe scenes of intense and spontaneous mass mourning, both in Rome and elsewhere.3 Tacitus writes that “there was the same groan from everyone and you could not distinguish relatives from others, the laments of men from those of women” (idem omnium gemitus, neque discerneres proximos

    2 Tacitus narrates the episodes concerning Germanicus’ death and its aftermath at Ann. 2.69–3.19. 3 Courrier 2014, nos. 207 and 209. Courrier 2014 provides an appendix – available at https:// actoz.db.huma-num.fr/fmi/webd in the folder “Opinion_plebeienne”  – of all the cases of popular reactions in the period between the Gracchi and Domitian and analyses of them.

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    alienos, uirorum feminarumue planctus, 3.1.4),4 and that “the consuls … and the senate and a large section of the people filled the route, scattered in disarray and weeping as each one pleased” (consules … et senatus ac magna pars populi uiam compleuere, disiecti et ut cuique libitum flentes, 3.2.3). That men mourned like women, and that they wept freely, underlines the intensity of their grief, while the fact that the different groups mourned like one suggests that there was a consensus in mourning Germanicus.5 In contrast, Tiberius and his mother Livia were not part of this consensus and became conspicuous by their absence. According to Tacitus, “they refrained from public appearance, deeming it would belittle their majesty to lament openly  – or lest, with everyone’s eyes examining their demeanour, their falsity be understood” (publico abstinuere, inferius maiestate sua rati, si palam lamentarentur, an ne omnium oculis uultum eorum scrutantibus falsi intellegentur, 3.3.1).6 The explanation favoured by Tacitus seems to be that Tiberius kept out of public sight because he was unable to conceal his joy over the death of his rival. This is ironic in several ways. Firstly, as is well known, Tiberius was a master of dissimulatio, the ability to obscure one’s state of mind.7 Now, however, he was apparently unable to conceal his joy, so strong were his emotions. Secondly, Tiberius’ response betrayed a lack of self-control, a perverse joy that he could not control. His reaction can be contrasted with the powerful and spontaneous grief felt by the rest of Roman society. They, however, lost their self-control for acceptable reasons. These contrasting responses reflect discord between emperor and subjects, which (to Tacitus’ readers) signals Tiberius’ detachment from Roman society. We should observe that (the abbreviated version of) Cassius Dio also emphasises the disconnect between emperor and subjects, as he claims that Tiberius and Livia were happy about Germanicus’ death, while everyone else was deeply sad (τοῦ δὲ δὴ Γερμανικοῦ τελευτήσαντος ὁ μὲν Τιβέριος καὶ ἡ Λιουία πάνυ ἥσθησαν, οἱ δὲ δὴ ἄλλοι

    4 The second person singular draws the reader in emotionally through energeia; cf. Sinclair 1995, 52–3; Woodman & Martin 1996, 83–4. Translations of the Annals are by Woodman 2004, here slightly modified. 5 Corbeill (2004, 76–7) notes that the similarity between the genders expresses the exceptional intensity of the mourning. The abolition of differences of gender and status is characteristic of liminal rites such as mourning (Versnel 1980, 581–7). Woodman & Martin (1996, 88–9) contrast the spontaneity of the weeping with the insincerity of Tiberius’ reaction. See also Courrier 2014, no. 209; Vekselius 2018, 80. On the importance of consensus in the Principate, see Griffin 1991; Flaig 1992; Lobur 2008. 6 Woodman 2004 translates maiestas with “sovereignty”. 7 For references to Tiberius’ dissimulatio, see Woodman & Martin 1996, 89.

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    πάντες δεινῶς ἐλυπήθησαν, 57.18.6).8 The collective reaction after Germanicus’ death is comparable to Livy’s (1.16) version of the response to the sudden death of Romulus. On that occasion, too, rumours circulated about the nature of the death, while responses were mixed: the plebs and soldiers were stunned and then in deep grief, in contrast to the senators’ more moderate reaction. Tacitus’ second explanation for the decision not to mourn in public is that Tiberius and Livia considered a public lamentation to be unworthy of their majesty (inferius maiestate sua rati si palam lamentarentur, 3.3.1).9 Even if this is not Tacitus’ preferred explanation, it indicates that Tiberius might legitimately have been worried that a display of emotion, of grief and tears of mourning, could hurt his dignity.10 This makes explicit that an association between self-control and maiestas existed in Roman culture. Yet Germanicus was an exceptional case. Tacitus’ account and search for an explanation of Tiberius’ behaviour also illustrate that the crowd expected to see their emperor and elite in mourning for an exceptionally popular figure. The Roman people appreciated that their elite shared their joys and sorrows, and that they were seen among them.11 This type of behaviour could be seen as an expression of ciuilitas and comitas, that is, affability and civility – important aspects of the public image of elite political actors.12 We saw that Tiberius’ failure to be seen expressing the same emotion as the Senate, the magistrates, and the people was both a symptom and an expression of a rift between a non-grieving Tiberius and the rest of Roman society. This discord, the absence of the all-important consensus, continues when the crowd is disappointed by Germanicus’ funeral in Rome: it lacks the pomp of the funeral of Drusus the Elder, Germanicus’ father, and the crowd misses “the praises and the tears – or at least the imitations of pain” (laudationes et lacrimas uel doloris imitamenta, 3.5.2), as Tacitus puts it with heavy irony.13 In this way, Tacitus invites his readers to compare Germanicus’ modest funeral with the spectacular funeral of his father (2.73) and, later, of Tiberius’ biological son, Drusus the 8 9 10 11 12 13

    The Loeb enumeration is used for Cassius Dio. I consider it very likely that he used Tacitus as a source for this episode. On the Tiberian books of Dio, see Mallan Forthcoming. Cf. Woodman & Martin 1996, 90. See above and Woodman & Martin 1996, 87–91. On Tiberius and maiestas, see Yavetz 1969, 108–13; Woodman & Martin 1996, 90; Schulten 2005. Yavetz 1969; Courrier 2014, chap. 7; 2018, 124–8. Cf. Tac. Ann. 15.36, with Courrier (2014, no. 259) and Ash (2018, 166–70) on how the emperor Nero imagines that his absence would affect the Roman people emotionally. Ciuilitas is further discussed below. Tacitus here uses self-correction as a rhetorical device in order to introduce sharp irony. Cf. Tac. Ann. 15.48, with Ash 2018, 222.

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    Younger (4.12).14 Tacitus might even extend this synkristic drive backward to the funerals of Julius Caesar and Augustus (1.8). Furthermore, by imitamenta doloris, the imitations of pain, Tacitus again brings up the theme of sincerity in the context of the mourning of Germanicus, implying that a display of grief for a close relative was expected from an emperor.15 In fairness to Tiberius, we should observe that the funeral rites for Germanicus had already been held in Antioch.16 The association of self-control with power continues after Germanicus’ funeral. According to Tacitus, the people persisted in their grief to such a degree that Tiberius admonished them in an edict that “what was becoming for limited households or communities was not the same as that for principes and a commanding people” (non enim eadem decora principibus uiris et imperatori populo quae modicis domibus aut ciuitatibus, 3.6.1), meaning both himself and the elite in Rome, as well as the Roman people. Mourning was admissible for a period, “but now their spirits should be restored to strength” (sed referendum iam animum ad firmitudinem, 3.6.2).17 Tiberius then cites Caesar and Augustus as examples (both are discussed as mourners below) of bereaved Romans who successfully coped with the loss of loved ones. Afterward, he reminds his countrymen of the losses of generals, armies, and great houses suffered by the Romans of the past, and that while statesmen were mortal, the res publica was eternal.18 The edict, as related by Tacitus, draws unmistakably on consolatory literature in both form and content.19 2.2 Drusus If Tacitus portrays Tiberius’ behaviour after Germanicus’ demise as problematic, his description of the same emperor’s behaviour after the death of his natural son Drusus in AD23 is more positive (Ann. 4.8).20 Tacitus writes that Tiberius attended the Senate despite Drusus’ sickness and death. He offers as one explanation for Tiberius’ insistence in attending the Senate that he wanted to display his strength of spirit (firmitudinem animi ostentare). This indicates 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

    For commentary, see Woodman & Martin 1996, 98–104. O’Gorman (2000, 67–9, 77) notes the allusions to the funerals of Drusus the Elder (Ann. 2.73) and Drusus the Younger (Ann. 4.12). Cf. Schulz 2019a, 67. As noted by Woodman & Martin 1996, 103–4. Woodman & Martin 1996, 108–13. Cf. Woodman & Martin 1996, 104–7. Cf. Woodman & Martin 1996, 107–10. On the structure and themes in consolationes, see especially Kassel 1958. See also Manning 1981; Wilson 1997; 2013, 97–104; Graver 2009; Hulls 2011; Wilcox 2012, 181 n.2. Compare my reading with that of Hagen (2017, 84), who focuses on the senators’ tears. For commentary on the episode, see Woodman 2018, ad loc.

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    that the public display of self-control was a gesture with political meaning. Tacitus then narrates a specific episode in the Senate after Drusus’ death when the senators broke out in tears (effusum in lacrimas senatum),21 whereupon Tiberius suppressed a lamentation (uicto gemitu). It is not clear whether it was Tiberius’ own or that of senators.22 While this might be a deliberate ambiguity on Tacitus’ part, I would assume the former to be the reading intended by the historian; that Tiberius suppressed his own lamentation. The emperor then continued his speech uninterrupted (simul oratione continua erexit). The bereaved admitted that he risked criticism for appearing in the Senate so soon after such a recent loss (non quidem sibi ignarum posse argui, quod tam recenti dolore subierit oculos senatus, “it was not of course unknown to him, he said, that he could be criticised because, with his pain so fresh, he had subjected himself to the eyes of the senate”, 4.8.3) and conceded that he was expected to stay at home and out of sight. Tacitus’ Tiberius thus underlines the importance of sight and being seen (or not being seen) in mourning. Tiberius goes on to state that the senators were not to be judged as weak (imbecillitates) because they wept. Tacitus thus has Tiberius reveal that the senators’ tears could be perceived as a weakness and that self-control was to be preferred as being more manly. Tiberius then proclaims that “he had sought stronger comforts from the embrace of the state” (se tamen fortiora solacia e complexu rei publicae petiuisse, 4.8.3). That the Senate responded to Tiberius with much weeping (magno … fletu, 4.9.1) testifies to his oratorical success.23 Tacitus’ approval of Tiberius’ performance in the senate after his son Drusus’ death is made clear by the historian’s idealising account of how his father-in-law Agricola coped with the death of a son while serving as governor of Britannia (Agr. 29.1): initio aestatis Agricola domestico uulnere ictus anno ante natum filium amisit. quem casum neque, ut plerique fortium uirorum, ambitiose neque per lamenta rursus ac maerorem muliebriter tulit, et in luctu bellum inter remedia erat. At the start of the next summer Agricola suffered a family blow by losing a son that had been born the previous year. He bore the misfortune 21 I understand Tacitus to mean that the senators’ mourning was sincere. Tacitus usually makes it clear when he judges emotional expressions to be feigned. Cf. Woodman 2018, 101. 22 Cf. Woodman 2018, 101–2. 23 On tears as an audience response signalling oratorical success, see Vekselius 2018, chap. 4; 2020, 164–5.

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    without the show of endurance many brave men put on, but, again, not with the loud expressions of grief that belong to women either. Besides this, the war provided relief from his sorrow.24 So, not unaffected, but with grief subdued by self-control, the elite uir should ideally find solace in service of the res publica.25 Agricola had, in Tacitus words, suffered a domesticum uulnus, i.e. (literally) “a domestic wound”. This metaphor of physical wounding is apt in the context of a military campaign. In fact, authors of consolationes often used military metaphors of wounding, struggle, and victory.26 It seems that Tacitus’ description of Agricola’s mourning is modelled on and alludes to Julius Caesar’s mourning of the death of his daughter Julia, news of which he too received while in Britain. Caesar mourned for only two days before he resumed his campaign, much as Agricola did later. Quintus Cicero, who served on Caesar’s staff at the time, approved of Caesar’s self-control in a letter (Q. fr. 26.3) to his brother Marcus, who replied that he was pleased to learn that Caesar coped with his loss with uirtus and grauitas. Caesar’s restraint became an exemplum later used by authors like Seneca and Tacitus.27 Both the historical Tiberius and the historical Agricola might well have imitated Julius Caesar’s self-control.28 We have seen that Tiberius, according to Tacitus, displayed concern for self-control after the deaths of his sons, Germanicus and Drusus the Younger. However, a distinction ought to be made. The emperor was seen affected and struggling to control his emotions in public after Drusus’ death, while after Germanicus’ death, it was his refusal to be seen lamenting that was contentious. Note also that Tacitus has Tiberius state in the Senate after Drusus’ death that it was expected of a mourner to stay out of sight, while to be seen active in service of the res publica could be both criticised as heartlessness and lauded as strength of mind and manly bravery. In other words, Tacitus, through his

    24 25

    Transl. by Birley 1999. Cf. Woodman 2014, 232–3. On Agricola’s behaviour as an ideal compromise between selfcontrol and emotion, see Hope 2011, 114–5; Vekselius 2018, chap. 2 (esp. p. 68). 26 On the military metaphor, see Edwards 1999; 2007, 93–7; Wilcox 2006; Bartsch 2009, 203– 4; 2015, 193; Wilson 2013, 109–10; Armisen-Marchetti 2015, 153; Vekselius 2018, 43. 27 On Caesar as an exemplum, see Graver 2017, 195. Tacitus’ Tiberius alludes to Caesar at Ann. 3.6 (discussed above) and Seneca at Dial. 6.14.3 (discussed below). 28 The tears that Caesar is said to have shed for Pompey were controversial: see Liv. 112.4; V. Max. 5.1.10; Luc. 9.1010–1108; Plut. Pomp. 80, Caes. 48; D.C. 42.8.1–3; cf. Hagen 2017, 202– 6; Vekselius 2018, 161, 181–2, 189; 2020, 171.

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    narration of Tiberius’ performance in the Senate, gives expression to the uncertainty surrounding the ideals of public mourning in Roman elite culture. Even though Tiberius’ conduct in the Senate after the death of Drusus the Younger was well received, a visible rift nevertheless lingered between the emperor and his senatorial subjects, since they were discordant and did not mourn together in the Senate.29 There was no consensus about what the loss of Drusus meant. This theme continues in Tacitus’ version of Drusus the Younger’s funeral (Ann. 4.12.1): ceterum laudante filium pro rostris Tiberio senatus populusque habitum ac uoces dolentum simulatione magis quam libens induebat, domumque Germanici reuirescere occulti laetabantur, “As Tiberius praised his son before the rostra, the senate and people assumed – in pretence rather than gladly – the guise and voices of pain, and secretly they delighted that the house of Germanicus was recuperating”.30 There is no indication in Tacitus’ version that Tiberius was emotional when he delivered the oration after the death of his biological son. Tacitus uses parallelisms between events and individuals in mourning to allude to and articulate points of similarity and contrast. He does this by playing with a set of recurring variables in episodes concerning the emperor and his subjects. These actors expressed grief or happiness, emotions which in turn could be sincere or insincere. According to Tacitus, Tiberius was happy after Germanicus death and the people and senate were sad, while the opposite was true after Drusus’ death. Tiberius could not be seen in genuine grief after Germanicus’ death because he could not hide his joy, while he was seen genuinely sad but in control of himself after Drusus’ death, while the people feigned sorrow for Drusus but had been spontaneously and genuinely griefstricken after Germanicus’ death. Emotions could be open (the people’s grief after Germanicus) or hidden and not seen (the people’s and Senate’s joy after the death of Drusus, Tiberius’ joy after Germanicus’ demise and his attempt to disguise his grief after Drusus’ death). Absence and presence were also significant: the absence of imagines in the case of Germanicus’ funeral, in contrast to their presence at the funeral of his father, the absence of Tiberius in the mourning of Germanicus, Tiberius’ presence in the Senate after Drusus’ demise.31 The 29

    The discord between emperor and Senate is evident also at Tac. Ann. 4.9, where Tiberius, after the emotional episode concerning Drusus’ demise, antagonises his audience by speaking – among other things – about re-establishing the Republic, which the senators deemed insincere. 30 Cf. Courrier 2014, no. 218; Woodman (2018, 116). 31 This reading draws on O’Gorman’s (2000, chap. 3) discussion – focused on the lack of imagines at Germanicus’ funeral (pp. 67–9, 77) – of Tacitus’ use of absence and presence. Cf. Schulz (2019a, 149–58) on Tacitus’ play with binary oppositions.

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    importance of these variables is confirmed by Tacitus’ description (Ann. 6.50) of the people’s reaction to the rumour of Tiberius’ death: the people rejoiced sincerely at the demise of the absent emperor and the impending succession of Gaius, only to feign grief for the ailing emperor or ignorance when Tiberius made a momentary recovery before he finally passed away.32 As we will see below, Tacitus describes a similar set of parallelisms when he narrates Nero’s behaviour after the murder of Agrippina the Younger. We might note that Tiberius also displayed self-control – or perhaps rather indifference – after the death of his mother Livia in AD29. Tacitus (Ann. 5.1–2) tells us that Tiberius accepted that Livia was given a public funeral, but not much beyond that honour.33 In fact, Tiberius did not even attend the funeral, choosing to remain on Capri, while Gaius, the later emperor, delivered the funeral oration. 3

    Tiberius’ Grief in Other Genres

    Tiberius’ inclination toward self-control constitutes a theme throughout his life as it is narrated by Tacitus. However, the theme also emerges in other authors’ treatments of Tiberius. Seneca, for example, relates Tiberius’ reaction to the death of his brother Drusus the Elder in Germany in 9BC in the Consolatio ad Polybium.34 Seneca uses Tiberius as an exemplum when he consoles Polybius, an imperial freedman with a high position in the administration, who (like Tiberius) was mourning a brother.35 Seneca describes how Tiberius checked both his own and his army’s tears and that he thus brought the soldiers back to the “Roman way of mourning” (morem Romani luctus, Dial. 11.15.5), since discipline needed to be displayed not only in combat but also in mourning. Seneca concludes the episode by stating that Tiberius would have been unable to wield power over others’ tears and bring back discipline if he had been unable to suppress his own tears (non potuisset ille lacrimas alienas compescere, nisi prius pressisset suas, Dial. 11.15.5). Observe how the “Roman way of mourning” was associated with power and military might. Seneca articulates a similar relationship between self-control, power, and military imagery in de Ira, when he writes that Scipio Africanus conquered anger before he conquered 32 33 34

    Cf. Courrier 2014, no. 222. See also Suet. Tib. 51, D.C. 58.2. See above. Seager (1972, 27) reads the episode as an indication of Tiberius’ character and subsequent behaviour. 35 Tiberius’ dash to his mortally wounded brother Drusus became a classic illustration of fraternal loyalty; see V. Max. 5.3.3, Consolatio ad Liuiam 86–90, D.C. 55.2.1; cf. Woodman 2006, 309.

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    Hannibal (iram ante uicit quam Hannibalem, Dial. 3.11.5). Using similar imagery in the Consolatio ad Marciam (Dial. 6.14.3), Seneca writes that Julius Caesar (as noted above) conquered the grief over his daughter Julia’s death and resumed his campaign in Britain as swiftly as he was in the habit of conquering everything else. Moreover, Cicero (Q. fr. 1.7) could write to his famously irate brother Quintus that it would be easy to control others in his province if he controlled himself. These episodes highlight the association between emotional selfcontrol and power: in order to wield power over others (fellow Romans as well as others), a Roman leader needed to be in control of himself, also in mourning. This mindset is one that Tiberius both adhered to and promulgated, according to the historical tradition. The pseudo-Ovidian poem Consolatio ad Liuiam (86–90) describes Tiberius’ mourning of his brother Drusus as decidedly more tearful than Seneca does.36 In an emotional scene, the poem describes Tiberius as weeping with a pale face full of grief over his dying brother, who saw Tiberius’ tears before he succumbed to his injuries. However, it may be significant that Tiberius is said to have been “unlike himself” (dissimilemque sui, 87) when he wept.37 Moreover, the Consolatio ad Liuiam celebrates at length the mourning of Livia, mother of the deceased and the addressee of the poem, and others after Drusus’ death. To understand the difference between Seneca’s self-controlled Tiberius and the more emotional Tiberius of the poem, we need to consider the significance of genre and purpose. Poetic consolationes allow for grander emotional expressions and celebrate the affective relationship between the consoled and the deceased, while philosophical consolationes, like those of Seneca and Cicero, argue for self-control, and tend to focus more on the deceased.38 The emotional character of poetic consolationes can be illustrated by considering the Siluae, a collection of occasional poetry composed by Statius for his affluent patrons during Domitian’s reign. Bereavements prompted some of the poems, and these “consolatory” poems praise demonstrative and explicitly immoderate grief and mourning. The poem to Flavius Abascantus, a powerful imperial freedman who had lost his wife, is only one of several examples from the Siluae that could be cited.39 During the funeral ceremony, Abascantus wept, tore his clothes, and lamented more than his servants did (5.1.20–21): 36 The work is also known as Epicedion Drusi. 37 Cf. Corbeill (2004, 157–67) on Tiberius being like or unlike himself in other contexts. 38 Manning 1981, 42. See also Markus 2004, 127–9. Cf. Hope (2011, 107–8), who notes that Livia’s emotionality is greater in the Consolatio ad Liuiam than in the Consolatio ad Marciam, and that she fails to mourn Germanicus in Tacitus’ Annals. 39 Stat. Silv. 2.1, 2.6, 3.3, 5.1, 5.3, 5.5. On the excess and extravagancy of these poems, see McCullough 2011, 182–8; Vekselius 2018, 59–63. See also Bernstein 2005; Gibson 2006; Asso 2010.

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    tunc flere et scindere uestes et famulos lassare greges et uincere planctus, “Then all his consolation was to weep and tear his clothes and weary his flocks of servitors, outdoing their laments” (see also the physical signs of distress at 219– 220: is dolor in uultu, tantum crinesque genaeque noctis habent, “such grief is in his face, such night upon his hair and cheeks”). According to Statius, both the emperor Domitian (5.1.37–40) and the Roman people (5.1.216–221) beheld this outpouring of emotion with approval.40 As pointed out by McCullough, however, Abascantus’ excessive grief would have been criticised as feminine by a Cicero or a Seneca.41 Even if we can understand the emotionality of the Siluae as a reflection of the literary aesthetics of Flavian Rome, as well as of genre, the poet must have had listeners who approved of the way they were represented in the poems that they commissioned.42 The celebration of emotional excess can also be understood through Schulz’ observation that panegyrical texts tend to celebrate excess and violation of norms and boundaries.43 That the appreciation of excessive emotionality evidenced by the Consolatio ad Liuiam and the Siluae was not limited to poetic genres and modes of writing is indicated by a pair of letters penned by Pliny the Younger. These letters also suggest the historicity of such excess. In the letters, Pliny complains about how M. Aquilius Regulus – certainly not Pliny’s favourite person – mourned a son with excess.44 In the first letter (Ep. 4.2), Pliny writes that Regulus mourned madly (luget insane) and that his behaviour was not grief but a show of grief (nec dolor erat ille, sed ostentatio doloris). In Homeric fashion, Regulus sacrificed the boy’s pets: horses, dogs, and birds. Regulus’ mourning was so extravagant that it disturbed the whole city, much like that of Statius’ Abascantus. In the second letter (Ep. 4.7), Pliny complains that Regulus had commissioned 40 41

    42

    43 44

    Transl. by D.R. Shackleton Bailey 2015, LCL. Domitian, presumably, would have appreciated especially that Abascantus would have taken his own life were it not for his devotion to the emperor (5.1.205–208). McCullough 2011, 182–4; Vekselius 2018, 61. On Cicero’s attitudes toward grief and mourning, see Erskine 1997; Hutchinson 1998, chap. 3; Treggiari 1998; Wilcox 2005a; 2005b; 2012, chap. 2–3; Graver 2002; 2017; Altman 2009; Caston 2015. On Seneca, see Manning 1974; 1981; Wilson 1997; 2013; Wilcox 2006; 2012, chap. 8; Graver 2007, 196–201; 2009; McAuley 2015, chap. 4. Markus 2004, 124; McCullough 2011, 186–8. See also Manning (1981, 42), who argues that a permissive and indulgent attitude toward emotionality in poetic consolationes accounts for the many tears in the Siluae. We can compare the Siluae with Statius’ lachrymose epic Thebaid. Markus 2004 has shown that both the Siluae and the Thebaid allow and are indulgent toward tears and mourning. Schulz 2019a, 97–8. Ash 2013 discusses the Regulus letters and argues that Pliny’s portrayal of Regulus forms part of Pliny’s self-fashioning (see esp. pp. 226–8 on Ep. 4.2 and 4.9).

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    many statues and portraits of the boy, that he recited a biography of his son in front of a vast crowd, and that he disseminated the work in Italy and the provinces and asked town councils to read it in public. Pliny finds fault with the excessiveness of Regulus’ grief, who had set his mind on excess and to mourn like no other (luget ut nemo). In order to illustrate continuity in the Greco-Roman world, we turn to Herodes Atticus, a second century AD Athenian magnate but also a Roman consul and friend of emperors. Herodes mourned his many bereavements with seemingly intentional excess, for which he is repeatedly criticised by internal audiences within narratives, often philosophers as well as authors.45 He insistently advertised his grief; he was found lying on the ground in mourning, inconsolable; and he mourned for prolonged periods, establishing games and commissioning statues, structures, and epic poems. Kampen suggests that Herodes’ excessive grief might have been an imitation of the emperor Hadrian, who was overcome by grief after the death of his mother-in-law (uictus essem praesenti confusione, CIL XIV 3579.15)46 and allegedly wept like a woman for his protégé Antinous (muliebriter fleuit, Hadr. 14; see also 34).47 Such excessive emotionality had heroic and specifically Homeric connotations, alluding to Alexander and Achilles, who mourned their beloved male protégés, Hephaistos and Patroclus respectively. Achilles, Alexander, and Hadrian were, like Herodes, known to be emotional.48 Herodes also gave his excessive mourning an additional epic-heroic character by commissioning poems with Homeric imagery and establishing games in honour of his beloved deceased. Herodes thus acted in an epic-heroic manner in both his passionate mourning and his funeral commissions. The poetic form and the epic imagery are present also in the Siluae, furnishing Statius’ mourners with a epic-heroic character, while Pliny’s antagonist Regulus mourned his son in opulent fashion through sacrifices and the commissioning of statues.49 The perception of excessive mourning by Statius’ mourners, Pliny’s Regulus, and Herodes suggests how we should understand the celebration of Tiberius’ 45 On Herodes’ excessive mourning, see Ameling 1983a, 95–117; Kampen 2009; Gleason 2010; Vekselius 2018, 63–8. For examples of Herodes’ excessive mourning, see Fronto Ep. Ad M. Caes. 1.6.8, Ep. Graec. 3, Philostr. VS 2.545, 556–557, 561, Lucian Demonax 33, Gel. 19.12.3; cf. Ameling 1983a, 98, 117; 1983b, nos. 122, 140. 46 Jones 2004 provides text and commentary; see also Kierdorf 1980, passim; Gleason 2010, 158. 47 Kampen 2009, 79–81; cf. Gleason 2010, who, seemingly independently of Kampen, makes a similar claim. 48 Kampen 2009; Harris 2001, 227–8, 235–7, 256–7. 49 Vekselius 2018, 65–6.

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    (and others’) mourning after Drusus the Elder’s death in the Consolatio ad Liuiam. Firstly, and as noted above, the literary context: consolatory poems tend to be emotional and focus on the bereaved rather than the deceased, while panegyric texts celebrate violations of norms and boundaries. Secondly, the historical context (i.e. the social and political milieu) suggests that excessive and demonstrative emotionality could sometimes be an appropriate response to bereavement. During the Empire, such an excess might have served as an expression of “social virtues” like pietas and fides. The elite family and private relationships became more significant in a period when social and political advancement hinged on imperial favour rather than on individual deeds of martial uirtus (as had, at least to a greater extent, been the case during the Republic).50 An argument can thus be made that such “emotional” consolationes are indicative of an alternative ideal – based on another conception of manhood – for how elite Romans should mourn. The prevalence of and emphasis on self-control in literature, coupled with the popularity of stoicism, suggest that the paradigms co-existed and that self-control was still a dominant paradigm. Like the appreciation of excessive emotionality, stoicism represented a turn toward the private sphere that the elite aristocrat could still control during the autocracy of the Empire. We are thus reminded that the emperor was not the only person who needed to claim distinction and status in novel ways by forging a public image appropriate for the realities of the new political system: elite Romans also needed to recalibrate their public displays of mourning. We return to Seneca’s Consolatio ad Marciam and its description of Tiberius’ funeral oration for his son Drusus. According to Seneca, Tiberius did not change his face (non flexit uultus) as he delivered the oration, while the Roman people wept (flente populo Romano), without any suggestion that their tears were feigned.51 We can make some observations here. Firstly, Tiberius displayed self-control by continuing to speak in public despite his distress, both in the Senate (see above on Tac. Ann. 4.8) and while delivering the funeral oration. The ability to speak eloquently and without sobbing or crying recurs as evidence of self-control in Roman culture.52 It is from this circumstance that we should understand the habitual inability of orators to continue speaking because of their tears during perorations in the law courts: it signalled a sincere 50

    Cf. Schorn 2009, 342–4; McCullough 2011; Hope 2011, 111–5; Hulls 2011; Vekselius 2018, 58– 69. On how an exemplary virtue of a general and abstract kind during the Empire superseded the martial virtue of the Republic, see McDonnell 2006; Langlands 2018, chap. 11. Tac. Hist. 1.3 is illustrative. 51 Sen. Dial. 6.15.3. 52 Vekselius 2018, 47–50, 94, 121.

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    emotional involvement in the matter at hand, which was more deeply felt than what words could express.53 Secondly, Seneca and Tacitus describe Tiberius’ funeral oration similarly, with the emperor speaking and the people expressing their grief. However, while Seneca, in a philosophical consolatio, lauds Tiberius’ self-control with the weeping people as an emotional foil, Tacitus makes no mention of the emotionality of Tiberius and describes the people as feigning grief while they disguise their happiness about this disaster for the emperor. So, while Seneca uses Tiberius’ self-control as a laudatory exemplum, Tacitus’ uses his (reputation for) self-control to portray him as out-of-step with and loathed by his subjects, who repeatedly display emotions, both true and false, depending on whether a death was to their own or Tiberius’ advantage. In other words, political circumstances and considerations, as well as his dislike of Tiberius, shape Tacitus’ historiographical representation and evaluation of his restraint as yet another example of insincerity and discord between the emperor and his subjects. Suetonius, too, appears to describe Tiberius as affecting grief after the death of Augustus. The occasion was a speech in the Senate before Augustus’ will was read out. According to Suetonius, Tiberius was suddenly unable to speak and groaned loudly as if overcome by grief (uelut impar dolori congemuit, Tib. 23.1). Instead, he let his son Drusus finish the written speech. Even though it is hard to settle the question (which hinges on one’s interpretation of uelut, “as if”), the context as well as the wording might suggest that Tiberius’ display of emotion is not necessarily to be taken as sincere. 3.1 The Emperor in Mourning Other emperors of the Early Empire were not as concerned with their maiestas as was Tiberius. Instead, they exhibited more emotion and displayed joy and grief in front of and with the people. In this way, they expressed social virtues such as pietas, fides, clementia, and ciuilitas, qualities that the crowd both appreciated and expected. It was acceptable, even expected, of a Roman elite man to shed tears of pietas when mourning friends and family. Even a stoic like Seneca in his most emotionally austere consolation, Epistula 99, allows for grief and tears, because being indifferent to a friend’s death would be inhuman.54 However, although emotionality was both expected and allowed, it had a time and a place.

    53 54

    Tears were often shed in Roman courts and were particularly apt in in the peroration, see Berry 1996, 316; Hall 2014, chap. 4; Vekselius 2018, chap. 3; 2020, 171. Seneca is less strict when it comes to the mourning of a friend in Ep. 63.

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    The tension between openly expressing grief and maintaining a stiff upper lip is articulated already in Cicero’s correspondence. In Fam. 5.16, Cicero admonishes a certain Titius, whose sons appear to have died in an epidemic, to consider his dignity (grauitas) and consistency (constantia) and put an end to his mourning: since even a weak-minded woman (imbecillo mulier animo) ceases her mourning at some point, a man should anticipate with reasoned decision (consilio) what time brings by itself.55 In light of these rebukes, Cicero’s own prolonged grief after his daughter Tullia’s death in 45BC is both noteworthy and instructive.56 Tullia’s passing devastated Cicero, who withdrew from public life and kept a low profile at his country-estates. In a letter to Atticus, he writes that he spends his days hiding in the woods, not talking to anyone but his books, battling outbursts of weeping (Att. 12.15). As is clear from his correspondence with Atticus in this period, Cicero was criticised by his elite peers in Rome, who wondered whether he was unable to control his grief, and was determined to defend himself from such insinuations (Att. 12.38a.1): quod putas oportere peruideri iam animi mei firmitatem grauiusque quosdam scribis de me loqui quam aut te scribere aut Brutum, si qui me fractum esse animo et debilitatum putant sciant quid litterarum et cuius generis conficiam, credo, si modo homines sint, existiment me, siue ita leuatus sim ut animum uacuum ad res difficilis scribendas adferam, reprehendendum non esse, siue hanc aberrationem a dolore delegerim quae maxime liberalis sit doctoque homine dignissima, laudari me etiam oportere. You say you think it time that my strength of mind should be made clearly apparent, and that certain people are talking about me in more censorious terms than either you or Brutus use in your letters. Well, if those who think me broken-spirited or enfeebled only knew the amount and the character of my literary output, I believe that in common decency they would either spare their criticisms or even admit that I deserve some praise; for they would have to allow either that I have so far recovered as to bring an untrammelled mind to writing on these difficult subjects or 55 Hutchinson 1998, 50–9; Wilcox 2005a, 240–3. Cf. Cic. Fam. 4.5, Brut. 1.9. Seneca makes a similar argument at Dial. 6.7.1–2, 11.4.1–3, 11.8.5–6, Ep. 63.1–13, 99.1–3, 16–18, 21. Cicero treats the diminishing of grief with time from a theoretical perspective at Tusc. 3.52–3.54, 3.74. Cf. Graver 2002, 107, 118. 56 On Cicero’s grief (and literary activity) after Tullia’s death, see Erskine 1997; Hutchinson 1998, 62–77; Treggiari 1998, 18–22; Graver 2002, xi–xv; 2017 199, 202; Wilcox 2005a, 244–53; 2005b; 2012, 51–63; Baltussen 2013; Vekselius 2018, 56–8.

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    else that I have chosen the most elevated means of distraction from my sorrow and the most fitting for a man of culture.57 Atticus seems to have been worried that his friend’s mourning would damage his standing in Rome, as is clear from another letter penned Cicero (Att. 12.40.2): quod scribis te uereri ne et gratia et auctoritas nostra hoc meo maerore minuatur, “You say you are afraid my popularity and prestige may suffer by my present mourning”. Although Cicero again defended himself by pointing to his literary output, which attested to his strength of character, he was clearly worried that this honourable activity lacked an audience and that his strength of character and self-control consequently went unnoticed.58 In short, Cicero’s absence from Rome suggested an inability to cope with bereavement and reveal that a Roman elite man was expected to display self-control in public by devoting himself to his social and political responsibilities. As noted by Wilcox and Graver, Cicero’s conduct should be understood with reference to his (strained) relationship with Caesar after the latter’s victory in the civil war.59 Accordingly, this episode also foreshadows elite mourning behaviour under the Empire, when the possible reactions of the emperor needed to be taken into account. The social expectations connected to elite mourning that we find in Cicero’s correspondence are similar to those prevailing under the Empire. In the Consolatio ad Polybium (Dial. 11.17.2), Seneca argues that bereavement should not be carried with softness and in a womanlike manner (molliter et effeminate), because such behaviour was unmanly (non est uiri). To feel nothing, on the other hand, was inhumane. Seneca is otherwise more critical than Cicero toward tears and mourning, e.g. when he writes that “nothing is more foolish than to court a reputation for sadness and to sanction tears”, stultius uero nihil est quam famam captare tristitiae et lacrimas adprobare (Ep. 99.18).60 Self-control was important, but grief ought to be displayed. These expectations also held true for emperors. Pliny the Younger praises Trajan for shedding the tears that every son ought to shed (lacrimis … filium decuit, Pan. 11.1) for his adoptive father, Nerva. Such expectations are evident also in the negative reaction towards Tiberius’ failure to be seen mourning Germanicus. We can further contextualise this deviation of Tiberius by surveying how other 57 Transl. by D.R. Shackleton Bailey 1999, LCL. 58 Note also that Cicero repeatedly complained (to Atticus) that writing did not, in fact, make him feel any better: Cic. Att. 12.14, 12.20, 12.21, 12.23, 12.28, 12.38, 12.38a, 12.40. Cicero’s struggle with grief after Tullia’s death also features in letters with other correspondents, e.g. L. Lucceius (Fam. 5.14, 15) and Ser. Sulpicius Rufus (Fam. 4.5, 6). 59 Wilcox 2005b; see also 2005a, 244–53; 2012, 51–63; Graver 2017. 60 Transl. by R.M. Gummere 1925, LCL.

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    emperors mourned. Tiberius’ predecessor Augustus was known for his emotional affability. When he received word of the murder of Julius Caesar, according to Nicolaus Damascenus, “he was given over to tears and lamentation out of memory for the man and his affection for him” (εἴς τε δάκρυα καὶ οἶκτον ὑπὸ μνήμης τἀνδρὸς καὶ φιλοστοργίας ἐρρύη, 51).61 More remarkable is Plutarch’s claim that he, upon learning of Mark Antony’s death, retired to his tent to weep for his former relative, colleague, and ally.62 He is also described as shedding tears while delivering the funeral oration for Drusus in the Consolatio ad Liuiam (209–210), a poem that ascribes tears to Augustus also on other occasions (63–72, 442, 466). Suetonius writes that the emperor Gaius tried to increase his popularity by putting up a show of grief during his funeral oration for Tiberius (Cal. 15.1).63 His mourning for his beloved sister Drusilla, however, was considered sincere (Cal. 24.2): ac maeroris impatiens, cum repente noctu profugisset ab urbe transcucurrissetque Campaniam, Syracusas petit, rursusque inde propere rediit barba capilloque promisso, “He [Gaius] was so beside himself with grief that suddenly fleeing the city by night and traversing Campania, he went to Syracuse and hurriedly returned from there without cutting his hair or shaving his beard”.64 According to Seneca (Dial. 11.17.4–5), Gaius did not attend her funeral but instead fled to a villa and sought to relieve his distress through gambling; sometimes he wore a beard of mourning, sometimes he was cleanshaven; he wandered aimlessly along the coast of Italy and Sicily; unsure if he wanted his sister to be lamented or worshipped, he built temples and punished those who had (in his mind) mourned her insufficiently. Through such frenzied inconstancy (furiosa inconstantia), Gaius gave evidence of his lack of self-control (intemperie animi). Seneca concludes by urging his readers to avoid imitating such a man (11.17.6): procul istud exemplum ab omni Romano sit uiro, luctum suum aut intempestiuis seuocare lusibus aut sordium ac squaloris foeditate irritare aut alienis malis oblectare minime humano solacio, “Far be it from every manly Roman to follow such an example – either to divert his sorrow by untimely amusements, or to encourage it by disgraceful neglect and squalor, or to seek relief by that most inhuman of consolations, the causing of suffering to others”.65 61 Transl. by Toher 2017. Cf. Hagen 2017, 196–7. 62 Plut. Ant. 78; cf. Hagen 2017, 298–9; Vekselius 2018, 98, 161. 63 On the insincerity of these tears, see Kierdorf 1980, 120; Hagen 2017, 91; Vekselius 2018, 91; 2020, 170. 64 Transl. by J.C. Rolfe 1914, LCL. 65 Transl. by J.W. Basore 1932, LCL.

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    Nero, the famously histrionic emperor, is repeatedly said to have “acted” falsely in the ancient sources. Dio relates how he and his mother Agrippina the Younger feigned sorrow (πενθεῖν προσεποιοῦντο, 61.35.2) after the death of Claudius. Tacitus, paraphrasing Nero’s funeral oration for his adoptive father, deems the spectacle “imitations of sadness” (tristitiae imitamentis, Ann. 13.4.1). Later, after Nero had murdered his mother and while the emperor’s friends together with locals in Campania visited temples and expressed joy, Nero himself simulated grief and shed tears (Ann. 14.10.2): ipse diuersa simulatione maestus et quasi incolumitati suae infensus ac morti parentis inlacrimans, “the man himself being sorrowful with the opposite extremes and as if bitter at his own preservation and bewailing his parent’s death”.66 Thus, despite his matricide, Nero is described as concerned about being perceived as fulfilling his filial obligations in mourning. When Tacitus’ Nero does mourn sincerely, he does so in the wrong way (immoderately) and for the wrong people (a baby): having greeted the birth of a daughter with “more than mortal joy” (ultra mortale gaudium, 15.23.1), he laments her death four months later with a similarly immoderate expression of emotion (15.23.3): atque ipse ut laetitiae, ita maeroris immodicus egit, “he behaved as immoderately in sorrow as he had in happiness”. Moving forward in time, Dio writes that it resembled the theatre (σκηνοποιίᾳ τινὶ ἐοικὸς, 67.2.6) when Domitian pretended (προσεποιεῖτο) to love his deceased brother Titus when he delivered the funeral oration in tears (μετὰ δακρύων). That Domitian’s tears can be seen as characteristic of a political culture broken by autocracy is made clear as Dio immediately moves from the specific occasion of the mourning of Titus to more general conditions (67.2.7): during Domitian’s rule it was unsafe to display grief and joy, and faces needed to be adjusted so as not to offend the autocrat, insult his real opinion, or expose his pretence.67 The dissimulating Domitian appears also in Tacitus’ Agricola, where he feigns grief over the death of the text’s eponymous hero. Although no one believed that the emperor was actually sad, “he did put on an outward show of grief in his manner and expression”, being a man “who could hide joy more easily than fear” (speciem tamen doloris animo uultu prae se tulit … qui facilius dissimularet gaudium quam metum, Agr. 43.3). The similarities between Agricola-Domitian and Germanicus-Tiberius are striking: both Germanicus and Agricola are portrayed by Tacitus as popular leaders and potential rivals to jealous emperors 66

    67

    Corbeill (2004, 165) argues that the episode can be read as a reflection of the loss of trust in facial expressions during the Principate; Bartsch (1994, 20–2) reads the episode as an example of Roman political culture turning into a proverbial theatre during Nero’s reign. See also Champlin 2003, 89–91; Hagen 2017, 207–8. Kierdorf 1980, 120; Hagen 2017, 208. See also Tac. Ann. 2.52. On Dio’s depiction of Domitian, see Schulz 2016; 2019a, 188–265.

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    who were expected to be happy, if not responsible, for their deaths. However, while Domitian (more or less) successfully dissimulated his joy, Tiberius was either unable or considered it beneath his dignity to display grief. Finally (and much later), the Historia Augusta (Geta 7; M. Ant. 3) portrays Caracalla as both histrionic and insincere after he has murdered his brother Geta and notes that people thought it strange that the emperor often wept at the mention of his brother’s name or at the sight of one of his statues or portraits. Fittingly, Caracalla’s successor, the usurper Macrinus, is said by Herodian to have pretended to weep and lament loudly over the emperor’s corpse (ὀλοφύρεσθαί τε καὶ θρηνεῖν προσεποιεῖτο, 4.14.7). The examples discussed above illustrate how emperors responded to expectations that they should display grief as a demonstration of ciuilitas and as evidence of pietas and fides toward relatives that were public figures. This appreciation of grief and tears made it opportune to shed tears in front of crowds. Tiberius is described as not responding to such expectations, while more popular-minded emperors did and made a point of being seen shedding tears. At times, mourning conflicted with what audiences perceived to be the emperor’s real interest and emotions. In other words, bad emperors were deemed to be insincere in their expressions of grief. Authors used the presumed disparity between emotional expression and actual emotion to characterise an emperor as bad and, more generally, the Principate as pathologically false. Considering this, it seems likely that Tacitus would have portrayed Tiberius as insincere should he have mourned Germanicus in public, especially since he suggests that Tiberius kept out of view because of his inability to conceal his joy. Bad emperors not only perverted their own weeping but also, as hinted, that of their subjects. Tiberius was guilty of this wrongdoing as well. For example, Tacitus writes that friends and relatives of those purged by Tiberius after the fall of Sejanus were forbidden to weep and that women were accused because of their tears (ob lacrimas incusabantur, Ann. 6.10.1).68 A similar atmosphere is portrayed by Lucan’s matrona who (2.38–42) argues that the women should weep and express their grief now because once the civil war is won by either party and the Principate is established, free expression of emotions would no longer be possible, and they would have to rejoice in front of the victor. The mourning of other “bad” emperors can contextualise Tiberius’ behaviour in this regard. Suetonius writes that Gaius ruled that his subjects were not allowed to laugh, bath, or dine with their families during the period of mourning after his sister Drusilla’s death (Cal. 24), while Seneca adds that Gaius punished 68

    See also Tac. Ann. 6.19, 12.47; Suet. Tib. 61; D.C. 58.16.6. Cf. Bodel 1999, 49–50; Hagen 2017, 236–7.

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    those whom he judged had not demonstrated enough sorrow (Dial. 11.17.5). Likewise, Dio (77.2.5–6) relates how Caracalla, after his murder of Geta, forbade their mother Julia Domna to mourn and instead forced her to be happy and laugh.69 According to the Historia Augusta (Geta 7; M. Ant. 3.), Caracalla considered killing his mother and other women because they mourned Geta. Herodian (4.6.3) claims that Caracalla had Cornificia murdered because she wept with Julia Domna.70 Dio (75.5.3) also relates how relatives of those murdered during the reign of Commodus were forbidden to mourn, but that his successor Pertinax allowed them to shed tears.71 The same senators who were afraid to mourn Pertinax during the reign of Didius Julianus (74.13.2–5) could weep freely for him under Septimius Severus (74.5.3).72 Indeed, historiography repeatedly describes “bad” emperors as having problematic relationships with tears and grief, often feigning emotional expressions or expressing their emotions at the wrong time and place. Furthermore, in an autocracy like the Principate, the subjects might have to adapt their emotional expressions and behaviours so as not to upset the autocrat. Bad emperors were understood to be subverting the natural order when they feigned tears, perverted joy and grief, tears and laughter, and/or controlled the tears of their subjects. A good emperor, meanwhile, shed true tears for the right reasons and mourned with his subjects, whom he allowed to weep freely.73 The relationship between cruel prohibitions of mourning and autocratic tyranny was not exclusively a phenomenon of the Empire. Such prohibitions were also enforced during the proscriptions of the Republic, both those of Sulla and those of the triumvirs.74 Writing under Augustus’ reign, Dionysius of Halicarnassus (4.40.5) could claim that Tarquinius Superbus, the last Roman king and a legendary stock tyrant, denied his popular predecessor Servius Tullius a public funeral because he wanted to avoid an uprising before he had

    69 70 71 72

    Also narrated at Hdn. 4.4.2–4. See also Hagen 2017, 239. Cf. D.C. 78.16.6. Vekselius 2018, 102. Millar 1964, 139; Hagen 2017, 223; Vekselius 2018, 87–8. On Dio’s ambiguous attitude toward Septimius Severus (and the Severans more generally), see Madsen 2016; Rantala 2016. 73 Mutatis mutandis, what Beard (2014, 128–40) has argued for regarding laughter holds true for grief and tears: a good emperor made benevolent jokes, laughed with his people, and could afford to be laughed at; he did not use laughter as a humiliating weapon, nor did he force or suppress his subjects’ “natural” laughter. To this, I add that the subjects desired to be able to read and trust the emperor’s laughter as a reliable expression of virtue. See also Vekselius 2018, 105, 185, 201; and 2020. 74 Hagen 2017, 235–6; Vekselius 2018, 101.

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    consolidated his own rule.75 The episode demonstrates how the curtailment of mourning was characteristic of tyranny and employed for political reasons. The mourning of a political figure could articulate subversive political action during the Late Republic. While the populares used the memory of fallen heroes politically and thus weaponised memory through mourning,76 the optimates responded by issuing prohibitions on the mourning of rival politicians. According to Plutarch (C. Gracch. 17), the senatorial enemies of C. Gracchus banned his relatives and those of his associates from mourning them.77 They must have remembered well how C. Gracchus had made use of mourning and the memory of his elder brother Tiberius.78 Political memory is at stake also in many of Cicero’s speeches, e.g. in pro Rabirio Perduellionis Reo, in which he defends Rabirius for his part in carrying out the senatus consultum ultimum that led to the killing of the troublesome tribune L. Appuleius Saturninus. As part of his argument, Cicero relates how C. Appuleius Decianus and Sex. Titius were deprived of their citizenships because they, respectively, lamented the murder of Saturninus and kept an imago of him in his house (Rab. Perd. 24).79 The final decades of the Republic had seen unrest after the murder of P. Clodius, when the curia was used as a funeral pyre and burned down while the state was paralysed.80 Most famous, however, is Mark Antony’s funeral oration over Caesar through which he successfully incited the crowd against the tyrannicides.81 Indeed, considerations of public order can explain the strik75 Schultze 2011, 81. 76 On popular, non-elite political memory, see e.g. Wiseman 2009; Courrier 2014; 2018, Rosillo-Lopez 2017; Pina Pola 2017; 2018. 77 Nippel 1988, 85–7; 1995, 3–64; Bodel 1999, 45; Flower 2006, 76–80; Pina Pola 2017, 13; Vekselius 2018, 73–5. 78 Cic. Rab. Perd. 14, de Orat. 3.214; Quint. Inst. 11.3.8; Plut. C. Gracch. 3; cf. Vekselius 2018, 73–4. 79 On the episode and the individuals mentioned, see Bauman 1967, 47–8; Gruen 1968, 188–90; Ungern-Sternberg von Pürkel 1970, 71–4; Badian 1984, 130–3, 139–40; Alexander 1990, nos. 80–1; Morstein-Marx 2004, 225–9; Flower 2006, 81–5; Pina Polo 2018, 208–9, 212–1; Vekselius 2018, 100–1. Note also how Cicero at Ver. 1.151 speaks about how a son of a Gracchus or Saturninus could inflame the passions of the ignorant crowd (imperitorum misericordia) by the memory of the fathers. 80 Asconius’ commentary on Cicero’s Pro Milone narrates in detail the murder of Clodius and its aftermath, on which see Marshall 1985, 159–213. See also App. BC 2.21; D.C. 40.48–9. On the episodes, see Vanderbroeck 1987, 168, 263–5; Nippel 1988, 128–35; 1995, 77–8; Sumi 1997; 2005, 43, 45, 50, 100, 157, 204, 261; Flaig 2003, 141–3; 2009, 204–7; Šterbenc Erker 2009, 145–6; 2011, 51–2, 57; Courrier 2014, nos. 114–118; Vekselius 2018, 75–6. 81 App. BC 2.143–7; Cic. Att. 14.10, Phil. 2.91; Liv. Per. 116.6; Quint. Inst. 6.1.31; Plut. Caes. 68, Ant. 14, Brut. 20; Suet. Jul. 84; D.C. 44.35–49; cf. Kennedy 1968; Yavetz 1969, 66–70; Weinstock 1971, 346–56; Kierdorf 1980, 102–3, 150–4; Nippel 1988, 146–7; 1995, 82–3; Flower 1996, 125–6;

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    ing (and for the people disappointing) lack of pomp at Germanicus’ funeral. If so, this was not the first time Tiberius took precautions to avoid unrest in the context of mourning. Before Augustus’ funeral, Tacitus relates that Tiberius excused the senators from carrying the bier to the pyre and warned the people not to repeat the excesses that had plagued Caesar’s funeral (Ann. 1.8).82 The literary descriptions of problematic mourning discussed above are, arguably, at the same time representations of (mainly senatorial) misgivings about the perversions of autocracy and reflections of historical realities. In the political culture of Rome, facial expressions were crucially important, especially in the vicinity of an autocrat who – considering the high ratio of murdered emperors – had good reasons for paranoia.83 In fact, the senators’ struggle to read Tiberius’ face and emotions runs as a red thread through Books 1–6 of the Annals. Most famous are their ambiguous reaction to Augustus’ death and the impending succession of Tiberius.84 The more prominent the senator, the greater his hypocrisy, according to Tacitus (Ann. 1.7.1): uultuque composito, ne laeti excessu principis neu tristior primordio, lacrimas, gaudium, questus adulatione miscebant, “with their looks composed to avoid delight at the passing – and too much gloom at the commencement – of a princeps, they blended tears with joy and mourning with sycophancy”. In the next meeting of the Senate, Tacitus has Tiberius simulate reluctance to assume imperial power, despite already wielding such powers in practice. Since the senators were afraid that Tiberius might realise that they understood his simulated hesitancy, they beseeched him with prayers, complaints, and tears to assume power (Ann. 1.11). Tacitus’ description of Tiberius’ appearance and behaviour at the trial of Lepida is similarly suggestive. The emperor muddled both the Sumi 2002, 566–74, 582–3; 2005, 100–12, 120; Flaig 2009, 208–11; Wiseman 2009, 211–34; Courrier 2014, no. 139; Hall 2014, 134–40; Hagen 2017, 91–4; Vekselius 2018, 76–8. 82 Goodyear 1972, 149–51; Flower 1996, 252; Bodel 1999, 49–50; Hope 2011, 107. Yavetz (1969, 12) observes that the crowd was more subdued during the Principate, since the emperor could not tolerate social disorder in Rome. 83 On the importance of the face in Roman political culture, see Barton 1999; 2001; Corbeill 2004, chap. 5; Kaster 2005; Vekselius 2020. On the links between reality, representation, power, ideology, and historiography in Imperial Rome, see Bartsch 1994; O’Gorman 2000; Haynes 2003. Gibson 2013 discusses the problem of succession during the Julio-Claudian period, while Hekster 2015 discusses the problem in the period from Augustus to Constantine. 84 On the confusion at Tiberius’ succession, see Tac. Ann. 1.7–14; Suet. Tib. 24–25. The episode is discussed by Goodyear 1972, ad loc.; Seager 1972, chap. 3; Griffin 1995, 37–43; Aldrete 1999, 148–9; O’Gorman 2000, 86–9; Corbeill 2004, 159, 164; Pettinger 2012, chap. 9; Schultz 2015 161–9; Hagen 2017, 83, 136–7, 143–8; Woodman 2017, 304–7; Vekselius 2018, 179–80; 2020, 169. Ridley (1975, 155) suggests that Tacitus’ account of Tiberius’ succession imitates Livy’s (1.41) account of the succession of Servius Tullius.

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    formal procedure and his looks to bewilder the senators (Ann. 3.22.2): haud facile quis dispexerit illa in cognitione mentem principis: adeo uertit ac miscuit irae et clementiae signa, “One could not have discerned easily the mind of the princeps in that inquiry, to such an extent did de overturn and exchange the signs of anger and clemency”.85 As illustrated by these episodes, the senators wanted to be able to read the emperor’s face and experienced dreadful discomfort if unable to do so. During Tiberius’ rule, neither the emperor nor the senators knew how roles (their own as well as others’) should be performed. Scholars have offered different interpretations of Tacitus’ Tiberius: Griffin has argued that Tacitus uses Tiberius as a personification of the inherent contradictions of the Principate; for Corbeill, Tiberius illustrates the separation of facial expression from inner sentiment, a separation that characterised the Principate; O’Gorman, on the other hand, understands Tiberius as a representation of Tacitus’ text and the difficulties of reading it.86 Building on these readings, I would suggest that Tacitus uses the face of Tiberius and others to represent the ambiguities both of the political system and of Tiberius’ person.87 The meaning of tears – as a nonverbal expression of grief – depends (as seen repeatedly in the mourning episodes discussed above) on how the various actors perform their expected roles and adhere to their expected scripts within a specific context of mourning. If contexts, roles, and scripts are unstable, unreliable, or contested, the same holds true for tears and other emotional expressions. Before concluding this paper, I should emphasise that pronounced selfcontrol was not necessarily problematic. We have seen, for example, how Seneca could take Tiberius’ self-control as exemplary. Indeed, a good emperor could be praised for his self-control, as was Marcus Aurelius, whose stoic behaviour, as portrayed in literature, represents a successful negotiation between emotionality and self-control that clearly tended toward the latter. Three 85 Cf. Shotter 1966; Schulz 2015, 173. Examples of Tacitus’ inscrutable Tiberius are numerous: see also how the emperor hid his anger and kept his face and voice unchanged while socialising with M. Scribonius Drusus Libo before the latter was formally accused (Ann. 2.28.2). At the trial, he met Libo’s appeals with an unchanged face and later read the accusations “with such control as to avoid the appearance of softening of sharpening the charges” (ita moderans ne lenire neue asperare crimina uideretur, 2.29.2). Similarly telling is the accusation of Cn. Calpurnius Piso: although subject to hostile shouts from the other senators, “nothing terrified him more than the sight of Tiberius – without pity, without anger, blocked and closed against being breached by any emotional appeal” (nullo magis exterritus est quam quod Tiberium sine miseratione, sine ira, obstinatum clausumque uidit, ne quo adfectu perrumperetur, Ann. 3.15). 86 Griffin 1995; Corbeill 2004, chap. 5; O’Gorman 2000, chap. 4. 87 On Tiberius’ character, see also D.C. 57.1.1–5.

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    episodes are suggestive here. Firstly, the Historia Augusta praises him for his self-control after the death of his co-emperor Verus (Marc. 16): erat enim ipse tantae tranquillitatis ut uultum numquam mutauerit maerore uel gaudio, “Such was Marcus’ own repose of spirit that neither in grief nor in joy did he ever change countenance”.88 According to the same work, he displayed restraint also after the death of his son, whom he mourned for five days while conducting official work and for whom he refused to declare public mourning, so as not to cancel the Ludi Capitolini (Marc. 2). Finally, Dio writes that Marcus Aurelius, whom he considered an ideal emperor, was in profound grief (ἰσχυρῶς πενθήσας, 72.30.1) after the death of his wife Faustina, but refused to take revenge on those who had sided with the usurper Avidius Cassius (Faustina was suspected of having incited Cassius’ revolt and committed suicide after the failure of the uprising). In these ways, Marcus Aurelius displayed statesmanship: he was emotionally moderate after the death of his fellow emperor, subordinated his sorrow to public interests after the death of his son, and directed his grief after the death of his wife to clementia toward his enemies, instead of punishing them in an act of crudelitas. While these examples of Marcus Aurelius’ selfcontrol combine to portray him as a good emperor, Tiberius’ self-control was generally understood as problematic, not least because it was not channelled for the benefit of the res publica.89 A Corroborating Perspective: Senatus Consultum de Cn. Pisone Patre A corroborating or, perhaps, a correcting, perspective on Tiberius’ mourning is offered by the Senatus Consultum de Cn. Pisone Patre (SCPP), a senatorial decree pronounced at the wish of Tiberius in AD20, a year after Germanicus’ death.90 The decree was to be inscribed at military camps and other highly visible places all around the Empire (SCPP 170–172). Since the decree was meant to be seen, we can be quite sure that it reflects norms and ideals that the imperial household wished to broadcast. The decree was also, in a sense, performative, as it communicated the grief and the restraint of the imperial 3.2

    88 Transl. by D. Magie 1921, LCL. On Marcus Aurelius’ mourning, see Hagen 2017, 279–80; Vekselius 2018, 92. 89 As noted by Manning (1975, 171–2), Marcus Aurelius’ maiestas might have been tempered by the selection of the more affable Lucius Verus as co-emperor. This argument implies that Aurelius’ maiestas was problematic to some degree. 90 Potter & Damon 1999 is used for the SCPP. On the SCPP, see also Woodman & Martin 1996; Eck, Caballos & Fernández 1996; Flower 1996, 25–31; 1998; 1999; 2006, 132–8; Cooley 1998; Talbert 1999; Bodel 1999; González 1999; Damon 1999; Champlin 1999; Severy 2000; Cowan 2009, 470–7.

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    family to audiences who would not otherwise see them in mourning. The SCPP first outlines the post mortem punishments suffered by Cn. Calpurnius Piso, who was scapegoated for Germanicus’ death, and his family. The decree then praises the manner in which members of the imperial family, the soldiers, the equites, and the plebs mourned Germanicus. In general, the decree extols the mourners for expressing pietas and grief tempered by self-control appropriate for their status. We should observe that this epigraphic evidence, prominently publicising the imperial family’s unity and pre-eminence, largely corroborates the expectation and ideal that allowed for a limited emotionality in mourning, as long as it was subdued by a conscious act of self-control. What is most interesting for the present purpose is how the SCPP presents Tiberius. While themes and variables are familiar, the emperor emerges as decidedly more emotional in the decree than in the literary tradition. The decree praises Tiberius for the pietas he made evident by his grief, which was both great and often seen (tant[i] et [t]am aequalis dolor[is] eius indicis totiens conspectus, 124–126). The Senate even exhorts Tiberius to end his grief and urges him to restore not only his spirit but also his face for the sake of public happiness (debere eum finire dolorem ac restituere patriae suae non tantum animum, sed etiam uoltum, qui publicae felicitati conueniret, 130–133). The address to Tiberius shows that for a limited period of time grief was permissible for a statesman, who should then bring it under control for the sake of the res publica. The SCPP also underlines the importance of the emperor’s face and its expression, relating its restoration from sadness to public happiness. Thus, the wording suggests the symbolic identification of the emperor’s face (and thus his head) with the res publica. The etymology and symbolism of the Capitoline hill are also suggestive: according to myth, the hill was named after a head (caput) found there, while the hill with its temple dedicated to the Jupiter Capitolinus/Optimus Maximus symbolised Rome’s power and status as caput mundi and ruler over the world.91 The decree apparently alludes to Roman notions of the emperor as the head of the body politic and the state, that is, the res publica, and in extension the whole world. In other words, the condition of the res publica would be discernible through the emperor’s facial expressions. It is worth considering the SCPP together with the literary tradition and contemplate what we can make of the “historical” Tiberius, especially if we want to appreciate the use of the past by authors like Seneca and Tacitus. A starting point is that the texts we have considered are different and served distinctive purposes. Tacitus used Tiberius’ reputation for emotional restraint to construct a narrative in which the self-controlled emperor is distanced from 91

    On the Capitoline hill, see e.g. Edwards 1996, chap. 3.

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    Roman society. More specifically, Tacitus situates Tiberius’ self-control in political contexts where his lack of emotionality is both a reason for and a symptom of the absence of consensus between emperor and subjects. Tacitus’ description of Tiberius’ behaviour after Germanicus’ death should be understood in the larger context of Tacitus’ use of Germanicus’ affability as a foil for Tiberius’ crabbiness in Annals 1–3.92 The sharp contrast between the two men makes Tiberius’ conduct after Germanicus’ death all the more conspicuous. Seneca, for his part, in a consolatio uses Tiberius’ reputation for self-control as an exemplum to be imitated by his readers. The SCPP, however, pronounced by the Senate at Tiberius’ wish, reflects the ideal that Tiberius wanted to project of pietas and consensus within the imperial family and between different groups in Roman society.93 Noteworthy is also Tabula Siarensis, an inscription that details the honours voted to Germanicus shortly after his death. Promulgated, like the SCPP, by the emperor or people close to him, the decree gives some credence to the Tiberius of the historiographical tradition, as the emperor felt obliged to state that he was not dissimulating (non dissumulare, 2b.16) in his tribute to Germanicus. Other than suggesting the historicity of Tiberius’ reputation for dissimulatio more generally, this declaration might also be indicative of contemporary concerns with the sincerity of Tiberius’ affection for Germanicus and therefore also of his grief. 4

    Conclusions

    Bearing in mind the influence of genre and author in the representation of Tiberius’ mourning, we can observe that the emperor  – as portrayed in the historiographical tradition – repeatedly displayed and accentuated the significance of self-control. Tiberius’ predilection for dissimulatio can be understood as an aspect or manifestation of his self-control, since self-control is needed in order to dissimulate emotions. It seems probable that Tiberius’ restraint was a genuine character trait. At the same time, self-control formed part of an ideology in ancient Rome – as in many other societies and cultures –, an ideology that emphasised self-restraint as a precondition, expression, and legitimisation 92

    93

    Germanicus and Tiberius are juxtaposed both in ancient and in modern historiography, with Germanicus endowed with ciuilitas, comitas, and leuitas, Tiberius with maiestas and grauitas; see e.g. Shotter 1968; Yavetz 1969, 108–13; Goodyear 1972, 239–41; Versnel 1980, 543–5. Severy 2000.

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    of power and masculinity. Furthermore, political considerations might have forced Tiberius to adopt, or at least accentuate, maiestas through self-control. To start with, it seems likely that Tiberius’ enmity with Germanicus was an historical reality, given their respective positions in the imperial family, their ambitions, and their contrasting personalities and public images. As historiography represents Tiberius and his hostility toward Germanicus, it might have been inopportune for him to be seen grieving for his rival. He would have been taken as insincere. Thus, instead, Tiberius might have been compelled to emphasise self-control and propagate maiestas after Germanicus’ death. It would then have been unseemly to mourn Drusus the Younger in public after not having mourned Germanicus four years earlier. It is also possible that Tiberius, well aware of the public disapproval of his behaviour after Germanicus’ death, used Drusus’ death and his own reaction to it to reinforce the legitimacy of his earlier conduct. The self-control ascribed to Tiberius by Seneca in the Consolatio ad Marciam after the death of Drusus the Elder might, then, be either historical or, more probably, a retrojection by Seneca, drawing on Tiberius’ reputation for selfcontrol. As pointed out by Roller, exemplary literature often retrojects virtues known from later periods of the protagonist’s life to earlier periods, in line with ancient notions of the consistency of character.94 Tiberius, in other words, might have made a virtue of necessity, something which later authors picked up and elaborated on in different ways. Tiberius is used as a good example in consolations but becomes a dysfunctional autocrat in historiography: the Consolatio ad Liuiam celebrates Tiberius’ affectionate mourning of his brother, following the generic conventions of consolatory poetry, while the imperial decrees project the expected image of a mourning emperor and assuage concerns about his sincerity. We must also remember that the Principate was in a formative phase during Tiberius’ reign and that with maiestas he might have tried to forge his conception of what it meant to be princeps. Scholars have noted that Tiberius accentuated moderatio (restraint, self-control) as the virtue that characterised both himself and his Principate.95 Moderatio could be demonstrated politically in the exercise of power, but also socially, e.g. by displaying emotional restraint in mourning. Both aspects of moderatio are articulated in the SCPP, while Tiberius as emperor towers as the role model for the rest of Roman society.

    94 95

    Roller 2018. Cooley 1998; Schulten 2005; Cowan 2009; Hope 2011, 111–3.

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    Tiberius’ self-control was part of a tradition that associated and expressed majesty through self-control.96 However, as the historiographical tradition and – it seems likely – his contemporaries would have it, Tiberius’ self-control was ill-advised and antisocial, and other early emperors cultivated a more emotional public image. Assuming that the Consolatio ad Liuiam was composed under Tiberius’ reign, Schrijvers has suggested that the poem’s portrayal of Tiberius’ grief after his brother Drusus’ death was meant to compensate for his behaviour after Germanicus’ death.97 Oakley, meanwhile, thinks that the “sycophantic tone” of the SCPP suggests that it was intended to counter rumours about Tiberius, such as those reported by Tacitus.98 Another possibility would be to argue along the lines of Schulz and view the “critical historiography” of Tacitus and Dio as responses to the “historical” and “panegyrical” representation promoted (in the SCPP and elsewhere) by the emperor and the people around him.99 According to such an interpretation, Tiberius’ moderate mourning was deconstructed as disingenuous and recoded as evidence of his insincerity and lack of feeling. It is hard to privilege one (type of) source  – historiography, biography, epigraphy, or poetry – over others. Nevertheless, by considering the particularities of the various genres and the aims and tendencies of their authors, we can – even if we are unable to square the different traditions and identify the “true” and “historical” Tiberius – say something about how Tiberius was part of a past used by later authors. Such an exercise makes it clear that competing paradigms existed in imperial Rome: one more appreciative of self-control, the other of emotionality, to each of which belonged certain virtues. While the self-control ascribed to Tiberius makes him stand out from other early emperors, it does not necessarily represent republican ideals in contrast to a more emotional ideology of the Empire, as has been suggested by some scholars.100 I argue that “excessive” emotionality as well as “excessive” self-control constituted concurrent, but different behaviours that were available for the Roman elite during to the autocracy of the Empire. Elite Romans, including emperors, could distinguish themselves through both self-control and emotionality. Thus, what constituted a proper response to grief was in the eye of the beholder: in Epistula 99 (17), Seneca writes that a man seen to bear his grief bravely 96 Schulten (2005, 10, 20) argues that Tiberius, with his preoccupation with self-control, might have been before his time and more akin to the loftiness of emperors of the Late Roman Empire, who were trained not to express emotions. 97 Schrijvers 1988. 98 Oakley 2000. 99 Schulz 2015; 2016; 2019a; 2019b. 100 Cf. Schulten 2005; Hope 2011, 111–3.

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    ( fortis) is considered undutiful (impius) and savage (efferatus). On the other hand, a man seen to be emotional – collapsing and clinging to the dead – is considered effeminate and weak (effiminatum … eneruem).101 In other words, audiences and authors determined whether a Roman got his mourning “right”. As Tiberius learned after the death of Germanicus, sometimes you are damned if you weep, damned if you do not.

    Acknowledgements

    I would like to express my gratitude to Helge Ax:son Johnsons stiftelse for its generous financial support, which makes it possible for me to pursue my research on genre, emotions, and tears in ancient literature. I would also like to thank Aske Damtoft Poulsen, Arne Jönsson, and Rhiannon Ash for their comments on previous versions of this paper. Bibliography Aldrete, G.S. (1999). Gestures and Acclamations in Ancient Rome, London & Baltimore. Altman, W.H.F. (2009). “Womanly Humanism in Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations”, Transactions of the American Philological Association 139, 411–445. Ameling, W. (1983a). Herodes Atticus, vol. 1: Biographie, Hildesheim. Ameling, W. (1983b). Herodes Atticus, vol. 2: Inschriftenkatalog, Hildesheim. Armisen-Marchetti, M. (2015). “Seneca’s Images and Metaphors”, in S. Bartsch & A. Schiesaro (eds.), The Cambridge Companion to Seneca (Cambridge & New York): 150–160. Ash, R. (2013). “Drip-Feed Invective: Pliny, Self-Fashioning, and the Regulus Letters”, in A. Marmodoro & J. Hill (eds.), The Author’s Voice in Classical and Late Antiquity (Oxford): 207–232. Ash, R. (2018). Tacitus: Annals Book 15, Cambridge. Asso, P. (2010). “Queer Consolation: Melior’s Dead Boy in Statius’ Silvae 2.1”, American Journal of Philology 131, 663–697. Badian, E. (1984). “The Death of Saturninus: Studies in Chronology and Prosopography”, Chiron 14, 101–147.

    101 Sen. Ep. 99.17. Observe the importance of the audience and the stress, through the repetition of uidet, on the act of seeing. On the conflicting demands in Seneca, see also Dial. 6.7.1–2, 1.17.2 (discussed above).

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    Chapter 10

    Migration and Mobile Memory in the Roman Historical Digression Kyle Khellaf 1

    Introduction

    In a collection of images entitled Border Theory, Los Angeles artist Tony de los Reyes lays out a series of oil, silkscreen, acrylic, and ink hybrids that embody photography, satellite imagery, duotone colour scales, fragmented terrains, superimposed linearities, and abstracted cartographies (Figures 10.1–10.5).1 Ultimately, de los Reyes calls into question through these abstractions the idea of a clearly delineated border between the United States and Mexico, and all the political, sociological, and historical ramifications that such a blurring entails. In many of these images, it remains entirely unclear where, and along what part of the border, these images were taken, let alone which particular individuals form a part of this liminal space’s continual cycle of migration, cross-cultural encounter, and deportation. A number of the works are based on aerial photographs, whose “God’s eye view” of the border shows only traces of the terrain that sits alongside the Rio Grande River, which in turn appears as little more than a vague or abstract delineation. Such renderings would appear almost imperial in nature – like Julius Caesar’s cartography in the opening to the Bellum Gallicum (1.1), or Michel de Certeau’s account of the view from atop the World Trade Center in The Practice of Everyday Life – were it not for the fact that de los Reyes’s depictions subvert this idea through their abstraction, and instead leave viewers feeling even less aware of their location in these

    1 For additional images from this series, see http://www.tonydelosreyes.com. In an Artforum review, Hebron states: “Inspired directly by satellite photos of the US-Mexico border, de los Reyes’s paintings acknowledge the very abstract nature of territorial borders, boasting occasionally discordant bilingual titles that are indices to the varying perspectives on notions of space and territory, as seen from each side.” Hebron later notes that “De los Reyes has long used poured media … to analogize metanarratives of migration, colonization, fluidity, and seepage.” A recent article by the artist (de los Reyes 2020) describes the conceptual and socio-political influences that have shaped his most recent series, Paranoid Architecture, on President Trump’s US/Mexico “border wall”.

    © Kyle Khellaf, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004445086_012

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    figures 10.1–10.5

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    Five images by Tony de los Reyes which constitute part of his series entitled Border Theory: (10.1) “System of Logical Abuse/Blue Green”, 2017; (10.2) “rio grande/ colorscale 4”, 2014; (10.3) “illuminated river/flujo libre”, 2012; (10.4) “rio grande/ colorscale 9”, 2014; (10.5) “rio bravo/rancho el comedor”, 2014. All images reprinted with the generous permission of the artist

    uncertain geographies, unknown topographies, and free-floating histories.2 Yet de los Reyes’s representations actually succeed at capturing the very essence of borders: the overlapping, hard to delineate, porous edges alongside which various groups negotiate pluralistic identities by virtue of their contact with other 2 For an account of the synoptic “God’s eye view” versus the experience of the Wandersmänner on the ground below, see de Certeau 1980/1984, 92–3; cf. Cosgrove (2001, 2, 45–6) on “The Apollonian eye”. On Caesar’s macrocosmic, detached “geographic space”, see Riggsby (2006, 24, 28–32), who builds on the tripartite spatial formulations of Rambaud 1974.

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    peoples, and in the process trace out new histories that unfold from those intersectional encounters. De los Reyes’s graphic designs seem to herald a visual reproduction (although certainly not the first) of a socio-politics of “border culture” or “border theory”. To be sure, such concepts have gained traction in light of contemporary historical events. These encompass various migration crises, both real and imagined, in Europe, Latin America, Asia, Africa, and along the US-Mexico border; late 20th century nationalisms and the conflicts these have engendered; globalisation and its economic consequences; and the deepening impact of global warming. Moreover, border theory has evolved in relation to various academic fields and the interdisciplinary scholarship that has emerged from their various encounters. These include disciplines such as sociology and anthropology (notable in this regard are Mary Louise Pratt and James Clifford), postcolonial and diaspora theory (note especially the work of Homi Bhabha, Édouard Glissant, Stuart Hall, and Paul Gilroy), migration studies (e.g. Gloria Anzaldúa and Iain Chambers), geography and urban studies (Edward Soja), and even philosophy (notably Michel Foucault, Gilles Deleuze, Félix Guattari, and Michel de Certeau).3 In his essay on the topic of postmodern philosophy, John Welchman writes of the border, “No longer a mere threshold or instrument of demarcation, the border is a crucial zone through which contemporary (political, social, cultural) formations negotiate with received knowledge and reconstitute the ‘horizon’ of discursive identity.”4 Such negotiations of knowledge, ideology, and identity in turn generate new dynamic histories of change and continuity at both the local and global levels. Speaking of the historical effects brought about by such confluences of migration, Chambers presents not only a postmodern, but also what we might term a “post-Livian” view of how historiography emerges at the crossroads of different peoples and their diverse collective pasts: Such a highly charged punctuation of the cosmopolitan script, destined finally to be recognised as a part of our history and be televised in future riots of the metropolitan dispossessed, compels us to recognise the need for a mode of thinking that is neither fixed nor stable, but is one that is open to the prospect of a continual return to events, to their 3 Key works by these scholars dealing with border culture include Pratt 1992; Clifford 1986; Anzaldúa 1987; Hall 1990; Gilroy 1993; Bhabha 1994; Glissant 1990/1997; Chambers 1994; 2008; 2018; Soja 1989; 1996; Foucault 1984/1986; Deleuze & Guattari 1975/1986; 1980/1987; 1991/1994; de Certeau 1980/1984; 1986. I incorporate a number of these works into my discussions throughout this paper. 4 Welchman 1996, 177–8.

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    re-elaboration and revision. This retelling, re-citing and re-siting of what passes for historical and cultural knowledge depend upon the recalling and re-membering of earlier fragments and traces that flare up and flash in our present ‘moment of danger’ as they come to live on in new constellations. These are fragments that remain as fragments: splinters of light that illuminate our journey while simultaneously casting questioning shadows along the path. The belief in the transparency of truth and the power of origins to define the finality of our passage is dispersed by this perpetual movement of transmutation and transformation. History is harvested and collected, to be assembled, made to speak, remembered, re-read and rewritten, and language comes alive in transit, in interpretation.5 At first glance, Chambers’s idea of historiography, which is less about “the power of origins” and more about the “perpetual movement of transmutation and transformation”, seems to jar with the intense Roman fixation on the mythical founding of the city. However, by using Chambers’s formulation to redefine our study of the Roman past as a flexible, highly mobile enterprise, and one that is based upon the retellings and re-visitations of earlier fragments, we do in fact find numerous similarities with ancient historians such as Sallust, Livy, and Ammianus Marcellinus, all of whom were deeply concerned with topoi and the differential repetitions of Roman history.6 Moreover, all three historians, like many of their Hellenic forebears, employ digressions as narratological border spaces in which to grapple with Rome’s diverse usages of the past, which extend from myths concerning the early hybridity of the city to the later Roman conquests of the Mediterranean and its various peoples. Many of these narrative asides consist of ethnographies set in more distant, more nebulous epochs in order to provide an aetiological means of explaining the intercultural contact and conflict that take place later in the primary historical narrative. Additionally, a number of them deal extensively with questions of migration and settlement in porous borderlands. Furthermore, they frequently feature competing historical accounts from different sources that allow the historian to explore a more pluralistic vision of how the past gets reconstructed. 5 Chambers 1994, 3. 6 For work on topoi and repetition in Sallust and Livy, see Scanlon 1988; Kraus 1994; Jaeger 1997. For the idea of a dynamic repetition of the unique/different as opposed to a static repetition of the same, I have in mind Deleuze 1968/1994, which is applied to Livian historiography by Spencer 2007.

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    In this paper, I focus on several late republican and early imperial instances of this discursive “mobile memory” in Roman historiography: Sallust’s excursus on the founding of Rome (Cat. 6–7), his African ethnography ( Jug. 17–19), and his story of the Philaeni brothers ( Jug. 79), as well as Livy’s digressions on Hercules and Cacus (1.7.3–15) and the Gallo-Etruscan migrations (5.33.2–35.3). As part of this study, I occasionally survey other ancient historians such as Herodotus, Polybius, and Ammianus Marcellinus, in order to highlight the recurrence of certain leitmotifs concerning wandering, intercultural civic foundation, and transcultural identity politics in these digressions, and how these are shaped by Roman ideological constructions of foreign origin, asylum, and pan-Mediterranean diasporas.7 2

    Roman Hybridities, Mediterranean Métissage

    Over the past few decades, scholars have begun to regard the ancient Mediterranean as being defined not so much by static entities like Greece or Rome. Instead, they have sought to uncover the many interconnections of its numerous inhabitants; their variously defined, often fluid identities (according to the developments that occur as the result of intercultural contact and socio-political acculturation); as well as the numerous trade and settlement networks (both intra-Mediterranean and extra-Mediterranean) that formed a basis for their larger histories.8 Thus, already in the Homeric poems we catch glimpses of difference (producing both identification and non-identification) in Odysseus’ many meetings with a wide spectrum of foreign peoples (and monsters),9 which would eventually serve as a model for subsequent 7 Isayev 2017 provides a detailed study of migration in pre-Roman and Roman Italy, in which she contends that such mobility was the historical norm and not merely the result of exceptional events such as civic strife. 8 Although book-length studies of Mediterranean macro-history in the longue durée have played a key role in this development following Braudel 1949/1972–1973 (e.g. Horden & Purcell 2000; Abulafia 2011; Broodbank 2013; Manning 2018), other work on Mediterranean pluralisms has taken a more theoretical tack, e.g. Malkin 2003; 2004; 2011; duBois 2010; Umurhan 2018, who employ both postcolonial and Deleuzian theory in their studies. 9 Here, de Certeau (1986, 176–8; citing Foucault 1966/1970 in his reading of Borges’ “Chinese encyclopedia”) is helpful. He notes how the heteronomy produced from viewing different peoples, systems, and taxonomies creates “a wound in rationalism”, which stems from the recognition of the limitations in one’s own system of thought and the subsequent need to break away from previous historical modes of thinking. Similarly, Pratt (1992, 5–7) bases her ideas of “transculturation” on a kind of reciprocal influence that emerges in the “contact zones” of colonial encounters.

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    historians and geographers such as Polybius, Pausanias, and Strabo.10 We likewise see it in the Histories of Herodotus and Thucydides, whose primary logoi – although ostensibly about the great wars that result from imperial ambitions – are frequently interrupted and redefined by ethnographic accounts of foreign peoples whose encounters result from the expansive nature of empire. Finally, we witness it gain significant traction in the Hellenistic Era, when historians took part in in the far-reaching campaigns of Alexander the Great and the subsequent imperial rivalries of his successors (many of them serving as high-ranking officers in those wars), and for whom the familiar, inhabited world (or oikoumenē) was no longer limited to the narrow rim of the Mediterranean.11 Therefore, when attempting to understand so multiform a topic as usages of the past in Roman historiography, we should begin from the premise that Roman history  – given its many centuries of wars, expansion, and conquest – was highly fluid in terms of identity politics. It fluctuated between “Romanocentric” self-definition and a desire to identify with other peoples. Indeed, late republican and Augustan authors regularly depict Rome’s origins in hybrid terms, as an “asylum” for a range of outcasts, exiles, refugees, and peoples of low social status.12 No doubt many of these negotiations of identity emerged from the major trials, tribulations, and triumphs of the late Roman Republic, such as the conquests of Spain, Gaul, Africa, and Asia Minor; the Social and Civil Wars of the 1st century BC; and the granting of citizenship to various non-Roman Italic peoples such as the Transpadane Gauls (among whom could be counted a number of canonical “Roman” authors such as Catullus, Cornelius Nepos, Virgil, and Livy).13 10 See Malkin 1998; Dougherty 2001; Hartog 1996/2001, 164 (quoting Paus. 8.8–9 on p. 244 n.8); Marincola 2007, 13–20. 11 Notable examples include Nearchus and Onesicritus, who marshaled armies and fleets, as well as narratives, on behalf of Alexander the Great; and Megasthenes, Seleucus I Nicator’s representative at the Indian court of Chandragupta. Many of these accounts are preserved by later cartographers, encyclopaedists, and historians (e.g. Strabo, Pliny the Elder, and Arrian), who wrote during periods of Roman imperial expansion or consolidation (the Augustan, Flavian, and early Antonine periods). 12 This theme is prevalent in the narratives of Livy (esp. Book 1 and the First Pentad more generally), Sallust (esp. the digression at Cat. 6–7), Plutarch (Rom. 9), and Virgil’s Aeneid. The seminal study of the topic is Dench 2005, who offers an excellent initial summary of Roman ideas about social mobility, ethnic mixture, and “secondarity”, noting that (p. 4) “Roman identity is a particular kind of plurality, based on both the incorporation and transformation of other peoples and cultures”, but also “that the ethnic, social, and political nature of Rome were sites of intense debate”. 13 For the Transpadane (or Cisalpine) Gaul question, see Williams 2001; Ando 2016; Isayev 2017.

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    In fact, we can trace these amalgamations back even further to the late Middle Republic, when Latin literature emerged out of a “poetics of relation” to its many foreign antecedents (in particular, its Hellenic predecessors), specifically at a time when Rome was in the midst of its greatest imperial litmus test to date: the wars with Carthage.14 Notable examples of the literary aftereffects of this transculturation include Plautus’ “Sicilising” in the prologue to the Menaechmi (7–12);15 the “translation” by Livius Andronicus of the Greek Odyssey into Latin, with all of its Greco-Italic valences, a literary act which has recently been deemed to be inextricably linked to events from the First Punic War;16 and the use of Mago the Carthaginian’s twenty-book guide to farming, the translation of which into Greek and Latin after the Punic Wars would make it a model for Greco-Roman agricultural manuals.17 Furthermore, this Roman literary appropriation would continue in the late Republic. We glimpse it in Neoteric poetry’s renewed interest in Alexandrian Hellenisms, and in the use of Numidian sources by Sallust for his African ethnography in the Bellum Iugurthinum, which he claims is derived from the Punic books of King Hiempsal II (17.7). In this respect, the written Roman past was inherently layered, reconstructed from numerous sources, and bringing with it a range of different traditions, functions, motivations, and ideologies. As we shall presently see, these layers become especially pronounced in the spatiotemporal dislocations and re-assemblages of the Roman historical digression. 3

    Historical Nomadisms: From Livy’s Italy to Sallust’s Maghreb

    Many historiographical digressions deal explicitly with itinerant groups. Already in Herodotus’ Histories, the historian devotes several of his ethnographic 14

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    Here, I am employing the term of Glissant (1990/1997, 19) to refer to a multilingual act that “opposes the totalitarianism of any monolingual intent”. In formulating this vision of creolisation, Glissant draws heavily on the work of Deleuze & Guattari 1975/1986, who define “minor language” as a revolutionary enunciation spoken within a dominant language. Feeney (2016, 5) has aptly described Latin literature as the West’s very first vernacular literature. For a detailed study of the relationship between Roman comedy and the Punic Wars, see Leigh 2004. The “origins of Latin literature” question, not too long ago defined in binary Greco-Latin literary terms (e.g. von Albrecht 1999, 33–44), has over the past two decades shifted to a more rhizomatic Greco-Italian-Punic one framed around broader socio-historical, dialectical, performative, and even material considerations; see esp. Leigh 2004; 2010; Sciarrino 2011, 78–99; Feeney 2016; Biggs 2017, 352; 2018a; 2018b. Feeney 2016, 43, 51, 203–4.

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    digressions to northern Nomadic peoples, including the Massagetae (1.215–216) and the Scythians (4.2–82), both of whom serve as checks on the expanding influence of the Persian Empire.18 Similarly, Thucydides’ Sicilian ethnography (6.2–5) details the history of migration to and settlement around the island (primarily, but not exclusively Hellenic), and thus prepares the reader for the failures of the upcoming Athenian expedition. We find similar migrationbased aetiologies in Hellenistic historiography. For example, Polybius breaks from his narrative of the Second Punic War to recount the Gallic migrations and settlements in Italy. In so doing, he expresses an ambulatory need “to run back in chronologies to the beginning” (ἀναδραμεῖν δὲ τοῖς χρόνοις ἐπὶ τὴν ἀρχήν, 2.14.1),19 since “better and more detailed knowledge of the [Punic] affairs presently in motion [in the primary narrative] will result from underscoring [literally, ‘underwriting’ by means of digression] the particulars of the geographic locales and the land” (οὕτως γὰρ ἔσται καὶ τὰ περὶ τὰς πράξεις διαφέροντα κατανοεῖν βέλτιον, ὑπογραφέντων τῶν περί τε τοὺς τόπους καὶ τὴν χώραν ἰδιωμάτων, 2.14.3). For Polybius, the digression is necessary to explain how the Gauls had already migrated into Italy long before Hannibal’s arrival, since they would soon partake in the upcoming narrative of Hannibal’s campaigns against the Romans (2.14.2). Thus, by the time Sallust and Livy were composing their histories in the late Republic and Augustan Principate, the tradition of extending one’s narrative beyond the confines of the main sequence of events in order to recount earlier human migration had already become a well-established convention.20 For his part, Livy builds on Polybius’ Celtic excursus in his own Gallo-Etruscan 18 For a detailed analysis of Scythian nomadism in Herodotus and its larger role in the Histories, see Hartog 1980/1988, 3–206. Other accounts dealing with climate, cultural relativism, and the ethnographies of “hard cultures” such as the Scythians and Massagetae include Redfield 1985, 106–13; Thomas 2000, 63–8, 128–9; Munson 2001, 107–23; Clarke 2018, 52–4, 84–5, 196–8, 277–9. 19 All translations of Greek and Latin texts are my own, although my Sallust translations are partly influenced by J.C. Rolfe & J.T. Ramsey 2013, LCL. In addition to meaning a “beginning” or “origin” (LSJ A), the Greek word ἀρχή frequently means “power” or “empire” (LSJ II), which is clearly the focus of Polybius’ Histories. A similar usage of the overdetermined term as justification for a digression can be found in Thucydides’ explanation for the Pentekontaetia backstory (1.97.2). 20 It is worth noting that this trend would continue well into later imperial historiography. We witness its legacy in Ammianus Marcellinus’ digression on the Eastern Provinces (14.8), which mentions the wanderings of the Argonaut Mopsus and the brigands who inhabit Cilicia; and in his lengthy excursus on Gaul (15.9–12), which includes various accounts of Dorian, Trojan, and Phocaean settlement, as well as the mythical wanderings of Hercules.

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    digression (5.33.2–35.3).21 Like Polybius, he uses the excursus as an aetiological bridge set in the plupast to link two seemingly distinct narratives: the accounts of the sacks of Veii and Rome in the fifth and final book of his first pentad.22 Throughout the passage, we are told about trans-Alpine and trans-Apennine hodologies by the Gauls:23 how, according to one legend, “It is said that this race, captivated by the allure of fruits and especially by wine which was then a novel source of pleasure [for them], crossed the Alps and took possession of lands that were formerly cultivated by the Etruscans” (eam gentem traditur fama dulcedine frugum maximeque uini noua tum uoluptate captam Alpes transisse agrosque ab Etruscis ante cultos possedisse, 5.33.2); that Arruns of Clusium served as “leader to those crossing the Alps” (transeuntibus Alpes ducem, 5.33.4); “but that it is generally agreed upon that those [Gauls] who besieged Clusium were not the ones who first crossed the Alps” (sed eos qui oppugnauerint Clusium non fuisse qui primi Alpes transierint satis constat, 5.33.5); that “the Galls [had] crossed over into Italy” (in Italiam Galli transcendere, 5.33.5) two hundred years earlier; and that Gauls and Etruscans “who dwelt between the Alps and the Apennines” (qui inter Appenninum Alpesque incolebant, 5.33.6) regularly went to war with one another during this long temporal interval. Furthermore, like the digression that connects them, the surrounding accounts also deal with questions of migration. For example, we hear about the Roman decision to plant a colony in Volscian territory to calm various uprisings (5.24.4), as well as the much more significant proposal to emigrate from Rome to Veii after its capture (5.24.5–11), which recurs after the sack of Rome by the Gauls (5.49.8). The latter petition – “when the tribunes were spurring the plebs through incessant assemblies to abandon the ruins and emigrate to 21

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    Most strikingly, in a passage which divides the two Gallic migration narratives within the digression (Liv. 5.33.7–11), Livy takes Polybius’ geometric vision of Italy (Plb. 2.14.4–12) – itself a model for Caesar’s opening account of Gaul (Gal. 1.1) and his description of Britain (Gal. 5.13), both of which likewise seep into Livy’s account – and recasts it into a geography of Etruria and its hybrid settlements. Here I employ the term “plupast”, coined by Grethlein & Krebs 2012, to refer to the process by which the historian, in recounting the past, describes events which occurred at a date prior to that of the primary historical narrative. For discussion of Livy’s usage of ethnographical and ethno-geographical digressions on the Faliscans and Liparae, see also Kraus in this volume. For an in-depth treatment of the Gallic sack of Rome in Livy and Polybius, see Roth in this volume. Here I follow both the notion of “hodology” as “the study (λόγος) of paths (ὁδῶν)” (specifically, the relation between paths and inhabited space), in which sense the English term is generally used (following de Jonge 1967–68), as well as the additional Herodotean sense of “hodology” as “a path (ὁδός) of words (λόγων)”, or the manner by which one moves through one’s historical account.

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    Veii, an established city” (agitantibus tribunis plebem adsiduis contionibus ut relictis ruinis in urbem paratam Veios transmigrarent, 5.50.8) – is what prompts Camillus’ memorable speech to remain in Rome with which Livy concludes his first pentad (5.51–55.1).24 In this respect, rather than merely view the digression as a secondary insertion into the primary narrative, we might even suggest that the “migratory drives” that underwrite the digression cathect outwards and help shape the primary narrative.25 Thinking of Livy’s First Pentad in ideological terms, which include the Transpadane unconscious of its author, it is not too much of a stretch to view foreign (and in many instances Gallo-Etruscan) migration as a driving force within its many narratives.26 In so doing, we can map these cognitive narratological offshoots across the entire first pentad:27 from the initial accounts of Antenor and the Veneti (1.1.2–3) and Aeneas in Latium (1.1.4–2.6); the excursus on Hercules, Cacus, and Evander (1.7.3–15); and the arrival of the Etruscan kings at Rome, especially that of L. Tarquinius Priscus (1.34) – through the Etruscan conflicts with Lars Porsenna (2.9–15) and Veii (5.1.1–28.1) – and from there into the pan-Italic topography of the Gallo-Etruscan digression, which mentions the Gulf of Venice (5.33.10–11), Etruria (5.33.7–11), Hercules (5.34.6), Tarquinius Priscus (5.34.1), and the many locations in Cisalpine Gaul that the Celtic migrations traversed and in some cases even settled. Later in the digression proper, Livy gives a second, lengthier account “about the crossing of the Gauls into Italy” (de transitu in Italiam Gallorum, 5.34.1), which focuses on the specific “route into Italy” (in Italiam uiam, 5.34.4) taken by a group of Celts led by Bellovesus. Here, Livy traces for his readers, by virtue of the topographical itinerary taken by these particular Gauls, a history of Gallic 24 25

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    For the centrality of this topos of relocation in Livy 5, see Kraus 1994. Here I have in mind the Freudian idea of “cathexis” (Strachey’s translation for the German word Besetzung) as an “activation”, psychic “investment”, or “occupation” from forces of the unconscious “which is spread over the memory-traces of ideas somewhat as an electric charge is spread over the surface of a body”, per Freud 1894 1962, 60. This was essential for Freud’s formulations about hysteria, whereby the ego succeeds in transforming a “powerful idea into a weak one” by means of a “somatic” reinvestment as a form of psychological defence mechanism (1962, 48–9). In terms of the “textual unconscious” and the ensuing relationship between primary narrative and digression, we can view the recurring “activations” generated by topoi within digressions as forms of literary cathexis whereby the digression is repeatedly forcing additional ideological connections onto the “body” of the main narrative and thereby shaping it from a “lower” diegetic level. For the influence of late republican Transpadane identity politics on Livy’s Gallic narratives, including Julius Caesar’s success in granting Roman citizenship to the inhabitants of Cisalpine Gaul, see Williams 2001, 119–27. For the relationship between the route-maps made in storytelling (narrative hodologies) and neural connections (cognitive hodologies), see Turnbull 2007.

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    settlement in the Po Valley that revises Polybius’ model in light of the more recent – and more personal (for Livy) – transcultural politics of Transpadane Italy. In addition to mentioning how the Gauls “carefully considered by what way over ridges yoked to the sky they might cross over into another region of the world” (circumspectarentque quanam per iuncta caelo iuga in alium orbem terrarum tranirent, 5.34.7), and “crossed over through the territory of the Taurini and the woodlands of the Julian Alps” (per Taurinos saltusque Iuliae Alpis transcenderunt, 5.34.8), he emphasises how their journey took them past Marseille (5.34.8), a cultural crossroads if there ever was one; the Ticinus River (5.34.9); and the territory of the Insubri and Aedui (5.34.9), ending with their founding of Milan (5.34.9). Then, Livy relates how a subgroup of the Cenomani previously branched off, with the approval of Bellovesus, and “after it had crossed the Alps” (cum transcendisset Alpes, 5.35.1), settled in the area near Brixia and Verona (5.35.1); and how “subsequently the Boii and Lingones, having crossed over by way of the Poenine Pass, and after the Po River had been traversed using rafts – since by this time all of the lands between the Po and the Alps were occupied [i.e. Transpadane Gaul] – drove not only the Etruscans but also the Umbrians from their land” (Poenino deinde Boii Lingonesque transgressi cum iam inter Padum atque Alpes omnia tenerentur, Pado ratibus traiecto non Etruscos modo sed etiam Vmbros agro pellunt, 5.35.2). Throughout the excursus we hear about recurrent crossings  – with a repeated usage of trans-prefixed verbs of motion like transeo, transgredior, and transcendo – specifying either a movement across the Alps or into Italy. Furthermore, Livy places significant emphasis on Etruria, Cisalpine Gaul, and the Alpine cantons. By contrast, the city of Rome is only mentioned as a chronological marker for the Gallic migrations, whether in relation to the upcoming sack of Rome – “To be sure it was at a time two hundred years before they besieged Clusium and sacked the city of Rome” (ducentis quippe annis ante quam Clusium oppugnarent urbemque Romam caperent, 5.33.5)  – or to date Bellovesus’ trek to the time of Rome’s first Etruscan king who himself was an immigrant – “When Tarquinius Priscus was king at Rome” (Prisco Tarquinio Romae regnante, 5.34.1). In so doing, Livy generates a narratological gap out of which he excavates the pre-Roman past and gives the reader a compass with which to navigate its numerous hodologies of continual Alpine transmigration.28 28 Kraus (in this volume, p. 159) also stresses Livy’s emphasis on movement in Book 5: “Book 5 is peppered with significant objects and persons moving from one place to another, many of which are intercepted on their way. Each is in some way representative of something else, often of a whole narrative.” The same can be said of various landmarks

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    Unlike Livy’s precise tracking of routes, Sallust’s excursus on North Africa ( Jug. 17–19), much like the artwork of de los Reyes, remains blurrier and less clearly demarcated. Unlike Livy, Sallust provides little in the way of geographic specificity that could help the reader actually locate the various peoples he describes (apart from major boundary markers, and they too eventually get crossed and overrun later in the digression).29 The digression is vaguely crisscrossed by various peoples whose identities blend and become intermixed over the course of the excursus. Initially, we are told in typical nomadic stereotyping that “In the beginning, the Gaetulians and Libyans possessed Africa, rough and uncivilised peoples, whose food was wild animal flesh and also the pasture of the earth as it is for beasts of burden” (Africam initio habuere Gaetuli et Libyes, asperi incultique, quis cibus erat caro ferina atque humi pabulum uti pecoribus, 18.1). Yet Sallust makes a broader reflection on nomadism immediately thereafter: “These peoples were governed neither by customs nor by law or the rule of any one person: aimless drifters, they held whatever places of habitation the night forced upon them” (ei neque moribus neque lege aut imperio quoiusquam regebantur: uagi, palantes, quas nox coegerat sedes habebant, 18.2). As such, Sallust places a strong emphasis on the itinerancy of the Gaetulians and Libyans, which is itself the result of not being defined by any particular land. Since they only possess “seats” (sedes) on a nightly basis – a spatially roving and temporally impermanent situation – they have no stable foundation for institutional developments, such as customs, law, or government.30 (both peoples and places) in Livy’s Alpine digression  – e.g. the Tricastini, 5.34.5; the Taurini, 5.34.8; and even the Ticinus, “not far from which [the Gauls] had joined battle with the Etruscans” ( fusisque acie Tuscis haud procul Ticino flumine, 5.34.9), a site mentioned again in the digression at 5.35.2  – all of which prefigure the later crossings by Hannibal, the Carthaginians, and additional Gauls in the more extensive Transalpine narrative of Livy 21 (see 21.31.9 for the Tricastini; 21.38.5–39.6 for the Taurini; and 21.39.10–47.3 for P. Cornelius Scipio’s defeat by Hannibal at the Ticinus). 29 Even the boundaries of Africa have migratory and mobile associations. Sallust notes both the Strait of Gibraltar to the West (Jug. 17.4; strongly associated with Hercules and the emporion of Gades) and the Catabathmos to the East (17.4; whose meaning from the Greek means “Downward Step” or “Downward Threshold” from the prefixed motion verb καταβαίνω). The latter region might then be read metatextually, given the use of βαίνω in digressive terminology (e.g. παρέκβασις, μεταβαίνω), as a topical marker for the narratological “slope” leading to the digression’s “lower” diegetic level. 30 For a correction of the topos, see Deleuze & Guattari (1980/1987, 394) on “nomadology”: “We have witnessed, as a result, a generalized critique dismissing the nomads as incapable of any innovation, whether technological or metallurgical, political or metaphysical … It is difficult to see, however, how the nomads could have triumphed in war if they did not possess strong metallurgical capabilities … how [they] could have undertaken to destroy cities and States, except in the name of a nomad organization and a war machine

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    What makes Sallust’s otherwise stereotypical account so striking, in light of nomad thought, are the etymological nexus points through which he historicises ethnic multiplicity. For example, Sallust goes on to relate how the subsequent migrants arriving in Africa were the remnants of Hercules’ multinational army “composed of various peoples” (conpositus ex uariis gentibus, 18.3), including “Medes, Persians, and Armenians” (Medi, Persae et Armenii, 18.4). He then goes on to describe their numerous intermarriages, beginning with the Persians and the Gaetulians: “Little by little, through marriages, they began to mix the Gaetulians with themselves” (ei paulatim per conubia Gaetulos secum miscuere, 18.7). Notably, this intermixing of different peoples, and its creation of new hybridities, is not the result of typical intercultural settlement in a new civic entity (as is the case, for example, in Sallust’s depiction of Rome at Cat. 6). Yet it does produce a kind of linguistic and etymological blending. We are informed that their “nomadic customs” explain the Latinised Grecian etymology of their “Numidian” appellation (Nomades), namely, their “custom” (nómos), based in “pasture” or “roaming” (nomás): “Because often, in their testing of the lands, they sought out certain places and then others” (quia saepe temptantes agros alia, deinde alia loca petiuerant, Jug. 18.7).31 Finally, the Libyans join with the Armenians and the Medes as a result of the fact that “they established the practice of exchanging goods among themselves” (mutare res inter se instituerant, 18.9),32 which in turn leads to another etymology, this time for the Moors, whose name is imagined as a corruption of that of the Medes: “Little by little the Libyans corrupted their name [or, quite literally, ‘fragmented’ or ‘ruptured’ it], calling themselves in the native tongue ‘Mauri’ instead of ‘Medes’ ” (nomen eorum paulatim Libyes corrupere, barbara lingua Mauros pro Medis appellantes, 18.10).

    31

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    defined not by ignorance but by their positive characteristics, by their specific space, by a composition all their own that broke with lineages and warded off the State-form.” Polybius too employs the nominative plural Νομάδες to refer to the Numidians as a people (1.19.3). In terms of linguistic hybridity, Morstein-Marx (2001, 197) writes that “a perceptibly Greek touch in the myth (‘semet ipsi Nomadas [Νομάδας] appellavere’, 18.7) is after all not inconsistent with a Numidian source, given the Hellenized cultural horizons of the ruling dynasty by the first century”. He also cites Pliny’s similar account of Numidian pastoralism (Nat. 5.22). Additionally, the expression mutare res inter se has additional connotations of exchanging not only “material goods”, but also “customs”, “religious practices”, “civic institutions”, “government institutions”; as well as “truths”, “facts”, and even the “acts” and “events” that constitute “stories” and “histories” (see OLD res and Sal. Jug. 79.1). As such, its presence in the digression shows an incredible potential for hybridity even at the philological level.

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    In turn, these already mobile etymologies are provided with an additional layer of historiographical hybridity owing to their derivation from African source materials, which Sallust himself explicitly alleges (17.7): However, regarding which mortals first inhabited Africa, who arrived at a later date, or in what manner they became thoroughly intermixed with one another (aut quo modo inter se permixti sint), even though it diverges from that opinion which has the most adherents, nevertheless I shall recount it in as few words as possible, just as it was translated for us from the Punic Books which were said to be King Hiempsal’s (uti ex libris Punicis, qui regis Hiempsalis dicebantur, interpretatum nobis est), and just as the inhabitants of this land think regarding the truth of the matter (utique rem sese habere cultores eius terrae putant). Yet the reliability of this account will rest with its authors. Sallust’s pre-Roman Africa, then, takes on the qualities of a porous border space scattered with drifting nomadologies, intersectional mythologies, and recurring exchanges of goods, wives, languages, names, and even historical source materials; a space that opens itself to cultural fluidity and all the dialogism that it entails, calling into question the usual ethnographic dichotomies of native versus foreign, internal versus external, and self versus other. Equally important is the manner in which Sallust’s digression destabilises the reliability of different ethnographic accounts by appealing to the translated textual authority of the Numidian King Hiempsal II. In essence, this opens the Bellum Iugurthinum to the further influence of “minor literature” while nonetheless maintaining a separation between this act of “thirding” and the claims of the historian.33 Thus, through its own act of Punic Quellenforschung, the digression creates a kind of nomadic space for source criticism in which different historical accounts can blend and find new meaning (Livy’s Gallo-Etruscan

    33 Here, see Deleuze & Guattari 1975/1986, which has useful applications not only for Sallust’s use of a translated history belonging to a conquered foreign people (in this case Punic), but also its incorporation into a digression – which is itself a kind of “minor literature” – filled with translated Hellenisms and other etymologies (p. 18): “The three characteristics of minor literature are the deterritorialization of language, the connection of the individual to a political immediacy, and the collective assemblage of enunciation. We might as well say that minor no longer designates specific literatures but the revolutionary conditions for every literature within the heart of what is called great (or established) literature.” For “thirding” as the creation of a “space of intervention emerging in the cultural interstices”, see Bhabha (1994, 9), as well as the conclusion to this paper.

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    digression features a similar source hybridity with the two distinct accounts of the Gallic migrations).34 Further evidence for the nomadic quality expressed throughout the digression is the fact that in later generations, particularly in the period of British imperialism and French colonisation of the Maghreb in the 19th century, Sallust’s Bellum Iugurthinum became a model text for a number of colonial writers seeking to understand how best to colonise the region and its peoples.35 That the supposedly unstable and extremely hybrid essence of the Maghreb was so well sought after by colonial authors reading the Bellum Iugurthinum and its digressions makes a great deal of sense when one considers how frequently it has been noted in Sallustian scholarship during the last few decades. It has appeared in examinations of Numidian liminality by Robert Morstein-Marx, as well as in discussions of disunity, division, and “Jugurthine Disorder” by both Thomas Wiedemann and Christina Kraus (the term is hers).36 From the chaotic qualities displayed by the narrative events themselves and the language used to describe these (Kraus), to the propensity of the work toward digression (Wiedemann), to the questions it raises about Africa as a porous border space and the peoples who inhabit it (Morstein-Marx), the Bellum Iugurthinum defines itself through nomadology. 4

    From Hodology to Narrative Dromology: Sallust’s Philaeni Digression

    In the Bellum Iugurthinum’s final digression on the Carthaginian Philaeni brothers (79), Sallust generates yet another account of African delineation whose lines of demarcation, following Deleuzian ideas about nomadism, are secondary to the underlying fluidity and itinerancy onto which these 34 In the Gallo-Etruscan digression (5.33.2–35.3), Livy offers two separate accounts, set in two different periods of Rome’s history, to explain how the Gauls came to inhabit the Italian peninsula. By refusing to dismiss either version outright (per Ogilvie 1965, 702), Livy essentially allows both histories to inform the reader along a much longer horizon of influence. For an opposing view, see Williams 2001, 103. 35 Morell 1854, preface and 24–5; Baude 1841, vol. 2, 91–2, 99–100. Initial work on this topic, albeit from a more archaeological perspective, has been done by Effros 2018. 36 Morstein-Marx 2001; Wiedemann 1993; Kraus 1999. Moreover, the idea of nomadism as a persistent feature in the African landscape appears already near the end of Sallust’s African ethnography, wherein the historian writes: “We have it for a fact that the Gaetulians beyond Numidia live some in huts, others in an even less civilised manner as drifters” (super Numidiam Gaetulos accepimus partim in tuguriis, alios incultius uagos agitare, Jug. 19.5).

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    divisions eventually become imposed from the outside.37 This is significant for three reasons. First, we are being presented with the origin story for a specific African landmark, the so-called “Altars of the Philaeni” (Philaenon arae), which have already materialised into an actual topos in the initial African ethnography: “the location which, facing Egypt, the Carthaginians maintained as the limit of their dominion” (quem locum Aegyptum uorsus finem imperi habuere Carthaginienses, 19.3). Second, these altars are themselves linguistic hybridities in a fluid, multi-ethnic landscape: situated between Egyptian and Carthaginian lands, they are also bestowed with a Hellenic lexical form (the Greek genitive plural Philaenon, or Φιλαίνων) that appears alongside the Latin noun arae. Such blending seems to reflect the Greek presence in Cyrenaica and Egypt, both of which had already faced serious imperial mandates from an ever-expanding Rome.38 Third, the origins of this topographic landmark – the story of the Philaeni brothers (as well as the preceding geographical excursus on the Syrtes, Jug. 78)39 – are based almost entirely around stories of dromology in peripheral spaces.40

    37

    Deleuze 1968/1994 (building on the Indo-European linguistic work of Laroche 1949) notes (p. 309 n.6): “The pastoral sense of nemo (to pasture) only belatedly implied an allocation of the land. Homeric society had neither enclosures nor property in pastures: it was not a question of distributing the land among beasts but, on the contrary, of distributing the beasts themselves and dividing them up here and there across an unlimited space, forest or mountainside. The nomos designated first of all an occupied space, but one without precise limits (for example, the expanse around a town)  – whence, too, the theme of the ‘nomad’.” 38 Moreover, the name of the altars and the brothers who gave it to them – Φιλαίνων, “kinsmen/allies of a tale/moralistic fable” (φίλοι + αἶνος) – might also tie into the narrative, since “the exemplary and marvellous feat of the two Carthaginians” (egregium atque ­mirabile facinus duorum Carthaginiensium, Sal. Jug. 79.1) serves as the primary aim of the final digression. 39 Sal. Jug. 78.3: “For when the sea begins to rise and rage from the winds, the waves drag up (trahunt) mud, sand, and immense rocks. In this way the appearance of these locales is changed along with the winds (ita facies locorum cum uentis simul mutatur). They are called the Syrtes from this ‘dragging’ (Syrtes ab tractu nominatae).” Sallust attributes the name Syrtes (Σύρτις) to σύρω, which can mean to “draw, drag, trail along” (LSJ 1) and to “drag by force, hale; sweep, sweep away” (LSJ 2). A third possibility considers the name to derive from the Arabic sert, meaning “desert tract” or “desert region” (Watson 1896, 224–5 n.3), adding yet another layer of hybridity to the digression’s etymological thirdspace. 40 I borrow the term “dromology” from Virilio 1977/2006, who uses it to refer to a military power or mastery that derives from speed and the technologies that advance it (p. 133): “The ‘vital space’ is only the disappearance of European geography, become an area, a desert without qualities, expanded by a ‘social’ organization made entirely functional by the hierarchy of speed.”

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    Sallust places great emphasis throughout the excursus on the idea of passage; a trek through both the physical space described within the narrative (namely by the Philaeni and their counterparts from Cyrene), as well as the reader’s movement across the narrative space of the digression. For example, the ekphrasis on the region of the Syrtes begins with the arrival of the Sidonian political refugees in North Africa: “that they had come into these regions on ships as the result of civil conflicts” (profugos ob discordias ciuilis nauibus in eos locos uenisse, 78.1). This, in turn, is mirrored by Sallust noting his own arrival at this narrative point-of-departure for his discursion: “Yet because we have come into these regions through the affairs of the people of Leptis  … the place reminds us of this historical event” (sed quoniam in eas regiones per Leptitanorum negotia uenimus … eam rem nos locus admonuit, 79.1). The story of the journey(s) of the Philaeni and Cyrenaeans is likewise prompted by fear of a foreign invader – “that soon another [people] would attack both the vanquished and the tired victors” (ne mox uictos uictoresque defessos alius adgrederetur) – leading to an agreement that they, the envoys, “would set out from home on a chosen day” (uti certo die legati domo proficiscerentur, 79.4). Thus, they begin the race, but at different speeds – the Philaeni “hasten to make their way” (maturauere iter pergere), whereas “the Cyrenaeans go more slowly” (Cyrenenses tardius iere, 79.5) – leading to the doubling of this digression as both a delay in the narrative, with additional story material, and an actual slowdown by characters in the account being narrated. The passage of the Cyrenaeans is further stalled by lack of visibility – “thus it hinders travel when visibility is impeded” (ita prospectu inpedito morari iter, 79.6) – leading them “to accuse the Carthaginians of having departed from home ahead of time” (criminari Carthaginiensis ante tempus domo digressos, 79.7). In turn, the Philaeni brothers are forced to be “buried alive in that place, whose territorial boundaries they were seeking for their own people” (quos finis populo suo peterent, ibi uiui obruerentur, 79.8)  – the exemplary act in honour of which “the Carthaginians consecrate altars to the brothers in that location” (Carthaginienses in eo loco Philaenis fratribus aras consecrauere, 79.10)  – or else the Cyrenaeans “would proceed into whatever location they desired” (sese quem in locum uellent processuros, 79.8). Here, Sallust makes use of the participle digressus, whose metatextual resonance is no doubt intended to remind readers of their own narrative “displacement” (digressos) from the paterfamilial history of the Roman empire and its conquests (domo) to an earlier time in the digressive plupast (ante tempus).41 41

    Here I have in mind the idea of the digression as a form of narrative exile, esp. in light of both Thucydides’ usage of the term ἐκβολή to refer to his major Pentekontaetia digression

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    Like the storms that slowed the Cyrenaeans, such a digressive delay emerges from the African landscape and topography, as though it were cutting across the work at the primary diegetic level, and interrupts the readers’ own movements through the Bellum Iugurthinum.42 Furthermore, the heroic act of the Philaeni, choosing to be buried alive and fixed into the landscape after their impressive physical journey, also allows readers to avoid further Jugurthine meanderings, since the Cyrenaeans would otherwise have been allowed to proceed as far as their hearts desired (79.8), and thereby extend the digression by whatever length their hypothetical movement (processuros) would have occasioned. This idea of digressive movement  – a characteristic feature of ancient historiography in general  – frames the majority of Sallustian digressions in both the Bellum Iugurthinum and the Bellum Catilinae.43 For example, Sallust uses the verb uenio to describe his arrival at the final digression, through both the Sidonians exiles who “had come into these regions” (in eos locos uenisse, 78.1) and his own narratological arrival there: “Yet because we have come into these regions through the affairs of the people of Leptis …” (sed quoniam in eas regiones per Leptitanorum negotia uenimus …, 79.1). Likewise, he notes his departure from the digression as a return to the main subject matter: “Now I return to my subject” (nunc ad rem redeo, 79.10). In a similar vein, he marks the end of his second digression with a similar statement: “For which reason (1.97.2) – a word with connotations of exile (see LSJ II, which gives usages from Aesch. Supp. 421, Pl. Leg. 847b, and Arist. Pol. 1275b36) – as well as Polybius’ criticisms of Timaeus in a lengthy excursus for being an armchair historian “even though he was in exile abroad” (ξενιτεύων, 12.28.6). 42 The usage of the highly overdetermined term digressus stands out given Sallust’s frequent representation of narrative as a spatial entity (e.g. Cat. 5.9 and 7.7, which I discuss below). In fact, a similar usage of the word also occurs in the first digression on Africa, when Sallust tells us that the Numidians, “having departed from their [Persian] ancestors due to overpopulation, occupied those regions nearest Carthage which are called Numidia” (propter multitudinem a parentibus digressi, possedere ea loca quae proxuma Carthaginem Numidia appellatur, Jug. 18.11). 43 The use of motion verbs or their nominal cognates to signpost digressions can be seen as early as Herodotus, with a notable example being the conclusion to his Scythian ethnography: “I will return to the narrative that I was initially going to tell” (ἀναβήσομαι δὲ ἐς τὸν κατ᾽ ἀρχὰς ἤια λέξων λόγον, 4.82). The convention was continued by Sallust (discussed above), Livy (“nothing is able to seem less sought after since the outset of this work than to depart from the order of events more than is appropriate”, nihil minus quaesitum a principio huius operis uideri potest quam ut plus iusto ab rerum ordine declinarem, 9.17.1), Tacitus (“but I return to where I left off”, sed ad inceptum redeo, Ann. 4.33.4), and Ammianus Marcellinus (“I have been driven quite a long ways off; but I shall return at last to my initial subjects”, euectus sum longius; sed remeabo tandem ad coepta, 15.12.6).

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    I return to my original subject” (quam ob rem ad inceptum redeo, 42.5). Finally, just before the digression on the founding of Rome in the Bellum Catilinae, Sallust declares, “The subject matter itself seems to urge (me) to revisit previous times and to relate in a few words the practices of our ancestors both at home and abroad” (res ipsa hortari uidetur … supra repetere ac paucis instituta maiorum domi militiaeque … disserere, Cat. 5.9). He then closes the digression by relating how he could recall a range of qualities that enabled Rome’s military successes, “were it not for the fact that such subject matter would drag us rather far from our initial narrative” (ni ea res longius nos ab incepto traheret, 7.7).44 In so doing, Sallust recalls a range of other digressive movements, both authorial and topical, that would seem to require delimiting in the context of a monograph-length history. Yet the very act of digressing, even in so clearly a structured and signposted manner, creates openings in an otherwise linear narrative for new directionalities and additional paratextual spatialities (what we might call narrative frontiers or borderlands). What is more, it generates a variety of movements at different narratological levels that include the migrations and hodologies of different peoples (within the digression), motion-based gesturing by the historian (to draw the reader into and out of the digression), and the journey of the reader across these different historical periods (and between different diegetic layers of the narrative). 5

    Settling the Margins: Digression and the Cultural Politics of Hybridity

    Just as these digressions deal extensively with transethnic protohistories of human mobility in a range of locations, and thereby create a narratological border space based around travel and nomadism, so too do they frequently feature accounts of intercultural settlement among different ethnic groups. For example, Sallust’s excursus on the founding of Rome early in the Bellum Catilinae (6–7) begins with an account of how the Trojan exiles under the leadership of Aeneas, after their extensive Mediterranean wanderings, formed a union with the Aborigines, a group of Latin natives. Yet, in coming together at

    44 Sallust employs the same motion verb traho (as well as its nominal form tractus) elsewhere to describe the meteorological phenomenon that has provided the Syrtes with their name: “the waves drag sludge, sand, and huge rocks” (limum harenamque et saxa ­ingentia fluctus trahunt), and “the Syrtes take their name from this dragging action” (Syrtes ab tractu nominatae, Jug. 78.3; see also note 39 above).

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    Rome, the two groups find space for very rapid civic growth as the direct result of their intercultural relations, even amidst their ethnic differences (Cat. 6.1–2): In the beginning, so I have been told, Trojans founded and populated the city of Rome, a people who as exiles led by Aeneas were wandering without guaranteed places of settlement (qui Aenea duce profugi sedibus incertis uagabantur), and founding it with them were the Aborigines, a rustic race of peoples who lived freely without laws and nomadically without rule (genus hominum agreste, sine legibus, sine imperio, liberum atque solutum). After they came together within one set of walls, even though they were of distinct ethnic origin and different language, and although each group lived according to its own customs (dispari genere, dissimili lingua, alius alio more uiuentes), it is incredible to recall how easily they coalesced. Thus, in a short time and by means of concord, a state was created from a diffuse and itinerant multitude (ita breui multitudo diuorsa atque uaga concordia ciuitas facta erat). Particularly noteworthy in Sallust’s account is his repeated emphasis on the nomadism of both the Trojans and the Aborigines prior to the founding of Rome. Sallust uses a number of loaded verbs to denote this translocation, such as uagor, soluo, and diuerto, often doing so using phrases with distinct verbal parallels to his description of nomadism in Africa. Thus, he describes the Trojans as a people who, through the course of their wanderings, lacked places of settlement (qui Aenea duce profugi sedibus incertis uagabantur), in striking similarity to the early Gaetulians and Libyans of Africa, “aimless drifters” who “held whatever places of habitation the night forced upon them” (uagi, palantes, quas nox coegerat sedes habebant, Jug. 18.2); and the Aborigines, a people “unconstrained by laws, ununified without imperium” (sine legibus, sine imperio, liberum atque solutum, Cat. 6.1), just like the initial inhabitants of Africa, the Gaetulians and Libyans, who “were governed neither by customs nor by law or the rule of any one person” (ei neque moribus neque lege aut imperio quoiusquam regebantur, Jug. 18.2).45 Additionally, the name of the people, Aborigines, through its very etymology carries connotations of both autochthony and nomadism.46 45

    Scanlon (1988, 139) aptly details the extensive series of verbal parallels between this passage and the African ethnography in the Bellum Iugurthinum. In so doing, he draws a number of important conclusions throughout his article concerning Sallust’s employment of “textual geography.” 46 Their etymology suggests that they could be both an autochthonous people “from the beginnings” of Roman history (ab  +  origo, with ab here having the OLD B category of

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    Although framed by Sallust as a near-paradoxographical wonder or miraculum, this kind of settlement through inter-civic relations is in fact a regular feature of ancient historiographical thinking. We see it in quite a few historical digressions as well as other historical narratives featuring “nomadism to settlement” stories. These include Thucydides’ Sicilian ethnography (6.2–5), Diodorus Siculus’ accounts of the founding of Alesia (4.19.1–2, 5.24), and Livy’s account of Heracles and Evander (1.7.3–15). We even catch glimpses of it in Livy’s Gallo-Etruscan digression (5.33.2–35.3), as well as his much later Galatian digression (38.16), even though these two Livian narratives also feature a fair amount of conflict between the foreign immigrants who are attempting to settle in new lands and the established inhabitants of those locales.47 Of course, the glory that would eventually be Rome, when traced back to its unlikely beginning as “Romulus’ asylum”, certainly made for excellent digressive material set in the plupast. This is especially true when one considers the city’s huge amalgamation of anachronistic traditions that provided Roman historians with a seemingly endless number of origin stories. One notable instance is Livy’s brief aside wherein he tells the story of Hercules and Cacus (1.7.3–15) in order to explain the origins of the lone Greek sacrificial custom to persist at Rome until his own time, using this to frame the narrative excursus in the mythical era. Livy writes: “To other gods he [Romulus] made sacrifices after the Alban rite, but employed the Greek ritual for those made to Hercules, as those had been established by Evander” (sacra dis aliis Albano ritu, Graeco Herculi, ut ab Euandro instituta erant, facit, 1.7.3). In this way, the historian immediately links Rome’s religious institutions to several mythical Greek wanderers or exiles, Hercules and Evander. He concludes the digression on even more explicitly migrant terms (using the term peregrina): “This, then, was the only foreign sacred observance among all others that Romulus adopted” (haec tum sacra Romulus una ex omnibus peregrina suscepit, 1.7.15). Furthermore, meanings denoting “point of origin, source”), namely the original inhabitants of Latium, as is supported by Tiberius Claudius Donatus (A. 8.328: “From that origin they were born an indigenous people, whom the Latins call ‘aboriginal’, and the Greeks ‘autochthonous’”, indigenae sunt inde geniti, quos uocant Aborigines Latini, Graeci αὐτόχθονες); and also a nomadic people “without” a “place of origin” (OLD origo 3c), a “lineage” (OLD 4), a “progenitor”, or a “mother city” (OLD 5; cf. Sal. Jug. 19.1), with ab having instead the OLD A category of meanings denoting “motion away, distance, separation”. 47 Indeed, even though Livy’s digression involving Hercules, Cacus, and Evander (1.7.3– 15) eventually ends in reconciliation, the account still features a fair amount of antiimmigration anxiety following Hercules’ slaying of the Latin shepherd Cacus. Moreover, the surrounding Book 1 narrative details an extensive series of conflicts and wars with neighbouring peoples, including the Crustuminians, Antemnates, Caeninenses, and Sabines.

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    in the embedded narrative itself, Livy finds much in the way of foreignness to excavate for his reader. References to migration, importation, and hybridity abound. Alongside the combination of Alban (and therefore Latin, but not Laurentine or Lavinian) and Hellenic customs used for sacrificing to the gods, Livy specifically identifies Evander as “an exile from the Peloponnese” (profugus ex Peloponneso, 1.7.8), using phraseology employed elsewhere in both Livy and Virgil to describe famous exiles who found asylum on the Italian peninsula.48 The same holds true for Hercules, the much-wandering hero, who is said to be “tired from his journey” ( fessum uia, 1.7.4) into Latium. The trek, in turn, becomes the direct cause of Hercules’ cattle being stolen by the Italic shepherd Cacus, leading to Cacus’ death by the Greek hero and a crowd of Latin shepherds forming a circle “around the newcomer” (circa aduenam, 1.7.9), and finally to Evander’s mediating role when he “learned the name, paternal lineage, and native fatherland” of the hero (nomen patremque ac patriam accepit, 1.7.10). Thus, when Hercules joins Romulus in Livy’s mythological vision of early Rome, an event which occurs immediately after the founding of Rome by Romulus – “thus alone Romulus acquired his sovereign rule; the city, through its founding, was called by the name of its founder” (ita solus potitus imperio Romulus; condita urbs conditoris nomine appellata, 1.7.3) – we see once again signs of asylum politics as well as hints of its violent complications in a temporally displaced narrative. Here, Livy’s use of the verb memorant (1.7.4) plus indirect discourse brings his readers back to the time of Evander (and by proxy, Aeneas), in essence forming a digression in the narrative by way of its jump to the more distant plupast. As in Sallust’s Bellum Catilinae flashback to the founding of Rome (Cat. 6–7), the eventual outcome is one of comity and the incorporation of foreign elements alongside native Italic customs (even if the initial cultural contact is lethal). All preliminary violence aside, the civilising force of Hellenic influence also seems to be at work in Livy’s description of Evander, who rules by auctoritas, a 48

    The phrase “exiled from his home” (domo profugus), similar to Virgil’s “exiled by fate” ( fato profugus, A. 1.2), is also used by Livy at the outset of his work to describe Rome’s archetypal exile, Aeneas: “Aeneas was exiled from his home owing to a similar disaster” (Aenean ab simili clade domo profugum, 1.1.4). It is employed again to describe the Peloponnesian Demaratus, the father of Rome’s first Etruscan king Lucius Tarquinius Priscus, who “immigrated to Rome” (Romam commigrauit, 1.34.1): “He was the son of Demaratus of Corinth, who was exiled from his home on account of civil stasis” (Demarati Corinthii filius erat, qui ob seditiones domo profugus, 1.34.2). Moreover, like the Herculean religious rite, Demaratus is also said to be “from foreign descent” (peregrina stirpe, 1.34.1), suggesting a clearly defined topos of asylum seekers not only on the Italian peninsula, but especially in Latium. For the historical import of Demaratus’ story, see Isayev 2017, 98–107.

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    word with clear literary connotations.49 The cultural resonance of authorship is then reinforced by Evander being “a man revered for his wonderful ability with letters, a new thing among men unacquainted with the arts” (uenerabilis uir miraculo litterarum, rei nouae inter rudes artium homines, 1.7.8).50 This is further blended with hybrid (Greek and proto-Italic) elements in Livy’s description of Evander’s “mother Carmenta, whom those peoples had admired as a prophetess before the Sibyl arrived in Italy” (Carmentae matris, quam fatiloquam ante Sibyllae in Italiam aduentum miratae eae gentes fuerant, 1.7.8). Specifically, the name of Evander’s mother as a pre-Sibylline prophetess (with poetic associations) – not to mention the Sibyl’s status in Livy’s digression as yet another aduena in Italy  – recalls the opening of the earliest known Latin, yet also deeply Hellenic (and thus imported) poem, the Odusia of Livius Andronicus. The epic poem opens with the translated Homeric line “Go on and tell me, Camena, of the versatile man” (uirum mihi, Camena, insece uersutum, poet. 1.1).51 It uses a motion verb for narration (insece, from insequor, “to follow”), a participle with strong associations with becoming (uersutum, from uerto, “to transform”, and even “to translate”),52 and a little-known Italic muse (Camena), whose name sounds much like that of Evander’s mother 49 For the literary senses of auctoritas, see OLD 8–10, whose meanings include “weighty testimony” or “authority” in a historiographical or literary historical sense (OLD 9), and “precedent” or “example” (OLD 10). The senses of the cognate word, auctor, meaning “a writer who is regarded as a master of his subject” (OLD 9) – which encompass both the more specific denotation of “historian” (OLD 9b) and the more general idea of “author” (OLD 10) – are used extensively by Livy. The usage also occurs in Sallust’s African ethnography, specifically in reference to the translated Punic histories of Hiempsal II, to which Sallust attributes his digressive claims: “the reliability of this account rests with its authors” (fides eius rei penes auctores erit, Jug. 17.7). 50 The singular dative phrase rei nouae should be highlighted in this context, since it usually refers to “political revolution” (res nouae) or civic strife in the plural (OLD res 15b, nouus 10), events which are cited repeatedly by both Livy and Sallust as factors that lead to emigration and the settlement of new lands, and likewise greatly influence civic foundation/refoundation (often from the space of the digression or its surrounding narrative environs, e.g. Liv. 1.7.3–15, 5.33.2–35.3; Sal. Cat. 6–7, Jug. 17–19, 41–42). 51 The Homeric Greek reads ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, μοῦσα, πολύτροπον (“Tell me, Muse, of the man of many turns”, Od. 1.1). For discussions of the Latin translation, textual ambiguity and hybridity, and choice of Italic Saturnian meter over the Greek dactylic hexameter, see von Albrecht 1999, 33–44; Feeney 2016, 53–6. 52 The poetic force of uerto in relation to transformation or becoming, especially where migration is concerned, can be seen most clearly in Propertius’ Vertumnus Ode (Prop. 4.2), in which the wooden statue of a formerly Etruscan divinity (whose name is explained through several puns on the verb uerto) happily intones his importation to Rome and his new home amongst the crowds of Romans who pass him by near the entrance to the Forum Romanum.

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    (Carmenta) and its melic associations with “song” (carmen).53 Through the flashback to Evander via Hercules, then, Livy brings us by way of digression to an early mythical Romulan past where – in a temporally compressed narrative space that predates, yet also textually alludes to Livius Andronicus – writing is imagined to have emerged at the intersection of Greek settlement in Italy, religious rites involving the Theban wandering hero, and the very first historical event to take place ab urbe condita, or “after the founding of Rome”. This theme of the foreign exile-become-immigrant, or aduena, on the Italian peninsula, and its deep symbolism in constructions of the Roman past, takes on additional valences in Livy’s Gallo-Etruscan digression. Therein, Livy provides an extensive description of Etruria as a hybridised border space that goes beyond its intermediary position between Cisalpine Gaul and Rome to include both its Hellenic and its Venetian elements as key components of its settlement history (5.33.7–11): Prior to Roman rule (ante Romanum imperium), the power of the Etruscans extended far and wide on both land and sea. As to the greatness of their power on the upper and lower seas by which Italy is surrounded like an island, names serve as proof (nomina sunt argumento), because the Italian peoples called the one the Tuscan Sea based on the shared language of their ancestry, the other the Atriatic Sea from Atria, a colony of Etruscans (quod alterum Tuscum communi uocabulo gentis, alterum Atriaticum mare ab Atria, Tuscorum colonia, uocauere Italicae gentes), whereas the Greeks call the same seas the Tyrrhenian and the Adriatic (Graeci eadem Tyrrhenum atque Adriaticum uocant). These peoples colonised (incoluere) the lands which slope downwards towards each sea with twelve cities (urbibus duodenis), first on this side of the Apennines in the direction of the lower sea, afterwards with just as many colonies having been sent across the Apennines as there were mother cities (postea trans Appenninum totidem, quot capita originis erant, coloniis missis). All of these places they held across the Po as far as the Alps, with an exception being the corner belonging to the Venetians who dwell around the fold of the sea (excepto Venetorum angulo qui sinum circumcolunt maris). No doubt this is also the origin of the Alpine nations.

    53 It has been suggested that the name of Andronicus’ muse Camena, in reference to the Hellenic Muses’ fountain of Helicon, derives from a Roman fountain located near the Porta Capena, and is etymologically linked to the word carmen. See Maltby 1991, 99, 109– 10; von Albrecht 1999, 39–40; Feeney 2016, 54–5.

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    Throughout the passage, Livy repeatedly emphasises colonisation and settlement as key components in the history of Etruria. We are told first of a colony of Etruscans (Tuscorum colonia) called Atria, then that both the Etruscan and the Greeks established twelve colonies in Tuscany (incoluere urbibus duodenis), and subsequently that the same number of settlements as there were mother cities were sent across the Apennine mountains (postea trans Appenninum totidem, quot capita originis erant, coloniis missis). Just as important in this digressive cartography is the idea of a hybrid Etruscan history, one which is reflected in the intersectional etymologies of the seas that surround the Italian peninsula. For Livy (and, as we have already seen, Sallust), “names serve as proof” (nomina sunt argumento) of history, and function as vital elements in explaining the Roman past. Here they offer evidence of yet another instance of Greco-Italic hybridity that extends beyond both groups settling the region to an imagined similarity in the naming of the Tyrrhenian (Tyrrhenum/ Tuscum) and Adriatic (Adriaticum/Atriaticum) Seas. Furthermore, Livy notes that the Italian peoples as a whole refer to the Tyrrhenian Sea as the Tuscan Sea, “based on the shared language of their ancestry” (alterum Tuscum communi uocabulo gentis  … uocauere Italicae gentes), adding this time an element of cultural proximity, in this case among the many different Italian peoples who inhabited the peninsula prior to its conquest by Rome (ante Romanum imperium). Moreover, Livy transports his reader to a series of earlier temporal settings, beginning with the Etruscan heyday in the 8th–6th centuries BC (Tuscorum ante Romanum imperium late terra marique opes patuere, 5.33.7). In so doing, Livy presents the Etruscans as the earliest ancestors of Roman imperial expansion, and suggests that we use his excursus to contemplate future Roman imperialism as part of a broader history which traces its origins back to protoRoman Italy.54 As such, Livy’s treatment of Etruria as a geographic entity – by referencing the earlier colonisations of the Po valley (coloniis missis, quae trans Padum omnia loca … usque ad Alpes tenuere) and, more significant still, by isolating the Gulf of Venice from such migrations (excepto Venetorum angulo qui sinum circumcolunt maris) – also brings us back to the very outset of his history (i.e. ante urbem conditam). By singling out the region belonging to the Veneti in his Etruscan geography alongside references to migration – and indicating that they were a distinct people separate from the Etruscan colonies – Livy reminds us of the very 54 For Augustus’ usage of the phrase terra marique, occasionally varied or paired with the word imperium and in one instance employed to describe Roman campaigns against the Cimbrian nation, see RG 3.1, 4.2, 13, and 26.4.

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    opening of his work. Therein, he provides mythical accounts of the flights of the Trojan exiles Aeneas and Antenor to distinct regions of Italy.55 In the case of Antenor, we hear of exile due to civic stasis in Paphlagonia forcing him, “with a multitude of Eneti” (cum multitudine Enetum), to migrate and settle in a new geographic locale, the Gulf of Venice; and “that he came into an inner fold of the Adriatic Sea” (uenisse in intimum maris Hadriatici sinum, 1.1.2). As a region that remained unaffected by Etruscan influence, this locale perhaps serves as a blurred mirror to Romulus’ Asylum. Like Latium, it remains a region of shared Trojan ancestry: “the peoples altogether are called the Veneti” (gens uniuersa Veneti appellati, 1.1.3).56 Yet it also differs from Rome itself in its isolation from regular external cultural influence. Livy tells us that it remained isolated not only from Etruscan colonies in Transpadane Gaul, but also from that broader Italian hybridity – which included Greeks as well as other native Italic peoples with a shared linguistic ancestry (Tuscum communi uocabulo gentis … uocauere Italicae gentes)  – which would in turn greatly shape the course of Roman history.57 Furthermore, unlike Rome, the Gulf of Venice is characterised by a history of displacement of native groups by foreign immigrants, such as the Euganei, who were themselves forced into exile (rather than being united under an imperium-like subjugation): “and after the Euganei who formerly dwelt between the sea and the Alps were driven out” (Euganeisque qui inter mare Alpesque incolebant pulsis, 1.1.3). Here, in a language reminiscent of Sallust’s African ethnography, we learn not only that the Eneti “were driven out of Paphlagonia by civil stasis” (qui seditione ex Paphlagonia pulsi), but also that “they were in search of a place to settle and a [new] leader, following the death of their king, Pylaemenes, at Troy” (et sedes et ducem rege Pylaemene ad Troiam amisso quaerebant, 1.1.2). In this respect, migration of peoples serves as both a historical and a narratological impetus. Such settlement movements, as historical subjects in their own right, not only emerge in historical digressions, but 55 This topical repetition is highlighted by Kraus 1994, 284. The intratext is also noted by Ogilvie 1965, 706. 56 In fact, Livy even tells us that the settled area was once called Troy and that the canton has a Trojan name: “And the place where they first disembarked is called Troy and the Trojan canton possesses its name” (et in quem primum egressi sunt locum Troia uocatur pagoque inde Troiano nomen est, 1.1.3). For the topos of Trojan refoundation in Livy, especially Book 5, and its problematic undertones, see Kraus 1994. 57 For the Etruscan influence on Latium and early Roman history, see Alföldi 1963; Cornell 1995, 151–72, 309–13. Nevertheless, it should be noted that Livy’s constructions of Tuscan-Roman hybridity were far more likely ideological than historical. Both Cornell (1989, 361) and Dench 1995 highlight the problematics of Livian (and other Roman historical) accounts of early Italian peoples and their geographies.

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    are also emulated at the level of narrative. In other words, digressions displace or exile their readers away from the maternal storyline, and in so doing force them into newfound narratological relocations in textual borderlands.58 6

    Conclusion: Roman History as Border Theory

    In the Greco-Roman historiographical tradition, it is often the digression that preserves traces of earlier peregrinations. It does so by generating its own type of textual border region wherein processes of hodology, nomadology, cultural contact, and civic settlement can be mapped across a range of temporal periods (often predating, but in some cases even postdating events in the surrounding narrative). Thus, although seeming like a small and trivial means of commemoration that is situated “in a narrow space” and therefore appears “inglorious” (to paraphrase Tacitus in his own excursus on writing history under the Roman emperors),59 it nevertheless opens narratives to a broad spatial and temporal expansion as it brings further perspectives on empire and its long history of hybridities. In this respect, the paratextual space of the digression offers us glimpses of a longue durée intersectionality. It functions as a kind of “Thirdspace”, a term that emerged at the crossroads of geospatial thinking, urban planning, cultural studies, African American studies, and postcolonial theory (particularly as the last of these sought alternatives to the East/West and First World/Third World dichotomies introduced by Edward Said and Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak). On the one hand, Thirdspace embodies the late Los Angeles geographer Edward Soja’s definition of “an-Other” space which moves beyond traditional binaries that often result in the effacing of spatialities, to more flexible, imaginative intermediary possibilities, much like the visual work of his fellow LA resident de los Reyes (Figures 10.1–10.5). For example, de los Reyes’s paintings embody Soja’s idea of Thirdspace “as a creative recombination and extension, one that builds on a Firstspace perspective that is focused on the ‘real’ material world and a Secondspace perspective that interprets this reality through ‘imagined’ representations of

    58

    See note 41 above on digression as a form of narrative exile. The fact that civic displacement and settlement from mother cities play such a central role in the Gallo-Etruscan digression leads me to extend this idea to Livy. 59 “Our task is in a narrow space and inglorious” (nobis in arto et inglorius labor, Tac. Ann. 4.32.2).

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    spatiality”.60 In Figure 10.1 (“System of Logical Abuse/Blue Green”, 2017), this consists of a photograph that could be interpreted as ICE agents arresting a group of individuals whom they believe to be illegal immigrants (Firstspace), onto which is superimposed what appears to be brushstrokes of yellow paint and lines of green ink, giving the image an additional perspective of imagined spatiality (Secondspace). In Figures 10.2–10.5, the line between Firstspace and Secondspace becomes even blurrier, producing a further sense of creative combination and extension by which Soja defines Thirdspace. Whereas in Figure 10.1, the historical photograph, geographically vague though it may seem, still suggests through its subject matter a specific event at a particular moment in time, in Figures 10.2 (“rio grande/colorscale 4”, 2014) and 10.4 (“rio grande/colorscale 9”, 2014) monotone and duotone colouration blends instead with satellite imagery, such that, for all their geographical underpinnings, it becomes almost impossible to link these images to “real” locations where human history has unfolded. Finally, in Figures 10.5 (“rio bravo/rancho el comedor”, 2014) and 10.3 (“illuminated river/flujo libre”, 2012) the satellite imagery has nearly vanished altogether, leaving only the tracings and illuminations of lines alongside permutations of colour that seem to truly herald “an-Other space” with its flexibility and potential for creative transformation. Soja’s ideas about Thirdspace, when viewed alongside de los Reyes’s Border Theory imagery, fit well with Greco-Roman historiography’s spatial tendencies, particularly the tradition of ethnographic digression that can be found in virtually all ancient historians from Herodotus to the Byzantine chroniclers. Indeed, this geographic impulse (often imperial in nature) to describe foreign “lands and peoples” within digression can be compared with Soja’s designation of “a creative recombination and extension”, one that branches out from the primary narrative in a flexible manner and combines both the “‘real’ material world” (e.g. actual ethnographic encounters, historical source texts and evidence, known material goods and natural resources) and the “‘imagined’ representations of spatiality” (i.e. Herodotus’ Nile, Thucydides’ and Polybius’ Sicily, Caesar’s and Ammianus’ Gaul, Sallust’s Africa, etc.).61 The resulting confluence of the digression therefore becomes a creative act of thirding that generates 60 Soja 1996, 6. We might compare Soja’s formulations to those of Foucault 1984/1986 on “Heterotopias” (pp. 25–6), upon which Soja builds: “The heterotopia is capable of juxtaposing in a single real place several spaces, several sites that are in themselves incompatible … Heterotopias are most often linked to slices in time – which is to say that they open onto what might be termed, for the sake of symmetry, heterochronies  … Heterotopias always presuppose a system of opening and closing that both isolates them and makes them penetrable.” 61 Soja 1996, 6 (see also note 60 above).

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    new intermediary possibilities for reconsidering Greco-Roman imperium, the encounters of various Mediterranean peoples in its shifting border regions, and the resulting ethnocultural hybridities these meetings effect. On the other hand, Thirdspace enacts Bhabha’s vision of a hybrid space that “develop[s] an interstitial intimacy”, “linked through an ‘in-between’ temporality”, a “borderline existence” that “inhabits a stillness of time and a strangeness of framing that creates the discursive ‘image’ at the crossroads of history and literature, bridging the home and the world”; an intermediary space that “renews the past, refiguring it as a contingent ‘in-between’ space, that innovates and interrupts the performance of the present”.62 Quoting Frantz Fanon, Bhabha offers a further parallel for reading the digression as a form of Thirdspace: Once more it is the desire for recognition, ‘for somewhere else and for something else’ that takes the experience of history beyond the instrumental hypothesis. Once again, it is the space of intervention emerging in the cultural interstices that introduces creative invention into existence. And one last time, there is a return to the performance of identity as iteration, the re-creation of the self in the world of travel, the resettlement of the borderline community of migration.63 In this manner, the digression offers us glimpses of mixed origins, fluid timescapes, modulating attitudes about empire, and non-linear narratives  – each time mapping onto its margins various ideas about peripheral regions, peoples, and their various cultural practices, which intersect and take their place in a millennia-long tradition of Greco-Roman historiography. The interest of Thirdspace theoreticians in postcolonial studies, cultural displacement and diaspora, and the historical marginalisation of certain peoples offers a further parallel with antiquity. Many of Rome’s canonical authors, including Livy, were Transpadane Italians whose status as Roman citizens was not formally settled until the dictatorship of Julius Caesar. In fact, these questions were probably not stable in any ideological sense until the reign of the Emperor Claudius, when the new Gallic question became a Transalpine one concerning the induction of individuals from Gallia Narbonensis into the Roman Senate. Furthermore, ongoing debates surrounding immigration and citizenship in both the US and Britain demonstrate that identity politics and the unconscious ideologies that generate them are often quite fluid and

    62 63

    Bhabha 1994, 13 and 7. Bhabha (1994, 9), citing Fanon 1952/1986, 218, 229, and 231.

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    can take decades, if not centuries, to resolve themselves.64 In this respect, an ancient historian such as Livy  – reflecting on his formerly Transpadane, subsequently Roman identity through a digression that reimagines the Gallo-Etruscan colonisation of Italy – might be aptly compared to the postcolonial critics whose lives spanned a number of global identity thresholds. This is especially true when we consider Livy alongside theorists such as Fanon, Hall, Glissant, and Gilroy, who re-envisioned the impact of the African and Afro-Caribbean diaspora on constructions of the self and the formation of a unique kind of historical imaginary that was in perpetual negotiation; and who posit an identity constellation that includes the childhood homeland of the colonised Caribbean (with each island or island city having its own unique local practices), the shared ancestral motherland of Africa (now only an imaginary possibility told through historical retellings which constitute circular journeys, or returns “by another route”),65 and the metropolitan “New World” where the confluences of these identity formations meet. Speaking of this New World space as a kind of Terra Incognita where diaspora, diversity, difference, and hybridity can finally unfold, Hall lays out a useful framework for re-mapping the Roman historical digression as a literary border space: The Third, ‘New World’ presence, is not so much power, as ground, place, territory. It is the juncture-point where the many cultural tributaries meet, the ‘empty’ land (the European colonisers emptied it) where strangers from every other part of the globe collided. None of the people who now occupy the islands – black, brown, white, African, European, American, Spanish, French, East Indian, Chinese, Portuguese, Jew, Dutch – originally ‘belonged’ there. It is the space where the creolisations and assimilations and syncretisms were negotiated. The New World is the third term – the primal scene  – where the fateful/fatal encounter was staged between Africa and the West. It also has to be understood as the place of many, continuous displacements: of the original pre-Columbian inhabitants, the Arawaks, Caribs and Amerindians, permanently displaced from their homelands and decimated; of other peoples displaced in different ways from Africa, Asia and Europe; the displacements of slavery, colonisation 64 In this respect, consider Ammianus Marcellinus’ Gallic ethnography (15.9–12), whose digressive chronology extends from before Caesar’s conquest in the 1st century BC to the 4th century AD, by which time Gaul had been undergoing Romanisation for many centuries. 65 Hall 1990, 232.

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    and conquest. It stands for the endless ways in which Caribbean people have been destined to ‘migrate’; it is the signifier of migration itself – of travelling, voyaging and return as fate, as destiny; of the Antillean as the prototype of the modern or postmodern New World nomad, continually moving between centre and periphery.66 Looking back to Sallust’s digressions in the Bellum Iugurthinum, and also Livy’s excursions on Hercules, Cacus, and Evander as well as the Gallo-Etruscan migrations, the historical excursus in many ways serves as “the juncture-point where many tributaries meet … where strangers from every other part of the globe collided”. In Sallust, these peoples include Gaetulians, Numidians, Medians, Moors, Phoenicians (Sidonian exiles), Armenians, Libyans, Carthaginians, Cyrenaean Greeks, Romans, and any number of unnamed ethnic groups that made up Hercules’ army “composed of various peoples” (conpositus ex uariis gentibus, Jug. 18.3). In Livy’s digressions, they comprise Trojan exiles, Eneti, Euganei, Greek exiles, a range of Italic peoples, Etruscans, a variety of Gallic tribes, and even Galatians in his much later excursus. Moreover, following Hall’s formulation, the digression also serves as “the space where the creolisations and assimilations and syncretisms were negotiated”. This is not only true for Sallust, whose negotiations of hybridity extend from the historic intermixing of peoples to the etymological evidence for their ethnographic nomenclature (or in the case of the Philaeni brothers, to the name of the monument that remembers their exemplary deed); but also for Livy, who maps onto Latium, Etruria, and Gallia Transpadana a series of integrations between foreign and native peoples, for whom names come to serve as proof of a deeply transcultural past that prefigures, and perhaps even transcends Romanisation. Sallust and Livy’s digressive historiography also reproduces the conditions of the border through its continual migrations, its movements “between centre and periphery”, and the “continuous displacements” of peoples in the wake of Roman imperial expansion. In Sallust, these journeys include the primary nomadism of the initial inhabitants of Africa who remain itinerant well beyond its subsequent settlement by various peoples, the immigration to the “Third Continent” by Hercules’ army and the Sidonian exiles, as well as the race between the Philaeni brothers and their Cyrenaean counterparts in “the ‘empty’ land” of the Libyan desert in order to determine the final boundary point between the territories of Carthage and Cyrene. In Livy, these consist of the continual migrations of the Trojan, Italic, Hellenic, Etruscan, and Gallic exiles, who transform various regions of Italy into new zones of cultural contact as 66

    Hall 1990, 234.

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    the growing force of imperium Romanum continually renegotiates the border spaces situated between its centre and peripheries. The historical digression, then, serves as its own kind of Terra Incognita, opening for its Roman and postclassical audiences the “ground, place, territory” that form the basis for “The Third, ‘New World’ presence” in its narratological encounters. Not only does this take a literal form in the way its ethnographic material – visible from the early Histories of Herodotus until well into the Middle Ages – introduces readers to a variety of unfamiliar peoples and places; but it also creates through its diegetic displacement a narrative space for a theoria of the border that Hall so pertinently describes. In this manner, we see that this “prototype of the modern or postmodern New World nomad” is already prefigured in antiquity, in the assimilations and displacements of a Roman history that repeatedly defines itself through diaspora.

    Acknowledgements

    I wish to thank Ulrike Roth as well as the editors Aske Damtoft Poulsen and Arne Jönsson for their detailed comments on several drafts of this paper that greatly improved the final version. Earlier versions of a few sections appeared previously in my dissertation and so benefitted from the feedback of Christina Kraus, Emily Greenwood, Erich Gruen, Irene Peirano Garrison, and Ann Ellis Hanson. Additional thanks are owed to the audience members present during the “Usages of the Past in Roman Historiography” conference at Lund University, and to Tony de los Reyes, who generously allowed me to use images from his Border Theory series in this article. Any remaining infelicities are entirely my own. Bibliography Abulafia, D. (2011). The Great Sea: A Human History of the Mediterranean, Oxford & New York. Albrecht, M. von (1999). Roman Epic: An Interpretative Introduction, Leiden, Köln & Boston. Alföldi, A. (1963). Early Rome and the Latins, Ann Arbor. Ando, C. (2016). “The Changing Face of Cisalpine Identity”, in A.E. Cooley (ed.), A Companion to Roman Italy (Oxford & Malden, MA): 271–287. Anzaldúa, G. (1987). Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza, San Francisco, CA. Baude, L.B. (1841). L’Algérie, 3 vols., Brussels & Leipzig.

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    Bhabha, H. (1994). The Location of Culture, London & New York. Biggs, T. (2017). “Primus Romanorum: Origin Stories, Fictions of Primacy, and the First Punic War”, Classical Philology 112, 350–367. Biggs, T. (2018a). “A Second First Punic War: Re-Spoliation of Republican Naval Monuments in the Urban and Poetic Landscapes of Augustan Rome”, in M.P. Loar, C. MacDonald & D.P. Peralta (eds.), Rome, Empire of Plunder: The Dynamics of Cultural Appropriation (Cambridge & New York): 47–68. Biggs, T. (2018b). “Odysseus, Rome, and the First Punic War in Polybius’ Histories”, in N. Miltsios & M. Tamiolaki (eds.), Polybius and His Legacy (Berlin & Boston): 381–399. Braudel, F. (1949/1972–1973, transl. by S. Reynolds). The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II, 2 vols., New York. (orig. published as La Méditerranée et le Monde Méditerranéen a l’époque de Philippe II, 3. vols., Paris). Broodbank, C. (2013). The Making of the Middle Sea: A History of the Mediterranean from the Beginning to the Emergence of the Classical World, Oxford & New York. Chambers, I. (1994). Migrancy, Culture, Identity, London & New York. Chambers, I. (2008). Mediterranean Crossings: The Politics of an Interrupted Modernity, London & Durham, NC. Chambers, I. (2018). “Closing frame: Broken geographies”, in C. Gualtieri (ed.), Migration and the Contemporary Mediterranean: Shifting Cultures in Twenty-First-Century Italy and Beyond (Oxford & Bern): 447–461. Clarke, K. (2018). Shaping the Geography of Empire: Man and Nature in Herodotus’ Histories, Oxford & New York. Clifford, J. (1986). “Introduction: Partial Truths”, in J. Clifford & G.E. Marcus (eds.), Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography (London, Berkeley & Los Angeles): 1–26. Cornell, T.J. (1989). “The Conquest of Italy”, in F.W. Walbank et al. (eds.), The Cambridge Ancient History  – VII, part 2: The Rise of Rome to 220 B.C., 2nd ed. (Cambridge): 351–419. Cornell, T.J. (1995). The Beginnings of Rome: Italy and Rome from the Bronze Age to the Punic Wars (c. 1000–264 BC), London & New York. Cosgrove, D. (2001). Apollo’s Eye: A Cartographic Genealogy of the Earth in the Western Imagination, Baltimore, MD. de Certeau, M. (1980/1984, transl. by S.F. Rendall). The Practice of Everyday Life, London, Berkeley & Los Angeles. (orig. published as L’invention du quotidien, Paris). de Certeau, M. (1986, trans. B. Massumi). Heterologies: Discourse on the Other, London & Minneapolis, MN. de Jonge, D. (1967–1968). “Applied Hodology”, Landscape 17, 10–11. de los Reyes, T. (2012–2018). Border Theory (https://www.tonydelosreyes.com).

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    de los Reyes, T. (2020). “Paranoid Architecture”, Parse 10. (https://parsejournal.com/ article/paranoid-architecture/ – accessed 06.07.2020). Deleuze, G. & Guattari, F. (1975/1986, transl. by D. Polan). Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature, London & Minneapolis, MN. (orig. published as Kafka: Pour une littérature mineure, Paris). Deleuze, G. & Guattari, F. (1980/1987, transl. by B. Massumi). A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, London & Minneapolis. (orig. published as Mille plateaux: Capitalisme et schizophrénie, Paris). Deleuze, G. & Guattari, F. (1991/1994, transl. by H. Tomlinson and G. Burchell). What Is Philosophy?, New York. (orig. published as Qu’est-ce que la philosophie?, Paris). Deleuze, G. (1968/1994, transl. by P. Patton). Difference and Repetition, New York. (orig. published as Différence et Répétition, Paris). Dench, E. (1995). From Barbarians to New Men: Greek, Roman, and Modern Perceptions of Peoples of the Central Apennines, Oxford & New York. Dench, E. (2005). Romulus’ Asylum: Roman Identities from the Age of Alexander to the Age of Hadrian, Oxford & New York. Dougherty, C. (2001). The Raft of Odysseus: The Ethnographic Imagination of Homer’s Odyssey, Oxford & New York. duBois, P. (2010). Out of Athens: The New Ancient Greeks, London & Cambridge, MA. Effros, B. (2018). Incidental Archaeologists: French Officers and the Rediscovery of Roman North Africa, London & Ithaca, NY. Fanon, F. (1952/1986, transl. by C.L. Markmann). Black Skin, White Masks, London. (orig. published as Peau Noire, Masques Blancs, Paris). Feeney, D. (2016). Beyond Greek: The Beginnings of Latin Literature, London & Cambridge, MA. Foucault, M. (1966/1970). The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences, London & New York (orig. published as Les mots et les choses: Une archéologie des sciences humaines, Paris). Foucault, M. (1984/1986, transl. by J. Miskowiec). “Of Other Spaces”, Diacritics 16.1, 22–27 (orig. published as “Les Espace Autres” in Architecture, Mouvement, Continuité 5, 46–49). Freud, S. (1962). “The Neuro-Psychoses of Defence”, in J. Strachey with A. Freud (eds.), The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud – Volume III (1893–1899): Early Psycho-Analytic Publications (London): 45–61. Gilroy, P. (1993). The Black Atlantic: Modernity and Double Consciousness, London & New York. Glissant, É. (1990/1997, transl. by B. Wing). The Poetics of Relation, Ann Arbor. (orig. published as Poétique de la relation, Paris). Grethlein, J. & Krebs, C.B. (eds.) (2012). Time and Narrative in Ancient Historiography: The ‘Plupast’ from Herodotus to Appian, Cambridge & New York.

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    Hall, S. (1990). “Cultural Identity and Diaspora”, in J. Rutherford (ed.), Identity: Community, Culture, Difference (London): 222–237. Hartog, F. (1980/1988, transl. by J. Lloyd). The Mirror of Herodotus: The Representation of the Other in the Writing of History, London, Berkeley & Los Angeles. (orig. published as Le Miroir d’Hérodote: Essai sur la représentation de l’autre, Paris). Hartog, F. (1996/2001, transl. by J. Lloyd). Memories of Odysseus: Frontier Tales from Ancient Greece, Edinburgh. (orig. published as Mémoire d’Ulysse: Récits sur la frontière en Grèce ancienne, Paris). Hebron, M. (2012). “Critic’s Picks: Tony de los Reyes at Grand Central Art Center, Santa Ana”, Artforum (October 21, 2012). (https://www.artforum.com/picks/tony-de-los -reyes-35944 – accessed 06.07–2020). Horden, P. & Purcell, N. (2000). The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History, Oxford & Malden, MA. Isayev, E. (2017). Migration, Mobility and Place in Ancient Italy, Cambridge. Jaeger, M. (1997). Livy’s Written Rome, Ann Arbor. Kraus, C.S. (1994). “‘No Second Troy’: Topoi and Refoundation in Livy, Book V”. Transactions of the American Philological Association 124, 267–89. Kraus, C.S. (1999). “Jugurthine Disorder”, in C.S. Kraus (ed.), The Limits of Historiography: Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts (Leiden, Köln & Boston): 217–247. Laroche, E. (1949). Histoire de la racine NEM- en grec ancien (νέμω, νέμεσις, νόμος, νομίζω), Paris. Leigh, M. (2004). Comedy and the Rise of Rome, Oxford & New York. Leigh, M. (2010). “Early Roman Epic and the Maritime Moment”, Classical Philology 105, 265–280. Malkin, I. (1998). The Returns of Odysseus: Colonization and Ethnicity, London, Berkeley & Los Angeles. Malkin, I. (2003). “Networks and the Emergence of Greek Identity”, Mediterranean Historical Review 18, 56–74. Malkin, I. (2004). “Postcolonial Concepts and Ancient Greek Colonization”, Modern Language Quarterly 65, 341–364. Malkin, I. (2011). A Small Greek World: Networks in the Ancient Mediterranean, Oxford & New York. Maltby, R. (1991). A Lexicon of Ancient Latin Etymologies, Leeds. Manning, J.G. (2018). The Open Sea: The Economic Life of the Ancient Mediterranean World from the Iron Age to the Rise of Rome, Oxford & Princeton, NJ. Marincola, J. (2007). “Odysseus and the Historians”, Syllecta Classica 18, 1–79. Morell, J.R. (1854). Algeria: The Topography and History, Political, Social, and Natural, of French Africa, London. Morstein-Marx, R. (2001). “The Myth of Numidian Origins in Sallust’s African Excursus (Iugurtha 17.7–18.12)”, American Journal of Philology 122, 179–200.

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    Munson, R.V. (2001). Telling Wonders: Ethnographic and Political Discourse in the Work of Herodotus, Ann Arbor. Ogilvie, R.M. (1965). A Commentary on Livy: Books 1–5, Oxford. Pratt, M.L. (1992). Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation, London & New York. Rambaud, M. (1974). “L’espace dans le récit césarien”, in R. Chevallier (ed.), Caesarodunum IX: Littérature Gréco-Romaine et géographie historique: Mélanges offerts à Roger Dion (Paris): 111–129. Redfield, J. (1985). “Herodotus the Tourist”, Classical Philology 80, 97–118. Riggsby, A.M. (2006). Caesar in Gaul and Rome: War in Words, Austin. Scanlon, T.F. (1988). “Textual Geography in Sallust’s The War with Jugurtha”, Ramus 17, 138–175. Sciarrino, E. (2011). Cato the Censor and the Beginnings of Latin Prose: From Poetic Translation to Elite Transcription, Columbus, OH. Soja, E.W. (1989). Postmodern Geographies: The Reassertion of Space in Critical Social Theory, London & New York. Soja, E.W. (1996). Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-and-Imagined Places, Oxford & Cambridge, MA. Spencer, D. (2007). “Rome at a Gallop: Livy, on not Gazing, Jumping, or Toppling into the Void”, in D.H.J. Larmour & D. Spencer (eds.), The Sites of Rome: Time, Space, Memory (Oxford & New York): 61–101. Thomas, R. (2000). Herodotus in Context: Ethnography, Science and the Art of Persuasion, Cambridge. Turnbull, D. (2007). “Maps Narratives and Trails: Performativity, Hodology and Distributed Knowledges in Complex Adaptive Systems – an Approach to Emergent Mapping”, Geographical Research 45, 140–149. Umurhan, O. (2018). Juvenal’s Global Awareness: Circulation, Connectivity, and Empire, London & New York. Virilio, P. (1977/2006, transl. by M. Polizzotti). Speed and Politics, Los Angeles. (orig. published as Vitesse et Politique, Paris). Watson, J.S. (transl.) (1896). Sallust’s Conspiracy of Catiline and The Jugurthine War, Philadelphia. Welchman, J.C. (1996). “The Philosophical Brothel”, in J.C. Welchman (ed.), Rethinking Borders (London): 160–186. Wiedemann, T. (1993). “Sallust’s Jugurtha: Concord, Discord, and the Digressions”, Greece & Rome 40, 48–57. Williams, J.H.C. (2001). Beyond the Rubicon: Romans and Gauls in Republican Italy, Oxford & New York.

    Chapter 11

    Epilogue: History in Pompeii Anne-Marie Leander Touati 1

    Introduction

    This chapter sets out to investigate what the material record might reveal about the perception and usage of history in Roman Pompeii. In Rome, the use of history is paramount and is emphatically expressed through monumental architecture, imagery, and text. In Pompeii, such material statements are scarce. The choice of Pompeii as the base for enquiry into local perceptions and usages of the past is made because it is by far the largest and most comprehensively preserved of all Roman towns. Seen as “a very ordinary place”,1 it offers a model for wider generalisation. In fact, the lack of attention to it in Roman historiography is not of particular importance; it shares this fate with most places of Roman Italy and beyond. The idea of this paper is thus not so much to examine Pompeii’s place in history, as to investigate attitudes to historical events in the city’s material legacy; to approach the “why” of recording and memorialising events. The few notes on Pompeii that have survived in Roman historiography are relevant when searching for potential reflections of local history in material culture. Ultimately, the question asked in this paper concerns the Roman perception of history outside the ruling city. Scientifically explored since the 19th century, Pompeii’s public and domestic faces – the forum, some eleven temples, five public baths, two theatres, the oldest amphitheatre of the Roman world and about fifty city-blocks – are well known to scholarship. Even though the city, as presented to visitors today, primarily displays its condition in AD79, the urban fabric and street network are far older. Old sanctuaries and a series of high tufa-stone façades for residences dating back to the pre-Roman period suggest an important past. The sculpted capitals with figure decoration, which flanked the entrances of some of these residences (Fig. 11.1), constitute a solid material testimony of the wealth and extent of the Hellenisation that swept over Central Italy in the aftermath of Roman warfare and conquests in the Eastern Mediterranean during the early second century BC. The Alexander mosaic, the most important historical image from Pompeii, as well as from the Roman world at large, dates back to 1 Beard 2008, 45.

    © Anne-Marie Leander Touati, 2021 | doi:10.1163/9789004445086_013

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    figure 11.1 Monumental entrance to the House of the Little Bronze Bull (V 1,7), Pompeii, second century BC. Capital virtually returned to its pristine position on top of pilaster by means of 3D-reconstruction, Swedish Pompeii Project & Humanist Lab, Lund University Photo: Hans Thorwid. Photogrammetry: Carolina Larsson. 3D reconstruction: Stefan Lindgren

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    this period. Since its discovery in 1831, much has been written about its portrayal of the dramatic turn at the Battle at Issus (333BC).2 This was not a battle in which any Pompeian (or Roman for that matter) took part, but the choice of theme, a great battle in the East, is hardly fortuitous at a time when Pompeii’s greatest building boom clearly demonstrates the lifestyle that allies of Rome could hope to enjoy. At the time of its production, this piece of art could easily have been read as a paraphrase of contemporary experiences. The focus of this paper, however, is on the pieces of material historiography that relate to local memory-making. 2

    Pompeii in Historiography and History

    A first point to be made concerns the importance of the town; how well it merits its position as a model for the ordinary Roman town. Since its discovery in the 18th century, Pompeii has acquired the unjust reputation of a backwater, country town. Its size, 66 hectares (170 acres) within the town walls, is not that of a small town. Based on recent non-invasive survey methods, it is clear that about 16 hectares is the more common intramural area for Roman towns in Central Italy.3 Pompeii conforms better to famous Greek colonial sites, such as Selinunte (some 100 hectares or 250 acres within the walls) and Roman Ostia (69 intramural hectares), than to truly rural towns. Both Seneca and Tacitus refer to Pompeii as a “celebrated” town in Campania.4 According to Strabo, it served as a port for Nola, Nuceria, and Acherrae,5 a large region that includes the fertile slopes and plains around Mount Vesuvius. There is no reason to doubt that it was an important city with a long history; the route of the walls had already been traced in the sixth century BC. Pompeii is seldom mentioned in ancient historiography.6 The earliest mention refers to the Second Samnite war, about 310BC, when a Roman fleet docked at its harbour to plunder the Sarno plain and the inland town 2 See Cohen 1997, with research history and bibliography. 3 Pliny named 43 Roman Towns in Central Adriatic Italy. A recent non-invasive survey groups them into four sizes – Small: 7–10 ha; Ordinary: 10–19 ha; Medium: 20–25 ha; Large: 40–45 ha. Vermeulen 2017, 112 Table 1. 4 Sen. Nat. 6.1.1: celebrem Campaniae urbem; Tac. Ann. 15.22: celebre Campaniae oppidum Pompei. In these passages, celeber is variously translated as a “celebrated”, “populous”, or “busy”. 5 Strabo 5.4.8. 6 For an excellent account of the range of ancient text sources on Pompeii, see Cooley & Cooley 2014.

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    of Nuceria Alfatera.7 We may suspect that the Oscan-speaking Pompeians belonged to the Samnite camp. After Rome’s victory in the Samnite wars, her former enemies were invited to participate as allies in her warfare in the south and east Mediterranean.8 Next follows Pompeii’s participation in the Italic revolt against Rome in the Social war 91–89BC. Appian lists the insurgents as eleven “tribes”, among which are the Pompeians.9 The city was attacked and subdued by Sulla.10 Later it received a contingent of veterans and became the Colonia Veneria Cornelia. The name is passed on to posterity in considerably later epigraphy,11 but the identity of the founder whose name is handed down through the name Cornelia makes a solid case for dating the colony to 80BC. This date fits well into the career of Sulla.12 The general and his soldiers left the Italian peninsula in 88 to wage war on Mithridates of Pontus and continued to do so until 83. When returning from the East by Brindisium, Sulla marched his army on Rome, where he held dictatorial powers from 82 to 80, before finally retiring to Campania, where he died a year later. The fullest picture we have in text of Pompeian history concerns the colony. It stems from Cicero’s defence of Sulla’s nephew, Publius Cornelius Sulla, who was accused in 62BC of having been involved in the second Catilinarian conspiracy. The pro Sulla presents Publius Sulla as the founder of the colony and describes him as its patron and protector. Cicero claimed that the defendant had worked to bridge resentment between the two groups, Pompeians and colonists, not to fuel that divide, as the prosecution claimed.13 The next event mentioned in historiography takes place over a century later, in the passage in Tacitus’ Annals that relates a riot in the amphitheatre between Pompeians and Nucerians in AD59 and its aftermath in Rome: the Nucerians’ plea to the Emperor for justice, which was finally granted by the Roman Senate.14 The 7 Liv. 9.38.2. There are slightly more mentions of Nuceria in ancient texts. The site is understood in modern historiography to have held a leading position in a league of cities around the Sarno plain in the archaic period, a prominence it no longer enjoyed in the days of the Samnite wars and subsequently. 8 Wallace-Hadrill 2008, 129–30. 9 App. BC 1.39.1. It has been suggested that the term Pompeians here denote all people living in the Sarno plain and on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius as far up as to Nola. Laurence 2016, 402. If so, this is another indication of the importance of Pompeii. 10 Plut. Sull. 6.3; Vell. 2.16.2. 11 CIL X 787. 12 Weber (1975, 179–97) argues that the city had municipium status in the period 89–80BC and that it may have been an original Marian project to settle a colony there; cf. Santangelo 2007, 68–71. 13 Cic. Sull. 60–62; cf. Cooley 2002, 78; Cooley & Cooley 2014, 34. 14 Tac. Ann. 14.17.

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    earthquake of AD62 or 63 comes next,15 followed by Pliny the Younger’s two famous letters to Tacitus about the eruption of AD79.16 Pompeian material record of its history is even sparser than the notes on local events in ancient historiography and literature. It amounts to merely two events, the riot in the amphitheatre and the earthquake. Nonetheless, these are unique cases, in that they provide parallel descriptions in historiography and in local imagery, thus allowing for a discussion about the varied and contrasted usage of history in the two media. The aim of this paper is to pursue and deepen this discussion. 3

    The Riot

    The fresco representing the riot in Pompeii’s amphitheatre (Fig. 11.2) and Tacitus’ narrative of the same event (below) form an exceptional historical testimony. When the event is presented, both in texts and in scholarship, the painting generally takes a subordinate position and is treated mainly as an illustration of the events related in Tacitus’ text. Nonetheless, the contents of both image and text are ample and complex and call for closer examination, including the contextualisation of each narrative and an unbiased comparison of how the event is recorded in each media. It is worth noting that the spatial context of the image is a modest sized atrium house (I 3,3), situated in the southern part of Pompeii. The small size of the house and its place in a low-profile city block indicate that it was not among the city’s most well frequented houses. It did not advertise its history painting. The representation of the riot was positioned out of sight from the street. Obviously, there was no desire to propagate its messages to all and sundry. The design of the house demanded that the visitor entered, continued along its main or “public” axis and, arriving at the rear, turned around to discover a perpendicular secondary axis, at the end of which the painting was placed.17 Nonetheless, it was given pride of place on the rear wall of the peristyle, the widest, most decorative and innermost space of the house. Imagery representing themes pertaining to the amphitheatre are common in Pompeii and elsewhere, but they are generally not presented in such a focal position on the wall, on such a large scale and with so many references to the local cityscape. Its description of events will follow below, after that by Tacitus (Ann. 14.17):

    15 Differently dated by Seneca (Nat. 6.1.1: AD 62) and Tacitus (Ann. 15.22: AD 63). 16 Plin. Ep. 6.16 and 6.20. 17 For representations of the house plan, see PPM 1, 1990, 77; Clarke 2003, 154.

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    Riot in the Amphitheatre fresco from House I 3,3, Pompeii. Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, inv. 112222 Courtesy of the photographer: Carole Raddato

    sub idem tempus leui initio atrox caedes orta inter colonos Nucerinos Pompeianosque gladiatorio spectaculo, quod Liuineius Regulus, quem motum senatu rettuli, edebat. quippe oppidana lasciuia in uicem incessente[s] probra, dein saxa, postremo ferrum sumpsere, ualidiore Pompeianorum plebe, apud quos spectaculum edebatur. ergo deportati sunt in urbem multi e Nucerinis trunco per uulnera corpore, ac plerique liberorum aut parentum mortes deflebant. cuius rei iudicium princeps senatui, senatus consulibus permisit. et rursus re ad patres relata, prohibiti publice in decem annos eius modi coetu Pompeiani collegiaque, quae contra leges instituerant, dissoluta; Liuineius et qui alii seditionem conciuerant exilio multati sunt. At about the same time from a trivial dispute there sprang up between the Nucerian and Pompeian colonists a frightful slaughter at a gladiatorial

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    spectacle which Livineius Regulus, whose removal from the senate I have recorded, was producing. Assailing each other with the recklessness of townsfolk, they resorted to abuse, then rocks and finally the sword, the more effective being the plebs of the Pompeians, among whom the spectacle was being produced. As a result many of the Nucerians were transferred to the City, their bodies maimed by wounds, and very many had the deaths of children and parents to lament. Judgment on the affair was passed from princeps to senate, from senate to consuls; and, the affair being referred back to the fathers, the Pompeians were officially prevented from holding gatherings of that type for ten years, and the leagues which they had instituted illegally were dissolved; Livineius and the others who had stirred up the riot were penalized by exile.18 Apart from marvelling at how well the picture conforms with Tacitus’ account, scholarly interest in this passage has mainly been concerned with the illegal associations mentioned (Pompeiani collegiaque quae contra leges instituerant), while hypothesising about their nature and to what they may have translated in Pompeian social life.19 However, when considered both in itself and in the wider framework of Tacitus’ treatment of AD59, the passage does not demonstrate an interest in Pompeian affairs on the part of the historian. Instead, it appears to be intended as a backdrop to the account of the dishonours befalling Livineius Regulus, the former senator who offered the show during which the brawl came about. The riot, in itself, is not seen as an exceptional occurrence, but something to be expected of “the recklessness of townsfolk” (oppidana lasciuia). Nonetheless, as a result, Livineius, formerly expelled from the Senate (for reasons that elude us since the passage describing that part of his story is lost), is now condemned to exile. Others were identified as sharing responsibility for exciting the disturbance and suffered the same penalty. However, in their case, Tacitus provides no names and no rank, in spite of the fact they were most likely the leading city magistrates.20 18 19

    Transl. from Woodman 2004. Is the meaning couched in general or relative terms: “all associations they had formed in defiance of the laws were dissolved”, or, “all associations, they had formed in defiance of the laws were dissolved, and, what were these associations”? Cf. Moeller 1970. For further references to different scholarly interpretations, see Clarke 2003, 306–7. 20 It can be deduced from the dated business transactions belonging to the archive of Caecilius Iucundus (giving the names of the consuls at Rome and those of the duumvirs at Pompeii) that the duumvirs, Cn. Pompeius Grosphus and Cn. Pompeius Grosphus Gavianus, did not remain in office for the full magistrate year July–June, AD 59–60. The duumvirs had already changed in May 60; cf. Moeller 1970, 94; Cooley & Cooley 2014, 79–80.

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    After the paragraph on Pompeii, there follows another that is similar in essence, but which provides information about a different locality: Pedius Blaesus, proconsul of Crete and Cyrene, is charged with temple robbery and finds himself expelled from the Senate.21 Obviously, these two consecutive passages list cases, judged by Nero or his establishment in that year, which resulted in disgrace. In fact, most entries in that year appear chosen to present Nero in the worst possible manner. First comes the lengthy description of his schemes leading to the matricide, after which follows the mention of the two expulsions and a long series of prodigies alternately marking the merits of potential successors and foretelling the end of the Emperor. While Tacitus’ use of the Pompeian episode mainly reflects the historian’s interest in Roman protagonists and protocols, the focus of the painting is purely Pompeian. The description of the turmoil, set in a credible Pompeian city-scape, celebrates no particular participant. There is a great deal of movement. Disordered groups are scattered all over the scene, except in the lower register where life seems to go on as usual, in a quiet, lofty way that recalls sacred landscapes, common in Pompeian painting and revealing some of the painter’s more normal repertoire. A closer examination shows that we are not presented with a fight between equals  – no one-to-one encounters or fighting groups – but the suppression of opponents no longer (if ever) capable of defending themselves (Figs. 11.3–11.6). Falling to the ground, they are battered by several assailants (Figs. 11.3–11.5). From the summit of the amphitheatre, figures with one arm raised are apparently throwing missiles of some sort at people in the street below (Fig. 11.6). The latter attempt to shield themselves with both arms raised. Attempts to escape or hide are vain. A body is hauled from the city-wall (Fig. 11.3). Rather than the initial, matched battle, which, according to Tacitus, was fuelled by both sides, the moment chosen for this record is the final stage of the riot, the massacre. This choice of moment shows that the imagery does not set out to record an historical event for history’s own sake, but to express the pride of those who saw themselves as the winners of a (truly epic?) brawl. Like the triumphal monuments of Rome, this imagery springs from a wish to express pride and boast of an achievement. However, the painting’s location in a small unpretentious house indicates that it was intended for a restricted group with special interest in the event. The hypothesis that this group consisted of friends of the arena is strengthened by the fact that the painting was framed on both sides

    21 Tac. Ann. 14.18. Blaesus was restored by Otho in AD69: Tac. Hist. 1.77.

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    Detail of Riot Fresco, north of the amphitheatre Photo: Carole Raddato

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    Detail of Riot Fresco, in the arena Photo: Carole Raddato

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    Detail of Riot Fresco, by the city wall south of the amphitheatre Photo: Carole Raddato

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    Detail of Riot Fresco, missiles thrown from the exterior terrace of the summa cavea on opponents in the street below Photo: Carole Raddato

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    by more emblematic imagery representing different types of gladiators, each showcasing his particular battle skills.22 In order to understand the use of history of which this painting is a tangible result, it is important to consider its placement, since it defines its addressees. On the other side of the communicative act, the commissioner of the work merits equal attention. Nonetheless, among the many scholars who have commented on the painting, few have speculated about the identity of the person who had it created for this particular location. The fact that the riot fresco contains no gladiators weakens the claim that the owner of the house was a gladiator himself.23 In fact, the imagery accords better with an idea, first suggested by Thomas Fröhlich, that the man who commissioned the painting had participated in the riot himself and took pride in its outcome.24 Building on this idea and reflecting on what the painting may have meant to the person who ordered it and to the visitors who saw it, John Clarke suggests that the house may well have functioned as the seat of a club, perhaps one of the illegal collegia mentioned by Tacitus.25 He concludes as follows: “the Riot of the Amphitheatre is a subversive image that reveal the special interest of a man – and his buddies – who delighted in seeing Roman[26] social order turned upside down”.27 For its contribution, both to the understanding of this particular usage of the past and to more general functions of local memory-making, Clarke’s final reflection on the circumstances surrounding the viewing of the painting merits a quote in full: Male friends of the patron – whether or not they had taken part in the fight – shared his glee in remembering it. A child not yet born at the time of the event would marvel at its visual accuracy and enjoy the story it told of long ago. If someone outside the confidence of the patron saw it, the Riot picture must have seemed quite odd – not so much because of its subversive content but because proper peristyles ought to display handsome mythological paintings. He or she would cast the owner of the house as a maverick in matters of interior decoration, preferring a

    22 Much deteriorated today, these paintings can only be studied in modern drawings; see Clarke 2003, 55 figs. 91–92. 23 Fiorelli 1875, 56; Della Corte 1914–1925/1965, 268. 24 Fröhlich 1991, 247. 25 Clarke 2003, 154–8. 26 The modifier “Roman” refers, of course, to the social order not of Rome but of Pompeii, which by this date had already been a thoroughly Roman city for a long time. 27 Clarke 2003, 157.

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    representation of an ugly local event to a timeless and beautiful mythological scene.28 Most likely, the aim of the history usage described here was to consolidate cohesion of a certain group of people through the creation of a mutual narrative. To most of the inhabitants of Pompeii, the imperial verdict was undoubtedly more important than memorialising the riot. The resulting closure of the arena for gladiatorial games and the exile of some of the city’s prominent residents must have been a heavy blow. The weight of the blow may be measured by the fact that an epigraphical eulogy recently discovered in Pompeii, unusually in such an ahistorical genre, relates the return of the exiled.29 This suggests that the ban did not remain in place for long. The text – the longest of its kind found in Pompeii – crowns a funerary monument probably built just before the eruption,30 but it recalls an earlier achievement that probably took place back in the 60s. The deceased is praised for his largesse: not only extraordinarily splendid games, but also financial support of and bread distribution to the poor. Last, but not least, he had acted as intermediary between the local community and Rome, obtaining the return of the exiled: cum Caesar omnes familias ultra ducentesimum ab urbe ut abducerent iussisset, uni / huic ut Pompeios in patriam suam reduceret permisit, “And when Caesar had ordered that they deport from the City beyond the two-hundredth mile all the gladiatorial households [schools], to this man alone he [Caesar] granted that he restore [return] the two persons named Pompeius to their town”.31 Given that Caesar here presumably refers to Nero,32 we may conclude that the painting outlived the ban; it was apparently experienced as a marker of both meaning and memory up to AD79. 4

    The Earthquake

    The other local event recorded both in historiography and in Pompeian material media is the earthquake of AD62/63. Tacitus briefly mentions the vast 28 29 30 31

    32

    Clarke 2003, 159. Osanna 2018. Dating based on the good state of preservation of the monument; cf. Osanna 2018, 314. Translation presented by Osanna 2018, 313–4. The text is ambiguous; either meaning that the exiled (Pompeios) belonged to the gens Pompeia, that is, most probably the two duumvirs of AD59 (see note 20 above), or that he obtained the return to Pompeii (Pompeios). Both readings are presented in Osanna 2018, 314, 318. Osanna 2018, 319.

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    impact it had on the city as one among many omens foretelling the coming end of Nero. Seneca uses it as an example in a lecture on natural science and on how to conduct oneself when facing the unforeseen.33 He excludes divine interference and concludes as follows (Nat. 6.32.9): quantum potes itaque ipse te cohortare, Lucili, contra metum mortis. hic est qui nos humiles facit; hic est qui uitam ipsam cui parcit inquietat ac perdit; hic omnia ista dilatat, terrarum motus et fulmina. quae omnia feres constanter, si cogitaueris nihil interesse inter exiguum tempus et longum. And so, Lucilius, brace yourself, as much as you can, against the fear of death. This is the fear which makes us lowly; this is what disquiets and destroys the very life it spares; this magnifies all those things, such as earthquakes and lightning. You will endure all these courageously if you reflect that there is no difference between a long and short period of living.34 Two stone slabs decorated with reliefs found in Pompeii depict the effects of the earthquake (Fig. 11.7). One shows the collapsed Northern city gate, today known as Porta Vesuvio. To the left in the image, the Castellum Aquae is still standing solidly; to the right a team of mules is panicking. On the far right is a display of sacrificial paraphernalia. While this relief slab lacks provenance, the other is the well-known relief found in situ, adorning the household shrine in the atrium of the House of Caecilius Iucundus (V 1,26). The image presents a view of the northern part of Pompeii’s forum with the Temple of Jupiter, leaning alarmingly, flanked by two equestrian statues and a monumental arch, apparently also close to crumble. In contrast, an altar, depicted to the right of the disaster scene, is standing solidly. Further right, an officiant approaches with a bull prepared for sacrifice. As in the other relief, the extreme right features large sacrificial instruments, out of scale with both the cityscape depicted and the sacrificial scene. Apparently, sacrifice and efficient household gods are presented as the best protection against unsuspected calamities. The image faced the “public” axis of the house just inside the entrance, so as to have an immediate impact on anyone entering from the street. It is worth noting that, though we have good reasons to believe that the house suffered some damage during the earthquake,35 the imagery’s narrative concerns the forum, not the house 33 Sen. Nat. 6; Cooley 2014, 39. 34 Transl. by T.H. Corcoran 1972, LCL. 35 Two walls of a garden room sank into the cellar beneath (Karivieri & Forsell 2008, 136).

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    The two earthquake reliefs while on display together in Pompeii Photo: Ernest Nash. Fototeca Unione, American Academy in Rome. Image used courtesy of the Institute of Archaeology, University of Oxford

    itself. The memorialisation of an historical event, in other words, was used to present an ideal version of the householder’s involvement in public affairs – Iucundus’ auctioneering and banking business being linked to the forum –, as well as to offer thanks to the gods. The similarity in narrative contents and close formal relationship between the two relief slabs – identical in material, relief depth (low), stylistic characteristics (naïvist), and measurements (similar, but not identical) – explain the creation, presumably in the 1920s, of an onsite scenography displaying both reliefs together. The City-gate relief was attached to the wall above the altar dedicated to Iucundus’ household gods (Figs. 11.7–11.8). Hence, it has often

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    figure 11.8

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    Lararium of Caecilius Iucundus. The City-gate relief was added to this setting, presumably in the 1920s. Watercolour by Luigi Bazzani, published in Maiuri 1929 Source: www.romeinspompeii.net/bazzani .html

    been erroneously attributed this provenance, although early reproductions show fragments of a painted decoration, not the relief, in this position.36 Thus, it is more likely that the lack of provenance simply indicates that the City-gate 36 For one early reproduction, see Presuhn 1878. The Forum relief from the House of Caecilius Iucundus is today in the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, inv. 112222, whereas the City-gate relief is lost, preserved only through a plaster cast in the Museo della Civiltà Romana in Rome.

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    relief was found outside its original context. It could have been re-used in a non-decorative architectural setting, as is common in Pompeii, where nothing was left to waste, or, as with other pieces of sculpture, abandoned in a street or randomly left elsewhere in the panic of AD79. The different fortunes of the two earthquake reliefs could be explained by considering to whom the respective monuments, having themselves become objects of history, remained meaningful. Fortunately, the Forum relief belongs to the finds made in the House of Caecilius Iucundus, which is  – without comparison  – the most well-furnished with epigraphy in Pompeii (and the Roman world as a whole). Moreover, it is among the limited number of Pompeian houses unearthed in the 19th century that have been revisited in a comprehensive archaeological investigation carried out by the Swedish Pompeii Project.37 The combined evidence of epigraphy and archaeology exposes two generations of family presence, most likely from the 40’s AD, when the house was thoroughly modernised and enlarged, up to the end of city life in 79. To link materiality and family history so closely and with such certainty is rare even by (the exceptional) Pompeian standards. The make-over carried out in the 40’s involved the incorporation of a neighbouring house and the consequent doubling of the surface area. Both parts were modernised: running water was introduced and the walls of several rooms were decorated according to the latest fashion. Two graffiti scratched into one of the new garden columns spell out the name of the emperor, Tiberius Claudius. Besides the dating suggested by the style of the new wall-decorations, these graffiti place the building project firmly in time.38 Further, of course, the famous archive of Lucius Caecilius Iucundus, found in the house, accounts for the man’s business activities in the period AD52–61. Notices of electoral propaganda posted on the façades of the house and of neighbouring premises refer to family members using the cognomen Iucundus.39 In the one on the house, Iucundus promotes Holconius Priscus for the office of duumvir, thus referring to the election of AD79. Another, which refers to Quintus and Sextus Iucundus, generally taken to be the sons of the Caecilius Iucundus of the 37

    The House of Caecilius Iucundus is part of city block V 1 in Pompeii, which the Swedish Pompeii Project has revisited for full documentation and thorough archaeological investigation of standing structures. A monograph on this particular house is forthcoming. For an earlier account of the findings, see Leander Touati 2010 or the open access research platform www.pompejiprojektet.se. 38 The emperor’s name in graffiti appears twice on a column of the rearranged garden (CIL IV 4089; 4090). The new decorations of the tablinum, in the late third style, belong stylistically in the same period. For a more detailed treatment, see Leander Touati et al. Forthcoming. 39 CIL IV 3428; 3473.

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    archive, promotes the candidate Ceius Secundus, who also ran for office in the late 70s.40 Uninterrupted family presence may thus explain the preservation of the altar and its decoration, exhibited in the family home as family history. 5

    Commemoration and Memory

    The different fortunes of the two earthquake reliefs alert us to the fact that in all historical usage, and particularly when it comes to local history, there is a temporal aspect to consider. Scarce material records do not necessarily mean that more never existed, only that they have not survived. Archaeological research carried out in Pompeii have demonstrated that the changing tides of fashion – whether in interior decoration or the monumental development of public space – entailed a ceaseless updating of taste and content. In the forum, the display of loyalty to whatever regime was currently in power was more important than a deferential attitude towards the past as such.41 Even spaces dedicated to the gods witness a similar desire to modernise and regenerate. The devastating earthquake of AD62/63 and the subsequent need for rebuilding are likely to have hastened this effect in Pompeii. A monument erected much earlier than the earthquake reliefs demonstrates that religious dedications and public memorials were no safer from falling into disuse and oblivion than the privately commissioned works discussed so far. A sculpture base found in situ in the sanctuary of Apollo, facing the temple from the southwest corner of the sacred area, is a telling example. When found in the 19th century, its importance in the pre-Roman history of Pompeii was not immediately recognised. It took time and the erosion of its plaster coating, followed by the intentional removal of the plaster, to discover that this coating concealed an inscription in the Oscan language, naming L. Mummius, son of Lucius, as consul.42 This is one of several inscription found in Greek and Italic cities (in scholarship labelled tituli mummiani)  – all from the period between Mummius’ conquest of Corinth in 146BC and his censorship in 142–141BC – recording the famous general’s donations of Greek artworks.43 We have evidence of this largess in historiography, more specifically in the Livian Periochae, placing them in the aftermath of the triumph celebrated in 145BC (Liv. Per. 53): [s]igna status tabulas Corinth[ias L. M]ummius distribuit 40 CIL IV 3433. On the date, see Mouritsen 1988, 42. 41 Kockel 2005. 42 Vetter 1953, no. 61; for the result of the cleaning of the inscription, see Martelli 2002, esp. 73–5. The reading of the name was first presented by Paavo Castrén in 1974 (published in Castrén 1976, 357). 43 Martelli 2002 supports the dating of the tituli suggested in Pietilä Castrén 1978.

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    circa oppida et Rom[am ornauit], “Lucius Mummius distributed statues, monuments, and paintings from Corinth among the towns and adorned Rome with them”.44 It is, of course, impossible to state when the text was plastered over. Martelli, who performed the “undressing” of the stone, suggests the founding of the colony in 80BC, after which the Oscan language passed out of use, or the restructuring after the AD62/63 earthquake as two possible historical contexts suitable for the removal of old, now obsolete monuments.45 While building archaeology in Pompeii has documented many instances of “disrespectful” use of the past in the guise of spolia, among which architectural ornaments from earlier periods treated as ordinary building material, it also encounters examples of conscientious preservation both of such refinements and of old painted wall decorations. There are, of course, examples of old sanctuaries and images of the gods being respected, but this is not the rule,46 no more in Pompeii than in Rome. An illustrative example of the “disrespectful” attitude towards the past may been witnessed in the re-use of an “Etruscan column” – found inside a small house in the northwest district of the city that is commonly interpreted as the remnant of an archaic sanctuary – as a supporting element in a concrete wall.47 Being thicker than the width the wall, its back was cut off along the whole height.48 Likewise, during the Claudian-era makeover of the peristyle garden in the House of Caecilius Iucundus, the acanthus leaves and volutes of old tufa stone capitals were cut away or ground down to reshape the capitals into cylinders (Fig. 11.9), suitable for integrating the shafts of the new, higher columns supporting the roofs and second floors of the rearranged garden porticoes (Fig. 11.10). This kind of modernisation was more common in house interiors, whereas prestige architecture of old was treated with more respect when it formed part of the façade and was in the public eye (Fig. 11.1). Not even an honorific monument in a public space guaranteed the honorand lasting memory. Altered facial features and modified inscriptions could change not just one emperor into his successor, but also a publicly honoured local benefactor into another. The statue representing Holconius Rufus,

    44 45

    Transl. by A.C. Schlesinger 1959, LCL; cf. Martelli (2002, 77), also quoting Liv. Per. 52. Martelli 2002, 79–80. Although the Oscan language passed out of monumental use with the establishment of the colony, it remained in use for graffiti into the Imperial period (Cooley 2002, 84). 46 Cf. Van Andringa 2012. For the term “respected”, see De Caro 2008, 75. 47 House of the Etruscan Column (VI 5,17). PPM IV, 352–354 (I. Brigantini). 48 For an image, see https://pompeiiinpictures.com/pompeiiinpictures/R6/6%2005%2017 .htm.

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    figure 11.9 Re-cycled column in the garden of Caecilius Iucundus Photo: Hans Thorwid, Swedish Pompeii Project. Courtesy of Soprintendenza Speciale per i Beni Archeologici di Napoli e Pompei

    317

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    figure 11.10

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    Note the Corinthian capital re-cycled in the masonry of the second floor of the north garden portico of the House of Caecilius Iucundus. Watercolour by the Swedish architect Isac Gustaf Clason, 1884 Photo: Linn Ahlgren, Swedish Pompeii Project. Courtesy of the Royal Academy of Fine Arts, Stockholm

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    patron of Pompeii in the city’s last days, is a well-known case of a portrait carved out of an earlier marble head.49 The situation from the House of Caecilius Iucundus suggests uninterrupted family possession as an answer to the question of why some monuments were preserved and others not. Its earthquake relief is an example of family or household piety, but also part of a wider attitude to the past, reflecting a wish to link family history – with its claims to prestige and status – to local history. Not unlike their lararium, a much older altar found in a far more prestigious residence, the House of the Faun, sheds light on the conditions conducive to a “respectful” attitude towards the past. This house, which also contained the Alexander mosaic and other unique decorations of the same period, was the richest of all Pompeian houses throughout its existence. In this case, we may suggest that the preservation of a religious monument in a domestic setting reflects an active and durable wish to state the importance of the house and to maintain a traditional bond through successive generations. The text in Oscan is a dedication to Flora (Fluusa).50 Another Oscan inscription found in the house, celebrating a certain V. Sadiriis VAidil, has given rise to the hypothesis that a Samnite gens owned the house in the pre-Roman era.51 Only two other Oscan inscriptions are known to have remained visible up to AD79. Both belonged to public buildings: the Samnite Palaestra and the extramural Sanctuary of Liber.52 This circumstance further underlines the unique status of the House of the Faun. The Oscan artefacts adds old age to its impressive narrative, construed on its imposing size, stately layout and unique decorations.53 The House of the Faun and Mummius’ dedication take us much further back in local history than the two events described in Roman historiography (the riot and the earthquake). It also underlines that the evidence for the present investigation has been supplied by two distinct periods of Pompeian history, the second half of the second century BC and the last two decades of city-life, up to AD79. Given the risk of erasure in material historiography, the latter is not surprising, the former remarkable.

    49 Three cases of such modification (re-carving, re-assigning, re-erecting) in Pompeii are presented in Longfellow 2018. As noted by Longfellow, the practice was by no means restricted to Pompeii. 50 Vetter 1953, no. 21. The Fluusa inscription was found in 1832 in the tetrastyle atrium of the house together with another (no. 17) mentioning the quaestor Num. Spurius; cf. Pesando 1996, 200 and nn.42–3. 51 Vetter 1953, no. 19; cf. Pesando 1996, 218–23. 52 Cooley 2002, 81–2; Bielfeldt 2007, 353. 53 For an attempt to reconstruct this narrative, see Pesando 1996, 219–22.

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    Another group of early epigraphic relics, just as remarkable as the previous examples, is that of the so-called programmata antiquissima, electoral notices from the first years of the colony.54 The reason for their preservation is all the more puzzling since there is a gap between them and the large bulk of electoral propaganda, the so called programmata recentiora, which date to the period AD50–79. While the 123 ancient notices may not seem many when compared to the about 2500 from the more recent period, the circumstances of their preservations remain puzzling. The words of Henrik Mouritsen are worth quoting in full: “What special circumstances obtained in these years and thus made preservation of this group of inscriptions possible is not clear: an answer to this question would require an archaeological investigation of the wall structures in Pompeii.”55 Although a more recent study suggests the existence of some texts dating to the late first century BC,56 the survival in good number of the older notices, dated to the 70’s BC by Mouritsen, remains remarkable and more likely to be due to voluntary maintenance than to hazard.57 The results of a thorough investigation by the Swedish Pompeii Project of insula V 1 and its dependencies proposes a way of understanding their survival. Among the graffiti and dipinti from this city-block published in the Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum feature no less than eleven programmata antiquissima.58 Nine of these belonged to the stately tufa façade facing Via di Nola (Fig. 11.1).59 The homogeneity of this long façade suggests a common building initiative and probably a joint ownership of all premises behind it. The whole southern third of the insula was dominated by the patron’s residence: the House of the Small Bronze Bull.60 The long street-front façade and the house beyond were built in the third quarter of the second century BC. In the first half of the next century, the latter underwent a first updating, by which the domestic 54

    On the recognition, dating and number of the programmata antiquissima, see Mouritsen 1988, 79–85. 55 Mouritsen 2018, 83. 56 Viitanen & Nissin 2017, 118–99, quoting Chiavia 2002, 122–6. 57 Sakai (1993, 98–101), who investigated the inscriptions in situ, whereas earlier studies (p. 89) “based their results on information of the texts found in the CIL”, concludes that they were probably painted on a thin layers of plaster and covered by a transparent coat, allowing visibility. As noted by Opdenhoff 2018, notice painters (of the Flavian period) commonly respected the visibility of names of earlier candidates; this suggests that (p. 314) “the persistence of writings was also used to … evoke the memory of a family’s achievements”. 58 Sakai 1993, 90–1, 95. 59 CIL IV 17–25. 60 For the building history, see Staub 2013; more specifically particularly on the relation between main house and dependencies over time, see Leander Touati 2010, 138–42.

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    space was expanded towards the west. This annexation of new space for the wealthy owner’s living purposes was coupled with the reshaping and redecoration of the old front (atrium) rooms, whose walls were decorated according to the Second Pompeian Style. The chronology indicated by the stylistic dating of these wall paintings fits well with the first generations of the colony, and with the notices. Furthermore, these decorations were preserved in the atrium area up to AD79, even though the rear parts of the house were lavishly redecorated in the imperial period. There is a good case for suggesting interest in household tradition, possibly continuity of family presence in the organisation of this estate. The two programmata antiquissima recorded on the west façade of the insula were situated on each side of the entrance to the House of the Greek Epigrams, facing Via del Vesuvio. This house appears to have been reshaped into a fashionable residence about the same time as the House of the Small Bronze Bull was updated for the first time. Its famous wall decorations, which have given the house its name, are about a generation younger (late Second Style, corresponding to the 30s BC) than the date (70s BC) ascribed to the programmata.61 The case for an enduring family presence over generations up to the end of city-life is not totally lacking. The predilection for the Greek language showcased by the texts accompanying the figurative decorations in the Epigram-room has a less literary follow-up in the form of a wall-decoration of imperial date in another of the garden rooms of this house, presenting a pet dog by the name of ASYNCLETUS.62 However, family continuity or not, it would seem that programmata antiquissima were maintained as a sign on past dignity that reflected on house and household over time and that this maintenance was close in kind to the reasons encountered above for commemorating the amphitheatre riot and the earthquake, that is, to consolidate group or family narratives. The establishment of the colony was apparently a persistent source of pride in local historymaking, continuously celebrated in privately as well as in publicly financed space. Its importance is manifestly underlined by two building dedications commemorating the monumental gifts to the colony from its first duumuiri (later duumuiri quinquennales), M. Porcius and Caius Quinctius Valgus:63 the small theatre and the amphitheatre.

    61 On the creation of this house in the first century BC, see Leander Touati et al. Forthcoming. 62 Museo Nazionale Archeologico di Napoli inv 110877; CIL IV 3406; spelling corrected in Wachter 2019, 215; PPM III, 554–5 fig. 28. 63 For the biographies of the duumuiri, see Castrén 1975, 88–91.

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    Local vs Grand Narrative and History vs Myth

    In Pompeii, as probably in many Roman cities, the treatment of material remnants as relics of achievements or events exemplified a usage of the past linked to the desire to express pride and prestige, as well as to mark group and/ or family distinction. Since the city had lost all pretence to an independent political or heroic identity and since no Pompeians left a historical legacy in Rome, its usage of the past is found in the private, rather than in the public sphere. However, there are nonetheless some clear examples that such selfcelebration could include a desire to highlight political engagements beyond that of the local community. This is evidenced not least by a group of figurative wall-paintings and floor mosaics whose political message, expressed in terms borrowed from the symbolic triumphal imagery of Rome, is unmistakable: weapons, boat prows (rostra), bundles ( fasces) of thunderbolts, and so forth.64 As far as dating goes, these artworks belong to the period from the middle to the end of the first century BC. It has been suggested that they could be intended as statements of loyalty to one side or the other in Rome’s final series of civil wars. Their allusion to mastery of the sea is particularly well-suited to honour Pompey the Great, Sextus Pompeius, and Octavian,65 powerful Roman leaders whose actions could merit celebration, not least in this local context: Pompey defeated the pirates in the Mediterranean; Sextus Pompeius’ rivalry with Octavian caused the latter to move the Roman fleet to the Bay of Naples and the Portus Iulius in 37BC.66 Its subsequent move to Cap Misenum marked the end of the civil wars. Admittedly, the iconography of these mosaics is sufficiently generic in its symbolic support of Rome’s ruling class to permit reinterpretation in favour of whomever emerged as the winner. In any case, these symbolic history markers referring to the grand narrative of Rome survived for over a century until the end of Pompeian city life. Another art ensemble of the same period, treating the theme of Rome’s greatness at more length, belongs to the wall decorations of the House of the Cryptoporticus (I 6,2).67 Its cool, semi-subterranean portico displayed an extensive suite of 80 pinakes exalting Rome’s Trojan origins, from the Homeric narratives to the Iliupersis. This narrative of Rome’s origins promotes myth as history and as a periphrastic justification of power. However, in the context of what we know about Pompeian history, these metaphorical 64 65 66

    For a presentation and a good series of images, see Esposito 2008. Esposito 2008, 72, 75–6, 83. On the impact of the naval rivalry, its symbolic language, and shifting loyalties during the end of the civil wars, see Welch 2012; Lange 2016. 67 Spinazzola 1953, 435–593 and 869–70 nn.367–97 (by A. Levi, S. Aurigemma, and D. Facenna); Esposito 2008, 63.

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    images portraying Roman achievements also reflect historical experiences of purely local character. They belong to the decades around or close to Cicero’s defence of Publius Sulla. As well as showing direct engagement with the conflicts of the grand history of Rome, they could represent a wish to express pride in a Roman past on behalf of the Latin-speaking colonists; maybe especially important at this time when internal differences appear to have divided the colonists and the Pompeians.68 The same atmosphere may explain the persistence of the programmata antiquissima. The Trojan cycle of the House of the Cryptoporticus may not merit the label of history, at least not in the modern sense of the word. However, told through unique groupings of many episodes, it is an impressive narrative in its own right and appears to be political in intent. Stylistically, it belongs to a new fashion in wall decorations that saw figure scenes enter the painters’ repertoire. The taste for mythological narratives in wall decorations is a phenomenon that originated in Rome and spread quickly across the empire. In Pompeii, it made its entry one or two generations after the re-foundation of the city as a Roman colony.69 It grew explosively in the Augustan period and in the following years to become the most distinctive characteristic of Pompeii’s material legacy. Although Rome’s legendary history continues to figure on Pompeian walls, the main interest is in a return to the rich heritage of Greek mythology. As a more inclusive narrative than those examined here, it is easy to understand the power of this new medium. Bibliography Beard, M. (2008). Pompeii: The Life of a Roman Town, London. Bielfeldt, R. (2007). “Der Liber-Tempel in Pompeji in Sant’Abbondio: Oskisches Vorstadtheiligtum und Kaiserzeitliches Kultlokal”, Römische Mitteilungen 113, 317–371. Castrén, P. (1975). Ordo Populusque Pompeianus: Polity and Society in Roman Pompeii, Rome. Castrén, P. (1976). “Hellenismus und Romanisierung in Pompeji”, in P. Zanker (ed.), Hellenismus in Mittelitalien, vol. 2 (Göttingen): 356–365. 68

    According to Castrén (1975, 85–92, 122), the local inhabitants were excluded from the administration of the city in the first decades after the establishment of the colony. Only after a generation or so was the ordo open to both communities. Mouritsen (1988, 70–89), arguing that the epigraphic evidence is not conclusive on segregation, is sceptical to the idea of two distinct communities. 69 On the introduction of figure scenes and myth in the late Pompeian second style, see Hodske 2007, 38.

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    Chiavia C. (2002). Programmata: Manifesti elettorali nella colonia romana di Pompei, Turin. Clarke, J.R. (2003). Art in the Lives of Ordinary Romans: Visual Representation and Non-Elite Viewers in Italy, 100 B.C.–A.D. 315, Berkeley & Los Angeles, CA. Cohen, A. (1997). The Alexander Mosaic: Stories of Victory and Defeat, Cambridge. Cooley, A.E. & Cooley, M.G.L. (2014). Pompeii and Herculaneum: A sourcebook, 2nd ed., London & New York. Cooley, A.E. “The survival of Oscan in Pompeii”, in A.E. Cooley (ed.), Becoming Roman, Writing Latin? Literacy and epigraphy in the Roman West (Portsmouth): 77–87. De Caro, S. (2008). “The First Sanctuaries”, in J.J. Dobbins & P.W. Foss (eds.), The World of Pompeii (London & New York): 73–81. Della Corte, M. (1914–1925/1965), Case ed abitanti di Pompei, 3rd ed., Naples. Esposito, D. (2008). “Filosseno, il Ciclope e Sesto Pompeo: Programmi figurativi e ‘propaganda’ politica nelle domus dell’aristocrazia pompeiana della tarda età repubblicana”, Jahrbuch des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts 123, 51–99. Fiorelli, G. (1875). Descrizione di Pompei, Napoli. Fröhlich, Th. (1991). Lararien- und Fassadenbilder in den Vesuvstädten: Untersuchungen zur ‘volkstümlichen’ pompejanischen Malerei, Mainz. Hodske, J. (2007). Mythologische Bildthemen in den Häusern Pompejis: Die Bedeutung der zentralen Mythenbilder für die Bewohner Pompejis, Ruhpolding. Karivieri, A. & Forsell, R. (2008). “The House of Caecilius Iucundus, V 1, 22–27: A Preliminary Report”, Opuscula Romana 31–32, 119–138. Kockel, V. (2005). “Altes und Neues vom Forum und vom Gebäude des Eumachia in Pompeji”, in R. Neudecker & P. Zanker (eds.), Lebenswelten: Bilder und Räume in der römischen Stadt der Kaiserzeit (Wiesbaden): 51–72. Lange, C.H. (2016). Triumphs in the Age of Civil War: The Late Republic and the Adaptability of Triumphal Tradition, London & New York. Laurence, R. (2016). “Pompeii and the Ager Pompeianus”, in A.E. Cooley (ed.), A Companion to Roman Italy (Oxford & Malden, MA): 401–416. Leander Touati, A.-M. (2010). “Water, well-being and social complexity in insula V 1: a Pompeian city block revisited”, Opuscula 3, 105–161. Leander Touati, A.-M., Staub, Th. & Forsell, R. (Forthcoming). “From 2D- and 3D-documentation to 4D-interpretation: Results and workflow strategies gained in the study of insula V 1, Pompeii”, Opuscula 14. Longfellow, B. (2018). “The Reuse and Redisplay of Honorific Statues in Pompeii”, in D.Y. Ng & M. Swetnam-Burland (eds.), Reuse and Renovation in Roman Material Culture. Functions, Aesthetics, Interpretations (Cambridge): 24–50. Maiuri, A. (1929). Pompeii, Novara. Martelli, A. (2002). “Per una nuova lettura della iscrizione Vetter 61 nel contesto del santuario di Apollo a Pompei”, Eutopia 2, 71–81. Moeller, W.O. (1970). “The riot of A.D. 59 at Pompeii”, Historia 19, 84–95.

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    Mouritsen, H. (1988). Elections, Magistrates and Municipal Élite: Studies in Pompeian Epigraphy, Rome. Opdenhoff, F. (2018). “Layers of Urban Life: A contextual analysis of inscriptions in the public space of Pompeii”, in A. Petrovic, I. Petrovic & E. Thomas (eds.), The Materiality of Text: Placement, Perception, and Presence of Inscribed Texts in Classical Antiquity (Leiden & Boston): 303–323. Osanna, M. (2018). “Games, banquets, handouts, and the population of Pompeii as deduced from a new tomb inscription”, Journal of Roman Archaeology 31, 310–322. Pesando, F. (1996). “Autocelebrazione aristocratica e propaganda politica in ambiente privato: la casa del Fauno a Pompei”, Cahiers du Centre Gustave Glotz 7, 189–228. Pietilä Castrén, L. (1978). “Some aspects of the life of Lucius Mummius Achaicus”, Arctos: Acta Philologica Fennica 12, 115–123. PPM = Pugliese Carratelli, G. (ed.) (1990–2003). Pompei. Pitture e mosaici, 10 vol., Rome. Presuhn, E. (1878). Pompeji: Die neuesten Ausgrabungen von 1874 bis 1878, Leipzig. Sakai, S. (1993). “Topographical distribution of the so-called programmata antiquissima”, Opuscula Pompeiana 3, 89–104. Santangelo, F. (2007). Sulla, the elites and the empire: a study of Roman politics in Italy and the Greek East, Leiden & Boston. Spinazzola, V. (1953). Pompei alla luce degli scavi nuovi dell’Abbondanza (anni 1910– 1923), 3 vol., Rome. Staub, T. (2013). The Casa del Torello di Bronzo (V 1,7) in Pompeii: Investigating a residential house and its complex water system, Diss. Stockholm. Van Andringa, W. 2012. “Statues in the temples of Pompeii: Combination of gods, local definitions of cults, and the memory of the city”, in B. Digna & R.R.R. Smith (eds.), Historical and Religious Memory in the Ancient World (Oxford & New York): 83–115. Vermeulen, F. (2017). From the Mountain to the Sea: The Roman colonisation and urbanisation of Central Adriatic Italy, Leuven, Paris & Bristol, CT. Vetter, E. (1953). Handbuch der italischen Dialekte, Heidelberg. Viitanen, E.M. & Nissan, L. (2017). “Campaigning for Votes in Ancient Pompeii: Contextualising Electoral Programmata”, in I. Berti et al. (eds.), Writing Matters: Presenting and Perceiving Monumental Inscriptions in Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Berlin & Boston): 117–144. Wachter, R. (2019). Pompejanische Wandinschriften, Berlin & Boston. Wallace-Hadrill, A. (2008). Rome’s Cultural Revolution, Cambridge & New York. Weber, V. (1975). “Entstehung und Rechtsstellung der römische Gemeinde Pompeji”, Klio 57, 179–206. Welch, K. (2012). Magnus Pius: Sextus Pompeius and the Transformation of the Roman Republic, Swansea. Woodman, A.J. (transl.) (2004). Tacitus: The Annals, Cambridge & Indianapolis.

    Index Nominum et Rerum Roman citizens are listed alphabetically by nomen gentilicium, with the exception of emperors, empresses, and other individuals known by a familiar anglicised form (e.g. Galba, Agrippina the Younger, Sallust, Drusus the Elder, etc.). For more precise references to specific passages, please consult the following index locorum. aborigines 280–2 ab urbe condita: see “historiography” Acerronia 204–5, 208–10, 214, 216, 219 Acte 204, 209 Actium, Battle of 11–2, 25–37, 48–9, 60 actor(s) / acting 61, 151, 202–12, 215–6, 219, 243 L. Aelius Sejanus 10, 244 Aeneas 25, 32, 40, 208, 218, 271, 280–1, 283, 287 aequitas 79, 154 aetas nostra 81 uetus 48, 73 Africa 51, 56–7, 76, 177, 180, 264, 266–8, 273–9, 281, 284, 287–9, 291–2 Agermus 205, 209–10, 216–7 Agrippina the Elder 178, 183, 212–3, 227 Agrippina the Younger, Empress 11, 15, 169, 179, 183, 197–220, 234, 243 Alexander the Great 8–10, 237, 267, 298, 319 Alexandria 34, 185, 214 allusion 6, 8–11, 14–5, 109–10, 121, 127, 138, 172–6, 181–2, 186–7, 206, 230, 232–3, 285, 322 Alps 10, 106–7, 202, 270, 272, 285, 287 Ambiorix 92 Ambracian Gulf 27 Ammianus Marcellinus 265–6, 269, 279, 289, 291 amphitheatre 17, 298, 301–10, 321 anachronism 10, 15, 175–6, 187, 282 Anicetus 203–5, 207–10, 213 Annales Maximi 43–4 annals / annalist: see “historiography” Antinous 237 antithesis 140, 155 Antonius, M. (orator) 43–4, 108–9 Mark Antony (triumvir) 25–37, 60, 73, 162, 242, 246

    M. Aper 179–80 Apollo 33, 156–7, 162, 315, L. Appuleius Saturninus 246 M. Aquilius Regulus 236–7 architecture 10, 211, 262, 298, 316, Argos, Argive 155, 184, 210 L. Arruntius 29 ἀρχή 129, 132–7, 269 Asia 10, 76, 81, 84, 173, 264, 267, 291 C. Asinius Pollio 92–3 Augustus, Emperor 4, 9–10, 12–3, 25–36, 50, 52, 59–62, 73, 80, 86, 162, 230, 239, 242, 245, 247, 322 Res Gestae 25, 31, 35, 61, 286 autocracy / autocrat(s): see also “tyranny / tyrant(s)” 4, 7, 71, 83, 86, 200, 227, 238, 243, 245, 247, 252–3 Baiae 211–3, 219 Bellovesus 271–2 bellum iniustum 31 Bhabha, H. 264, 290 biostructuring 200 Bloch, M. 101 Boiocalus 177–8 booty 118, 148, 158, 161–2 border theory 16, 262–4, 288–9 Brecht, Bertold 91 Britannia / Britain / Britons 77–8, 173, 185, 231–2, 235, 270, 290 Cacus 266, 271, 282–3, 292 M. Caelius 30 Caesarian vocabulary: see also “C. Iulius Caesar” 13, 94, 99–107 Calgacus 10, 15, 169, 172–187 Caligula, Emperor 203, 206, 217, 234, 242, 244 Cn. Calpurnius Piso 16, 225, 227, 248–50 L. Calpurnius Piso (the augur) 216

    328 L. Calpurnius Piso Frugi (the historian)  43–4 L. Calpurnius Piso Frugi Licinianus 78–80 Campania 77–8, 207, 216, 242–3, 300–1 P. Canidius Crassus 28–9 Capenae / Capenates 148, 150, 152 Capitoline Hill 78, 117, 119, 216, 250 Capri 178, 226, 234 Caracalla, Emperor 244–5 Carthage / Carthaginians 46, 56, 58, 83, 103, 111, 140, 148, 268, 273, 276–9, 292 Cato the Elder 10, 43–4, 49, 107 Cato the Younger 9, 169, 180 Catullus 267 centre ‒ periphery 149, 163, 292–3 C. Cilnius Maecenas 33   L. Cincius Alimentus 40 ciuilitas 84, 229, 239, 244, 251 civil war: see also “discordia” 12, 32–5, 60, 77–8, 80, 162–3, 169, 179, 203, 216, 241, 244, 267, 278, 322 Claudius, Emperor 8–9, 179, 202, 217, 219, 243, 290, 314 Ti. Claudius Atticus Herodes (the sophist)  237 M. Claudius Marcellus 140, 158 Ap. Claudius Pulcher (cos. 212BC) 62 Q. Claudius Quadrigarius 136 Cleopatra 25–37 T. Clodius Eprius Marcellus 10, 15, 169–187 P. Clodius Pulcher 246 P. Clodius Thrasea Paetus 10, 15, 73, 169–187 Clusium 124, 146, 270, 272 M. Cluvius Rufus 203 L. Coelius Antipater 40–1 coinage / coins 2–3, 73–5, 79 commentarii: see “C. Iulius Caesar” Commodus, Emperor 245 comparatio 15, 146–8, 154, 159 consolatio(nes) / consolation(s) 174, 230, 232, 235–9, 251–2 Consolatio ad Liuiam 16, 234–6, 238, 242, 252–3 Consolatio ad Marciam 235, 238, 252 Consolatio ad Polybium 234, 241 conspiracy / conspirator(s) 204–5 against Domitian 72

    Index Nominum et Rerum Catilinarian 301 Pisonian 217 constructive wonder 14, 91, 95, 107, 111 contumacia 170 Corinth 140, 283, 315–6 Cornelius Nepos 210, 267 P. Cornelius Scipio Africanus 56–7, 162, 234 P. Cornelius Sulla 301, 323 L. Cornelius Sulla Felix 56, 245, 301 Cossutianus Capito 169–70 counterfactuals 153–4 crater 157–9 Curiatius Maternus 180, 183 C. Curio 92 Cyrene / Cyrenaica / Cyrenaeans 277–9, 292, 305 damnatio memoriae 208 de Certeau, M. 262–4 Deleuze, G. 264, 276 de los Reyes, Tony 262–3, 273, 288 Delphi 116, 156–60, 162 dictatorship / dictator(s) 61, 119, 125, 290 dignitas 59 digression(s) 7, 11, 16, 41, 60, 63, 77, 107, 157, 201, 203, 262–93 Dio Cassius 16, 25, 27–31, 35–6, 45, 49, 71, 81, 95, 151, 170, 198, 200–3, 206–10, 212–6, 228–9, 232, 234, 243–6, 248–9, 253 Diodorus Siculus 95, 282 Dionysius of Halicarnassus 40, 245 direct and indirect speech: see “oratio recta / oratio obliqua” discordia: see also “civil war” 58–9, 82, 278 dissimulatio 228, 251 Domitian, Emperor 47–52, 55, 63, 71–7, 79, 84–6, 171, 183, 185, 218, 227, 235–6, 243–4 drama 6, 11, 15, 176, 197–220 dromology 276–7 Julia Drusilla 242, 244 Drusus the Elder 229–30, 234–5, 238, 242, 252–3 Drusus the Younger 229–33, 238–9, 252 L. Dubius Avitus 177 earthquake 17, 302, 310–6, 319, 321 Eco, Umberto 1

    Index Nominum et Rerum Egypt 3, 12, 27–30, 32, 34–6, 214, 277 Einzelerzählungen 102, 109, 124, 147 ekphrasis 278 embedded staging 211–3 emotion(s) 6, 140, 209, 227–9, 232–3, 236, 239, 243–5, 247, 251, 253 emperor(s): see also “princeps” 8–9, 13, 16, 51, 71–6, 78–82, 84–6, 169–71, 176, 178–81, 183–5, 200, 204–5, 207–9, 216, 225–34, 236–9, 241–5, 247–53, 288, 290, 301, 305, 314, 316 energeia 147 entertainment 197, 200 epanalepsis 207–8 Epicharis 204 Epirus / Epirotes 117–20, 123, 139, epitome: see also “Florus” 12, 45–6, 208 ethno-geography / ethno-geographies: see also “geography / geographies” 146, 159 ethnography / ethnographies 16, 146–7, 149, 155, 157–8, 163, 265–70, 275–7, 279, 281–2, 284, 287, 289, 291–3 Etruria / Etruscans 117–21, 124, 146–7, 156, 163, 203, 270–3, 275–6, 282–8, 291–2, 316 etymology / etymologies 250, 274–5, 281, 285–6, 292 Evander, King 271, 282–5, 292 exaedificatio 108–9 exemplarity / exemplum: see also “imitation / emulation” 5, 8, 11, 14–6, 146–7, 151–5, 163, 172, 200, 203, 218, 220, 225, 227, 232, 234, 239, 242, 251–2, 277–8, 292 Ezra / 4 Ezra 53–5 Q. Fabius Pictor 40, 43–4 fabula praetexta: see also “Octavia” 199, 202 Falerii Veteres / Faliscans 14, 146–63, 270 C. Fannius 41 Faustina, Empress 249 fiction: see “inuentio” fides 79, 150, 152, 155–6, 158, 163, 181, 238–9, 244, 284 T. Flavius Abascantus 235–6 Florus 3, 7, 11–3, 25, 27–8, 30, 34, 36, 40–64 fortuna 6, 14, 27, 29, 36, 115–41, 152–3 forum 13, 51, 56, 71, 73, 85, 151, 156, 172–4, 178, 284, 298, 311–5

    329 fragment(s) 8, 25, 40, 45–6, 51, 169, 176, 198, 200, 203, 208, 265, 313 freedmen 76, 78, 205, 209–10, 234–5 Freud, S. 271 funeral(s) 72, 169, 171, 229–30, 233–5, 237–9, 242–3, 245–7, 310 M. Furius Camillus 9, 118–20, 124, 129, 136, 139, 147–63, 173, 271 Gaetulians 273–4, 276, 281, 292 Gaius, Emperor: see “Caligula, Emperor” Galba, Emperor 48, 78–80, 92, 217 Gaul / Gauls: see also “sack, of Rome” 8, 13, 78, 91, 97, 104, 107, 117–20, 124–5, 133, 146–7, 156, 158–9, 161, 163, 179, 267, 269–73, 276, 285, 287, 289, 291 L. Gellius Publicola 29–30 geography / geographies: see also “ethnogeography / ethno-geographies” and “spatiality” 263–4, 270, 277, 281, 286–7 Gergovia 97 Germania / Germani 10, 76, 100, 177–8, 180, 234 Germanicus Iulius Caesar 213, 225, 227–30, 232–3, 235, 241, 243–4, 247, 249–54 gods and divinities 27, 32–3, 54, 77, 84–5, 120, 124, 126–7, 129, 140, 151, 155, 158, 173–4, 205, 215–6, 282–4, 311–2, 315–6 Golden House, Nero’s 174, 179, 183, 185 grauitas 225, 232, 240, 251 Greco-Roman literary interactions 4, 6, 14, 41, 45, 102–11, 115–141, 268 Greece / Greeks 3–4, 6, 10, 14, 26, 32, 35, 41, 43–6, 104, 129, 131, 140, 147, 149–50, 152, 155–6, 162, 203, 208, 210–1, 215, 266, 274, 277, 282–7, 292, 300, 315 grief: see also “mourning” 6, 16, 169, 225–54 Hadrian, Emperor 12, 47, 50–1, 75, 80–2, 237 Hannibal 10, 56–7, 146, 175, 184, 235, 269 crossing the Alps 10, 106–7, 202 crossing the Rhone 13, 95, 102–3, 105–7, 110–1 Hannibalic War 41, 125, 127, 135, 137, 141, 269, 273 C. Helvidius Priscus 73, 183 Hercules 197, 266, 269, 271, 273–4, 282–3, 285, 292

    330

    Index Nominum et Rerum

    Herennius Senecio 73, 183 Herodian 244–5 Herodotus 116, 198, 200, 266–70, 279, 289, 293 Hiempsal II, King 268, 275, 284 historiography ab urbe condita 11–2, 42–3, 45–6, 51, 56, 64 annalistic 11, 42–5, 53, 139, 203 erasure of causal links in 11, 37 generic frontiers of 2, 6, 11, 15–6, 72, 197–8, 201–2, 219–20, 225 intentional 69–70 methods of 11, 37, 93–5, 163, truth / veracity of 3–5, 11, 14, 80, 93–4, 108, 197, 202, 220, 253, 265, 275 Historia Augusta 81, 244–5, 249 hodology 7, 270–2, 276, 280, 288 Homer 116, 125, 149, 236–7, 266, 277, 284, 322 Horace 25, 28, 30, 32, 36, 50 House of Caecilius Iucundus 304, 311–9 House of the Cryptoporticus 322–3 House of the Small Bronze Bull 299, 320–1 hybridity / hybridities 265–8, 274–7, 280–8, 290–2

    intertextuality: see also “allusion” and “imitation / emulation” 1, 5–6, 8–11, 13–5, 94–5, 109–11, 127, 135, 137–8, 175–6, 185–7, 197 intratextuality 13–5, 169–88, 287 inuentio: see also “rhetorical turn” 2, 70, 175, 187, 197–8, 200 Cn. Iulius Agricola 72, 171, 185, 187, 231–2, 243 C. Iulius Caesar 3, 7–8, 10, 12–4, 26–7, 56, 61, 91–111, 146, 148–9, 174, 178, 184, 206, 217, 230, 232, 235, 241–2, 246–7, 262–3, 270–1, 289–91 Commentarii de Bello Civili 2–3, 92 Commentarii de Bello Gallico 2, 7, 10, 13–4, 91–111, 148–9, 177–8, 262–3, 270, 289 Q. Iunius Arulenus Rusticus 73, 183 D. Iunius Brutus Albinus 240

    ideology 2–4, 6–7, 15, 25, 33, 37, 47, 50, 73, 177, 186, 247, 251, 264, 266, 268, 271, 287, 290 Illyrians 14, 77–8, 116–20, 122, 127, 129, 133–4 imagery 93, 107, 111, 211, 234–5, 237, 262, 289, 298, 302, 305, 309, 311, 322 imitation / emulation: see also “exemplarity / exemplum” 8–11, 81, 106, 137, 152–3, 163, 175, 178, 229–30, 232, 242–3, 247, 251 real-life 8–9, 175, 237 immigration / immigrants: see also “migration” 146, 272, 282–3, 285, 287, 289–90, 292 imperialism 15, 137, 176, 181–2, 186, 276, 286, imperium 34, 56, 61, 79, 82, 125, 138, 150, 152, 154–5, 161–3, 172, 273, 277, 281, 283, 285–7, 290, 293 incest 204, 209 M. Insteius 30 interpretatio Romana 156

    T. Labienus 7, 10, 13, 91–111 legitimacy / legitimation 1, 73, 171, 181, 252 Leitzitat 106 letter(s) 50, 75–6, 92, 95, 232, 236, 240–1, 284, 302 Lex Oppia 9–10 Libya / Libyans 273–4, 281, 292 libertas 47–8, 51, 69, 73–4, 79, 84, 170, 182–3 M. Licinius Crassus 59 Liparae 15, 147, 157–9, 270 Livia, Empress 228–9, 234–5 Livian Periochae 25, 45, 57–8, 315 L. Livineius Regulus 17, 303–4 L. Livius Andronicus 268, 284–5 Livy 3, 6–7, 10, 14–6, 34–5, 41, 44–6, 49, 55–8, 60, 100, 104, 109–10, 115–29, 134–41, 146–63, 172–3, 175, 179, 184, 199–201, 203, 210, 213, 215, 218, 229, 232, 246–7, 265–6, 267–73, 275–6, 279, 282–8, 290–2, 301, 315–6 longue durée 130, 133–4, 136, 138, 266, 288

    Jerusalem 53 Jugurtha 10, 175 Jupiter 76, 216, 250, 311 Juvenal 12, 50–2 Kubrick, S. (Spartacus) 208

    Index Nominum et Rerum

    331

    Lucan 47, 107, 184, 206, 232, 244 C. Lucilius 50 Lucretia 200, 218 M. Lurius 29 Lutetia 96 Lycurgus 125 Lyons Tablet  8–9

    nomadism: see also “migration” 269, 273–7, 280–2, 288, 292–3 Numidia / Numidians 268, 274–6, 279, 292

    madness 172, 206 Maghreb 268, 276 maiestas 179, 225, 228–9, 239, 249, 251–2 Marcus Aurelius, Emperor 248–9 material historiography 300, 319 matricide 198, 200, 202–3, 206, 215–7, 219–20, 243, 305 memory 4–5, 11, 13–4, 32, 47–8, 52, 73, 93, 116, 151, 208, 242, 246, 262, 266, 271, 298, 300, 309–10, 315–6, 320 metaphor 54, 62, 108, 147, 232 metonymy 147, 159, 174 Mexico 262–264 migration: see also “immigration / immigrants” and “nomadism” 7, 16, 121, 163, 262–93 Mithridates of Pontus 301 moderatio: see also “self-control” 31, 170, 252 monarchy: see also “autocracy / autocrat”  13, 69 Monty Python 149 moonlight 44, 203, 214 moralising 15, 122–3, 125–7, 207, 220, 277 mos / mores 80, 82, 149, 151, 157–8, 170, 273, 281 mosaic(s) 298, 319, 322 mourning: see also “grief” 6–7, 16, 180, 213, 225–54 movement, scenes of 29, 154, 161, 265, 272, 278–80, 287, 292, 305 L. Mummius (Achaicus) 315–6, 319 Munthe, Axel 226 Naples, Bay of 211–2, 216, 322 narratology 116, 149 Nero, Emperor 7, 9, 15, 46–7, 74, 77–8, 81, 84, 169–71, 174, 179, 182–3, 185, 188, 197–222, 229, 234, 243, 305, 310–1 Nerva, Emperor 10, 12–3, 47–8, 50, 69, 71–4, 79–80, 84, 86, 241

    Octavia, Empress 198, 203, 217–8 Octauia: see also “Pseudo-Seneca” 6, 15, 176, 198–9, 202, 205, 207, 217–20 Octavian: see “Augustus, Emperor” M. Octavius 30 opsimathia 215 optimates: see also “populares” 82, 246 oratio recta, oratio obliqua 154, 175, 204–9 oratory 8, 15, 49, 72, 78–80, 154, 169–87, 197, 231, 233–4, 238–9, 242–3, 246, 271 Orosius 27 otherness 147 Ovid 52, 105, 174, 184, 203 M. Pacuvius 208 paradoxography 201, 282 Parthia 25, 33, 59, 77–8 Pausanias 267 pax / peace 48–9, 77–80, 82–3, 115, 149–52, 155, 171–4, 176–7, 180–1, 183–6, 215 L. Pedius Blaesus 305 Persia / Persians 10, 116, 269, 274, 279 A. Persius Flaccus 50 Pertinax, Emperor 245 Pharsalus, Battle of: see also “Lucan” 33, 206 Philaeni brothers 266, 276–9, 292 Philippi, Battle of 31 Phoenice 14, 116–8, 122–4, 127–8, 130, 134–5, 137–9 pietas 209, 238–9, 244, 250–1 pirates 15, 59, 147, 157, 159, 162, 322 Plautus, T. Maccius 268 plebs / plebeians 57–9, 82, 157–8, 160–2, 173, 229, 250, 270, 303–4 Pliny the Elder 173, 212, 267, 300 Pliny the Younger 12, 47, 49, 51, 71, 75–6, 84–5, 170, 178, 180, 183–4, 236–7, 241, 302 plupast 7, 16, 270, 278, 282–3 Plutarch 25–30, 35–6, 91, 151, 162, 203, 214, 232, 242, 246, 267, 301 politics 4–5, 67, 75, 272, 280, 283 identity 16, 266–7, 271, 290

    332 politics (cont.) Roman imperial 5, 170, 182 Roman republican 56, 181 Polybius 6–7, 10, 13–4, 16, 41, 91, 95, 102–7, 109–11, 115–41, 201–2, 234, 266–7, 269–70, 272, 274, 279, 289 polyptoton 154 Pompeii 2–3, 7, 10, 16–7, 298–323 Sex. Pompeius 28–9, 31, 322 Pompey the Great 8–9, 56, 208, 232, 322 T. Pomponius Atticus 240–1 Poppaea Sabina, Empress 169, 203–4, 210, 214–5 populares: see also “optimates” 246 populus 43, 46, 48, 56–7, 60, 62–3, 82, 129, 149, 155–6, 158, 180, 215, 228, 230, 233, 238, 278 praise (laus) and blame (uituperatio): see also “moralising” 50, 72–3, 75, 80–4, 123, 147, 156, 170–1, 178, 183, 197, 218, 229, 233, 235, 240–1, 248–50, 310 priamel 147 primores Galliae 8 princeps 12, 25, 32, 36, 51–2, 62, 74, 77, 80, 82, 84–5, 169, 170–1, 179–80, 204–5, 209, 215, 225, 230, 247–8, 252, 303–4 Principate, the Roman 4–5, 12–3, 25, 27, 45–8, 51, 53, 62–4, 69–71, 73, 76–7, 79–81, 84, 86, 171, 174, 176, 179, 181, 186, 200, 202, 209, 217–8, 228, 243–5, 247–8, 252, 269 programmata antiquissima and programmata recentiora 320–1, 323 propaganda 25–6, 30–6, 74–9, 85–6, 314, 320 Sex. Propertius (the poet) 25, 28, 30–1, 33–4, 36, 60, 213, 284 proscriptions 245 Pseudo-Seneca: see also “Octavia” 15, 198, 205, 207, 217–20 Punic Wars 40, 115, 268 First Punic War 58–9, 129, 268 Second Punic War: see also “Hannibal”  41, 102, 125, 127, 135, 137, 141, 269 Quellenforschung: see “source criticism” Quintilian 15, 184, 199

    Index Nominum et Rerum rebooting 7, 13, 53–6, 63–4 refugees 146, 267, 278 Republic, the Roman: see also “memory” and “trauma” 4–5, 8, 11–3, 25, 27, 34, 40–64, 73, 80–2, 126, 163, 174, 181, 200–1, 210, 218, 233, 238, 245–6, 253, 267–9 republicanism 9, 47, 69 res publica 27, 47–8, 59, 80, 82, 153, 171, 185, 230–1, 232, 249–50, 266–7, 271 revenge 56, 205, 249 rhetoric 2, 5, 11–2, 14–5, 109, 147, 155, 170, 185–6, 212, 215, 219, 229 rhetorical turn 2, 14 riot 7, 17, 301–10, 319, 321 Romanisation 146, 170, 173–4, 177, 181, 283, 291–2 Romulus 40, 57, 61, 229, 282–3, 285, 287 sack 97, 121–2 of Rome (by the Gauls) 7, 14, 115–42, 146, 163, 270, 272 of Veii 7, 15, 58, 117, 119–21, 125, 146, 148, 150, 152–4, 156–9, 161–3, 270–1 Sallust 3, 6, 10, 12, 16, 42, 45, 49, 175, 177, 265–6, 267–9, 273–84, 286–7, 289, 292 scopophilia 207 Scythia / Scythians 269, 279 Second Temple 53–5 self-control: see also “moderatio” 8, 16, 219, 225, 227–32, 234–5, 238–9, 241–2, 248–53 self-fashioning / self-staging 73–4, 85, 225, 236 C. Sempronius Gracchus 41, 59, 227, 246 Ti. Sempronius Gracchus 59, 227 senate / senators 8–9, 11, 15–6, 56–7, 57, 59–61, 71–4, 76–7, 80–6, 92, 108, 149–52, 154, 156–8, 160, 169–74, 175, 180–2, 185–7, 203, 210, 216, 225, 228–33, 238–9, 245–51, 290, 301, 303–5 Senatus Consultum de Cn. Pisone Patre 16, 225, 246, 249–53 Seneca the Elder 25 Seneca the Younger 6, 16, 47, 174, 197, 204– 6, 210, 214–5, 217, 232, 234–6, 238–42, 244, 248, 250–4, 300, 302, 311 Septimius Severus, Emperor 245 L. Sergius Catilina 10, 60, 175, 301

    Index Nominum et Rerum Servius Tullius, King 57, 200, 218, 245, 247 ship (collapsible) 197–200, 204, 211, 213–5, 218–9 Sicily 57, 157, 242, 268–9, 282, 289 siege: see also “sack” 104, 115, 117–22, 127, 141, 146, 148–9, 151, 158 of Falerii 148–62 Silius Italicus, Tib. Catius Asconius 199, 201, 218 simile 147 slavery / slaves 48, 58, 78, 117, 179, 183, 208, 210, 291 soldiers 26, 28–9, 31–2, 57–8, 77, 91, 104, 107, 140, 159, 161–2, 172, 179, 184, 204, 209, 229, 234, 250, 301 solitudo: see also “uastitas” 172–4, 176–80, 183–6 Sophocles 125, 217 C. Sosius 28–9 source criticism: see also “intertextuality”  91, 93–5, 275 source of inspiration ‒ source of facts: see also “inuentio” 13, 95, 102 specimen 152–5 speech-acts 204–9, 219 spatiality: see also “geography” 7, 263, 279–80, 288–9 speed 57, 277–8 staging 81, 197–202, 211–15, 219 Statius, P. Papinius 45, 212, 218, 235–7 Stone, Oliver (director) 10 Strabo 140, 267, 300 stratagem 97, 161 C. Suetonius Tranquillus 8, 16, 31, 33, 92, 170, 197–8, 200–7, 209–10, 213–4, 217, 227, 234, 239, 242, 244, 246–7 suicide 9, 36, 170, 205, 217–8, 249 Ser. Sulpicius Galba (praetor 54BC) 92 Swedish Pompeii Project 314, 320 swimming 202, 213 Syme, Sir Ronald 26, 72, 76, 80 synecdoche 147 Syracuse 115, 122, 135, 140, 158, 242 Tacitean colour coding 13, 69–70, 85–6 Tacitus, P. Cornelius 3, 6–17, 43–51, 53, 55, 63, 69–86, 117, 169–87, 197–220, 225, 227–34, 238–9, 243–4, 247–8, 250–1, 253, 279, 288, 300–5, 309–11

    333 Agricola 15, 47–8, 72–6, 170, 172–7, 181–7, 231–2, 243 Annals 8–11, 15, 43, 79–85, 169–87, 197–217, 219–20, 225, 227–34, 300–5 Dialogus de oratoribus 174, 176–7, 179–80, 183–4 Germania 176 Histories 48–50, 76–9 Sex. Tarquinius 172, 200 L. Tarquinius Priscus, King 271–2, 283 L. Tarquinius Superbus, King 200, 245 tears 16, 140, 225–54 teichoskopia 149 M. Terentius Varro 101, 200 Teuta, Queen  120 theatre 172–4, 203, 209–10, 214, 243, 298, 321 theatricality 7, 149, 202–3, 210–2, 214–5, 217, 220 thirdspace 7, 277, 288–90 Thucydides 6, 41, 104, 109, 138, 267, 269, 278, 282, 289 Tiberius, Emperor 7–8, 10, 16, 45, 47, 63, 81–4, 107, 178–9, 183, 206, 225–54 Timasitheus 157–9 Titius Sabinus 178, 183 Titus, Emperor 76, 243 topos 149, 154, 271, 273, 277, 283, 287 Trajan, Emperor 10, 12–3, 47–8, 50–2, 62–3, 69, 71–6, 79–80, 82, 84–6, 241 trauma: see also “Republic, the Roman” 7, 12, 49–50, 53–6, 63 trendlines 131–3 tribunate / tribunes 57–9, 82–3, 157, 160–2, 206, 246, 270 tricolon 173–4 triumph 9, 13, 32, 51, 156, 158, 267, 305, 315, 322 triumvirate / triumvir(s) 26, 31, 36, 61, 245 Troy / Trojans 9, 116, 146, 200, 218, 269, 280–1, 287, 292, 322–3 Tullia, daughter of M. Tullius Cicero 180, 240–1 Tullia Minor, daughter of Servius Tullius 200, 218 M. Tullius Cicero 6, 14, 40, 43–4, 60, 73, 95, 108–9, 174, 180, 206, 208, 210, 235–6, 240–1, 246, 301, 323 Q. Tullius Cicero 92, 232, 235 tyche: see “fortuna”

    334 tyranny / tyrant(s): see also “autocracy / autocrat(s)” 47, 53–4, 73, 245–6 urbs capta 149 usage(s) of the past 1–17, 86, 141, 163, 187, 197, 220, 265, 267, 298, 309, 322 uastitas: see also “solitudo” 177–8 uirtus 78, 83, 103, 149, 152–5, 160–2, 178, 182, 232, 238 Valerius Maximus 151 Veii: see “sack, of Veii” M. Velleius Paterculus 3, 7, 10–2, 14, 25–37, 45–6, 56, 60, 154, 301

    Index Nominum et Rerum Verginia 218 Vespasian, Emperor 76–7, 184, 203 Vesuvius, Mount 300–1 M. Vinicius 26 M. Vipsanius Agrippa 27, 29 Virgil 14, 25, 32, 105, 146, 154, 211, 218, 267, 283 Vitellius, Emperor 76–7, 179, 184, 217 womb 205 Zonaras 208

    Index Locorum Ad Her. 4.59–60 147 4.62 147 Ammianus 14.8 269 15.9–12 269, 291 15.12.6 279 App. BC 1.39.1 301 2.21 246 5.106 28 12.117 8, 9 Arist. Poet. 1451b

    199

    Augustus, RG 1.3 31 3.1 35 Bibl. Psalm (NIV) 137:1–3

    54

    Caesar, BC 2.9.4 107 2.23–30 92 2.33–7 92 BG 1.1 262, 270 1.7.1 92 1.10.3 91 2.20.1 91 2.35.4 92 3.1–6 92 3.28.1 100 4.18.4 177 4.38.5 92 5.47.4 92 5.55.2 100 5.57.1 100 6.7.5 100 6.8.6 100 6.23.1–3 178 6.34.5 100 6.35–42 92 7.4.3 91 7.8.2–3 106

    7.8.4 107 7.34.2 96 7.62.10 92 7.57–62 96–100 7.59.3 105 7.78 149 7.79.3 149 7.90.7 92 (Hirtius) 8.52.2 91 Cassiod. de Orth. 7.150.10

    101

    Cic. Amic. 24 208 Att. 12.9 180 12.14 241 12.15 240 12.20–23 241 12.28 241 12.38 241 12.38a.1 240–1 12.40 241 14.10 246 Brut. 1.9 240 De orat. 1.18 210 2.51–53 43 2.53 109 2.54 40 2.62–3 108 3.214 246 Fam. 4.5–6 240–1 5.14 241 5.15 241 5.16 240 Inv. 1.46–49 147 Q. fr. 26.3 232 Rab. Perd. 14 246 24 246 Rep. 4.11–13 210 Sest. 102 106 S. Rosc. 66 206 Top. 68–71 154 Tusc. 3.52–3.54 240 3.74 240

    336 CIL IV 17–25 IV 3406 IV 3428 IV 3433 IV 3473 IV 4089 IV 4090 X 7852.12 XIII 1668 XIV 3579

    Index Locorum 320 321 314 315 314 314 314 170 8 237

    Consolatio ad Liviam 63–72 242 86–90 234–5 209–210 242 442 242 466 242 Curt. Rufus 8.3.1–15 204 8.8.10 173 9.2.24 173 Dio Cassius 6.24.2–3 151 31.4 30 30.3–4 27 31.4 30 40.38.4 95–6 42.8.1–3 232 49.1.2 28 49.32.1–2 25 50.14.3–15.4 27 50.19.3 28 50.23.2 29 50.29.1–4 29 50.30.3–4 27 50.32–35 25 50.33.1 30 51.2 31 51.5–51.10 25 51.6 35–6 51.10.4–12.5 35–6 51.13–14 36 53.19.1–5 49, 200 55.2.1 234 57.1.1–5 248 57.18.6 229 58.2 234 28.16.6 244

    61.2.4 201 61.11.4 207 61.12–14 198 61.12.2 214 61.13.2–5 202, 207, 210, 213, 216 61.14.2 207 61.16.2 206 61.35.2 243 62.15 170 63.14.3 203 64 [65].8.2 216 67.2.6–7 243 67.17 71 69.2.5 81 72.30.1 249 74.5.3 245 74.13.2–5 245 75.5.3 245 77.2.5–6 245 78.16.6 245 Diodorus Siculus 4.19.1–2 282 5.24 282 D.H. 1.6.2 40 4.40.5 245–6 13.1.1–2 151 Ezra (NIV) 7:25–26 54 4 Ezra 11–2 53–5 Eutrop. 8.5.3

    86

    Flor. Epit. Praef. 2–3 62–3 Praef. 5–8 62 Praef. 8 52, 63 1.1.15 57 1.3 57 1.6.3 57 1.6.5 151 1.6.8 57 1.22.54 56 1.17 58–9 1.47.14 60 1.48 57, 59 2.1.5–7 59

    337

    Index Locorum 2.9.6 60 2.12.7 60 2.14.4–8 60 2.16 61 2.20.10 25 2.21 25 2.21.2 60 2.21.5–7 28 2.21.5 28 2.21.8 30 2.21.8–9 30, 34 2.21.11 34 2.22–34 62 2.34.5–6 61 2.34.61 62 FRHist. no. 1, F23 40 no. 5, F80 = Ann. Max. T1 44 no. 5, F150 107 no. 15, F48 41 no. 15, F49 41 no. 26, F108 215 no. 84, F1 203 no. 103, F1 46 Fron. 4.4.1

    151

    Gell. 2.28.6

    44

    Herodian 4.14.7 244 4.6.3 245 Hdt. 1.84 161 1.8–14 198 1.215–216 269 4.2–82 269 4.82 279 6.2–5 269 8.36–39 116 8.51–54 116 HA Hadr. 7.1–2 81 9.3 81 14, 34 237 Geta 7 244–5 Marc. 2 249 16 249 M. Ant. 3 244–5

    Hirt. 8.52.2

    91

    Hor. Ep. 9 25, 28, 32 9.30 30 Od. 1.1 284 1.37 32 1.37.21–32 36 Javol. Dig. 4.8.39

    170

    Josephus, Ap. 2.5.59 30–1 B.J. 2.250 198 Juv. Sat.1.1 50 1.18–19 50 1.51 50 7 50 Liv. Praef. 10 153 1 267 1.1.1 146 1.1.2–3 271, 287 1.1.4–2.6 271, 283 1.7.3–15 266, 271, 282–4 1.16 229 1.34 271, 283 1.41 247 1.46.3 200, 203, 218 1.49.2–7 172 1.53.6 172 2.9–15 271 2.13 213 3.52.5 173 4.59.10 57 5.1–23 121 5.1.1–28.1 271 5.2.1 57 5.12.5 148 5.19.10–11 161 5.20.1–2 158 5.19.10–11 161 2.20.10 158 5.21.10 161 5.23.3–6 156, 158 5.23.8 158 5.24–28 14, 148, 158–9, 162–3 5.24.2–3 148 5.24.4–11 270 5.25.10–12 156

    338 Liv. Praef. (cont.) 5.26.9–5.27 148–156 5.26.10 156 5.27.8 156 5.27.10 156, 162 5.28.1–2 156–8 5.28.2–5 157–8 5.28.3 147 5.28.8 162 5.32.6–38 115 5.32.7 124 5.32.9 158 5.33.1 146 5.33.2–35.3 118, 270 5.35.5–11 124 5.36.1 118 5.32.7 124 5.33.2–5.49.6 118–20, 266, 276, 282 5.33.7–11 270–2, 285–6 5.33.10–11 271 5.34.1–5.35.2 271–2 5.34.1 271 5.34.6 271 5.36.1 118, 147 5.37.1–3 125 5.37.1 156 5.37.4 124 5.38.9 139 5.39.1 158 5.39–49.7 115 5.41.6 179 5.43.6 158 5.43.7 156 5.46.10 158 5.48.6 139 5.49.1 124 5.49.5 126 5.49.8 270 5.50.8 271 5.51–55 158, 271 5.54.6 129 6.1.10 115 7.2.4–13 201 8.13.14–15 173 9.4.8 138 9.17.1 279 9.38.2 301

    Index Locorum 10.34.6 184 21.31.9 273 21.38.5–39.6 273 21.39.10–47.3 273 22.59.7 138 24.24.3 210 24.33–34 122 24.34.7 215 25.24.11–14 140 26.44–46 122 28.45 57 31.17.45 122 32.12.3 152 34.2–7 10 34.4.3 10 34.5.7 10 38.3–9 122 38.16 282 39.6.7 10 39.40.5 152 Liv. Per. 5.1–2 58 29.12 57 52–53 315–6 112.4 232 132–133 25 132 34 Luc. 2.38–42 244 7.778 206 9.1010–1108 232 Malalas, Chron. 8, p. 211

    56

    Mart. 4.63

    198

    Mela 3.95

    177

    Nepos Praef. 5

    210

    Oros. 6.19.8–9

    28

    Ovid, Fasti 3.809–76 203 Met. 10.30 184 10.60 105 15.796 174 Pap. Herc. 1067

    25

    339

    Index Locorum P. Oxy. xxiii (1956) no. 2382 198 Pl. Men. prol. 7–12

    268

    Plin. H.N. 3.61 212 5.22 274 6.1.1 300 6.182 173 Ep. 1.13 49 2.14 50 3.16 50 3.21 49 4.2 236 4.7 236–7 4.13.1 76 6.16 302 6.20 302 7.33 184 8.22 170 9.23 71 10.2.2–3 75 10.57.2 170 Pan. 11.1 241 48.5 178, 183 57.4 47 58.3 47 66.2–4 47 Plut. Ant. 26 214 61.4 28 63.6–8 28 64.4 28 65–77 25 65.1–66.8 28–30 66.3–4 36 69.3–5 35 73.3 35 76.3–4 35 78 242 83–86 36 Caes. 18.2 91 48 232 C. Gracch. 3 246 17 246 Cam. 10.3 151, 162 11–12 162

    Mor. 289C–D Pomp. 80 Rom. 9 Sulla 6.3 Polyaen. 8.7.1

    203 232 267 301 151

    Polyb. 1.2.8 134 1.4.1–6 128–31 1.4.7–11 131 1.4.11 201 1.6.1–2 115 1.6.3 132 1.7.1–8 121 1.19.3 274 1.63.9 129 2.2.1–2 129 2.2.3–2.4.5 127 2.5.1–2.6.9 116, 118 2.5.5 139 2.6.1 123, 139 2.7.1–4 123 2.14.1–3 269 2.14.4–12 270 2.18.3 120 2.56.11 201 3.4.1–6 131 3.42–43 95, 102–3 3.47.6–48 202 3.47.9 107 3.54.2 107 3.55.6 107 3.61.9 107 5.75.6 201 6.2.8 201 6.56.6–15 115 7.7.8 201 8.1–2 131 8.5–9 122 8.20.9–10 140 10.9–10 122 11.19a.1–3 201 12.28.6 279 15.36.3 201 16.17.9 109 16.30.8 122 21.25.8 122 31.30.1 201 36.17.1–15 128

    340 Polyb. (cont.) 38.1.1 140 38.22 140 39.2 140 Prop. 1.11.21–28 213 2.16 25, 34 1.16.39–40 33 3.4 33 3.11 25, 34 3.11.30–51 33 3.11.44 28 3.11.53 36 4 33 4.6 28, 33 4.6.47 28 4.6.51–52 31 4.6.80–82 33 Quint. 8.6.8–9 147 10.1.31 12, 199 10.4.114 93 11.3.8 246 Roman Imperial Coinage 73–5 Sal. Cat. 5.9 279–80 6–7 266–7, 274, 279–283 Iug. 17–19 266, 268, 273–82, 292 78 277–8, 280 79 266, 274, 276–9

    Index Locorum 11.8.5–6 240 11.15.5 234 11.17.2–6 241–2, 245 Ep. 63 239–40 71.12 47 80.7 210 88.22 214 99 239–41, 253–4 Nat. 6.1.1 302 6.32.9 311 Oed. 1038–9 205 Phaed. 719–35 217 896–900 217 Phoen. 447 205 Thy. 1–20 204 546–622 204 [Sen.] Oct. 127–30 217 309–76 15, 198, 217–8 335–337 207 368–372 205 371–372 208 929–946 198 Serv. ad V. Aen. 4.40 148 7.723–732 155 Sil. Pun. 13.820–36

    218

    Senatus Consultum de Cn. Pisone Patre 249–51

    Stat. Silv. 2.1 235 2.2.13–14 212 2.6 235 3.3 235 5.1 235–6 5.3 235 5.5 235

    Seneca the Elder, Historiae 25

    Strabo 5.4.8 300 8.6.23 140

    Sen. Cl. 1.12.4 206 2.2.2 206 Dial. 1.17.2 254 3.11.5 235 6.7.1–2 240, 254 6.11.2.3–4 174 6.14.3 232, 235, 238 6.15.3 238 11.4.1–3 240

    Suda K1905 46 Suet. Aug. 13.1–2 31 51 31 Caes. 7 8 Cal. 5–6 227 15 242 24.2–3 217, 242, 244 30.1 206

    341

    Index Locorum Iul. 56.4 92–3 Nero 6.4 201 21.2 203, 206 33.1 198 34.2–4 197–8, 204, 209, 214 34.3 210 37 170 39.2 206 39.3 202 46.1 200 47.3 205 Tib. 23 239 24–25 247 51 234 59.2 206 61 244 Vit. 10.3 217 Tabula Siarensis 251 Tac. Agr. 2.1–3 71, 73, 170, 183 2.3 72 2.4 73 2.3–3.1 47–8 3.1 73, 84 10.3 46 21.1 173–4 29.1 231–2 29.4 182 30.1–32.3 182 30.5 172, 177 42.3 170, 183 43.3 243 44.5–45.2 74 Ann. 1.4.1–2 49, 80, 82 1.6.1 81 1.7–14 247 1.8 230, 247 1.10.4 177 1.11 247 1.16–49 172 1.17.4 177 2.28–29 248 2.52.2 177 2.69–3.19 227 2.72 227 2.73 229–30

    2.82–83 227 3.1–2 227 3.1.3 213 3.1.4 228 3.2.3 228 3.3.1 228–9 3.5.2 229 3.6 230, 232 3.15 248 3.22.2 248 3.33–34 9 3.44.3 177 3.55.5 81 3.74.3 177 4.8 230–1, 238 4.9 231, 233 4.11.3 201 4.12 230, 233 4.21.2 216 4.32–35 49 4.32.1 63, 82 4.32–33 82–3, 288 4.33.3 63 4.33.4 279 4.41.3 178 4.53.1 178, 183 4.53.2 206 4.67.2 178 4.69.1 178 4.70.2 178, 183 5.1–2 234 6.1.1 178 6.6.2 178 6.10.1 244 6.19 244 6.50 234 11.4.1 210 11.11.3 201 11.22.1 217 11.24 8 11.27.1 201 11.31.3 215 11.32.3 179 11.36.1–2 210 12.27.1–2 171 12.33 177 12.47 244 12.56.3 214

    342 Tac. Ann. (cont.) 13.1.1 81 13.3.2 209 13.4.1 243 13.4.2 185 13.12.1 204 13.21 203, 205 14.1–13 15, 197, 203 14.1.1 203–4, 215 14.2–10 204, 209 14.2 203 14.3.1 209 14.3.3 209, 213 14.4.1 203 14.4.2 209, 211 14.4.3 213 14.4.4 209, 216 14.5–8 205, 214–6 14.6.1 213, 215 14.6.3 216 14.7.6 216 14.8.1 212 14.8.3 179, 183 14.8.4 205 14.8.5 207 14.10.1 206 14.10.2 206, 216, 243 14.12.1 169, 203 14.12.2 215 14.13.1 207 14.17 301–4 14.18 305 14.20 203 14.48–49 169 14.49.1 182 14.57 216 14.63–64 198 14.64.3 84 15.12.6 279 15.22 300, 302 15.23 171, 243 15.32 210 15.36 229 15.39.3 9 15.42.1 174, 179, 183 15.43.1 185 15.46.2 216 15.48 229 15.50.4 179

    Index Locorum 15.51.1 204 15.53.2 217 16.7–11 169 16.21.1–2 169, 174, 182 16.21.3–22.5 169–70 16.21–35 170 16.24.1 171 16.24.2 182 16.28.1–3 170–1, 177 16.35.2 183 Dial. 2.1 180 9.6 180 12.1 180 38.2 180, 183 39.3 180, 183 Hist. 1.1 48–9 1.1.4 79 1.2 76–7 1.3 215, 238 1.10.3 215 1.15–16 79 1.50.4 76 1.77 305 2.38 77–8 2.50.2 201 3.74.1 77 3.84.4 179 4.1 77 4.2.1 77 4.3.3–4 76 4.5–8 170 4.40.1 77 4.52 76 4.73.2 177 4.86.2 77 5.1.1 76 Thucydides 1.97.2 269, 279 2.75.5 104 6.2–5 282 Val. Max. 3.2.2 313 5.3.3 234 5.1.10 232 6.5.1 151 Vell. 2.16.2 301 2.66.1 31 2.82.3 25

    343

    Index Locorum 2.82.4 25–6 2.84.1 26, 28, 31 2.85.1 29, 36 2.85.2 29 2.85.3 25, 29–30 2.85.6 26 2.86.1–2 31, 36 2.86.3 26 2.87 35 2.87.1–2 31, 35–6 2.88.1 35 2.89.4 27 2.104.3 10 2.111.3 10

    Verg. A. 1.2 283 2.3 218 4.89 211 8.626–728 25 8.685–688 32 8.697 36 G. 4.495–496 105 Vergilius Orator an Poeta 51–2 Vitruvius 5.6–7

    211

    Xen. Hell. 3.3.2

    215