American Journal of Philology

AMERICAN

JOURNAL OF PHILOLOGY CLASSICAL COURTS AND COURTIERS Preface

 Every subject’s duty is the king’s; but every subject’s soul is his own. Henry V, iv.1

From time to time, AJP publishes Special Issues on topics of current interest in Classics and of broad relevance to literary scholarship. Classical Courts and Courtiers was proposed to me by David Potter and Richard Talbert and I am pleased to present it as a contribution to our understanding of the mechanics of literary patronage and the “discourse of connection” (to borrow Linda Levy Peck’s term from her work on the Stuarts) which accompanies it. The Special Issue engages with previous scholarship and enlarges upon it in significant ways, as the contributors examine the complex relationships in several classical courts between rulers and the poets and artists whose creativity was facilitated, directed or restrained by their powerful patrons. There are, of course, as many paradigms for this relationship as there are poets and patrons—Ludwig II’s fervid devotion to Wagner, the long arm of the Russian Tzar (and his censors) reaching into the lives of Pushkin or Dostoyevsky, or the intricate dance of court poets and courtiers in Elizabethan circles. Whether one reads Virgil’s Aeneid or Spenser’s Faerie Queene, the networks of informal power and the language of patronage continue to fascinate. I am grateful to the Guest Editors for assembling this Special Issue so efficiently, to the anonymous readers of the manuscript, and to my Editorial Assistant Rachel Steiner and Carol Hamblen at The Johns Hopkins University Press for their assistance along the way. David H. J. Larmour Editor American Journal of Philology 132 (2011) ix © 2011 by The Johns Hopkins University Press

INTRODUCTION: Quis se Caesaribus notus non fingit amicum?1 Richard Talbert

 This volume owes its origin to a chance encounter in March 2008. As fellow Roman historians, David Potter and I always welcome the opportunity of a conversation whenever our paths happen to cross. Finding myself in Ann Arbor in this instance, I mentioned to David as we talked how impressed I was with the recently published volume The Court and Court Society in Ancient Monarchies, a set of seven contributions edited by Tony Spawforth (2007); of particular interest for my own current work, I added, was the treatment of the Late Roman court by Rowland Smith. David’s disclosure at this point that he and Rowland had been fellow graduate students, and our mutual recognition that “court studies” are an emerging theme with immense potential, eventually led us to contemplate sponsoring a conference panel on it. With the 8th Roman Archaeology Conference at Ann Arbor in preparation, we approached the organizers, and they generously included “Royal Courts” in the conference program as a special session. Rowland accepted our invitation to come from the United Kingdom for the occasion, as did Boris Dreyer from Germany. They were joined as speakers by Geoffrey Sumi (Mount Holyoke, Mass.) and by Karen Acton and Ian Moyer from the University of Michigan itself. The session took place on April 3, 2009, during the week that Michelle Obama was suspected of committing the courtly faux pas of touching Queen Elizabeth II in London. In view of the high quality of all five papers, their remarkable cohesion, and the stimulus aroused by the session, we became convinced that publication of written versions would have lasting value and interest. The three special issues to date of American Journal of Philology (all of them likewise stemming from conference panels in fact) seemed an ideal model for the purpose. When approached, the present editor, David Larmour, reacted most positively to the prospect of a fourth such special issue, and we thank him warmly. 1  Ovid, Pont. 1.7.21: “Doesn’t everyone known to the Caesars imagine themselves to be a friend?”

American Journal of Philology 132 (2011) 1–13 © 2011 by The Johns Hopkins University Press

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We are also grateful to our session speakers, all five of whom consented with alacrity to write up their papers for publication. David offered to add a contribution, and I undertook to introduce the volume. Once we were able to review all six contributions together, it seemed that the original session title called for modification, hence our choice of Classical Courts and Courtiers. What constitutes a “court” is obviously a fundamental issue, treated in this volume by David Potter’s contribution in particular and usefully defined in brief by Rowland Smith as “a distinctively configured field in which two categories of human activity—domestic service to a ruler and government of his territories—intersect and mix.” For classicists to appreciate the complexity and importance of such an elastic institution is indeed no novelty where Alexander the Great and the Successor kingdoms are concerned, with their close links to earlier Persian and Egyptian forms of rule. This is not to suggest that little remains to be said about these courts. Far from it. David and I were conscious that Tony Spawforth’s volume could not be enlarged to include contributions on the Ptolemaic or Seleucid courts. We were eager, therefore, that our own panel (which in turn had to be selective in its coverage) should somehow address these gaps. For that very reason we approached Ian Moyer and Boris Dreyer, who between them demonstrate most capably that established thinking about the composition and development of the Ptolemaic and Seleucid courts, respectively, is due for revision when the evidence is subjected to fresh appraisal. In contrast to the Hellenistic courts, study of the Roman court has been strangely delayed. A principal purpose of the present volume therefore is to reinforce and advance research already begun by several scholars, especially Jeremy Paterson, Rowland Smith, Andrew WallaceHadrill, and Aloys Winterling (latest, 2009).2 A range of reasons for this neglect of the Roman court—so astonishing in retrospect—can be identified. First, the lack of specificity for the court. No structures to be closely associated with it remain intact; the same applies, broadly speaking, to both Alexandria (Moyer in this volume) and the great Late Roman capitals (Smith in this volume), Constantinople in particular.3 Equally, glimpses aside, no extended literary description survives that brings the Roman court vividly back to life. No gossipy diarist, say, chronicles the 2  Note further the substantial Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum entries “Hofbeamter” (1991) and “Kaiserzeremoniell” (2001) by K. L. Noethlichs and Mary Whitby, respectively; also Price 1987; Arce 2000. 3  See Bauer 2006, with review by Pfeilschifter 2008.

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scene and the light and shade of activity within it; rather, a considerable feat of imagination on our part is required, together with the painstaking assembly and interpretation of scrappy, disjointed testimony of various kinds. To be sure, many of the individual items comprising this testimony have attracted attention and evaluation, and some synthesis has even been attempted, most notably by Ludwig Friedländer as early as the 1860s. But still the topic of the court in all its depth and complexity long remained unappreciated. The underpinning of an adequate context in which to situate it had yet to be laid; missing, too, were a satisfactory methodology for researchers to follow and the presentation of an instructive model for purposes of comparison. These prerequisite tools only became available in the late 1960s and 1970s, and from two very different quarters which were not linked for a good while further on. On the one hand, Fergus Millar’s 1977 book, The Emperor in the Roman World (31 BC–AD 337), furnished the firstever thematic study of the emperor and his functions, one that offered a transformative departure from the traditional focus on single emperors or dynasties, and thus is an essential perspective for penetrating the imperial court. On the other hand, in 1969 Norbert Elias (1897–1990) finally published Die höfische Gesellschaft, a version (only partially updated, it seems) of his 1933 Habilitationschrift, a typescript which he had long thought lost but then rediscovered by sheer accident when moving house in Leicester, England in 1966; the book appeared in English translation as The Court Society in 1983 and again (with revisions) in 2006.4 Elias, as Rowland Smith rightly stresses, was “a Weber-inspired sociologist, not a specialist historian.” It was from this standpoint, with issues of long-term social transformation as his concern, that he formulated a model of court formation and court society centered upon Bourbon Versailles, relying heavily upon the extensive memoirs of a disappointed observer, the duc de Saint-Simon (1675–1755). Elias implied that the model might be transferable elsewhere, and efforts were made relatively soon to apply it to other states of early modern Europe.5 Nonetheless, those who made these efforts were specialist historians. It is small surprise, in

4  For Elias, see Oxford Dictionary of National Biography 18 (2004), 48–49. The rediscovered 1933 typescript has since disappeared once more, making it impossible to track with precision the extent of the changes made for publication. Also in 1969 Elias republished his later, most famous work Über den Prozess der Zivilisation, which had originally appeared (but attracted minimal attention) in 1939; a two-volume English translation, The Civilizing Process (1978, 1982), was reissued as a single volume in 2000. 5  Note esp. the Introduction (1–38, by Ronald Asch) to Asch 1991.

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consequence, that Jeroen Duindam (latest, 2009) and others among them disputed much about Elias’ representation of Versailles (often inaccurate and out-of-date, as they saw it), and strongly doubted the validity of his claim that Louis XIV employed his court as an instrument with which to “domesticate” the French nobility in a “goldene Käfig” (“golden cage”) and to consolidate his own absolutist rule. In addition, having tested Elias’ Versailles-model elsewhere, these historians declared themselves for the most part skeptical of its applicability; more generally, they chafed at the absence of a serious political dimension from the model. Even so, all agree that such reservations and rejections are of secondary importance. Rather, the real value for historians of early modern Europe has lain in the framework developed by Elias and the direction and stimulus that he supplied. There has been the same mixed experience on the part of those ancient historians who in turn have attempted to apply Elias’ model and claims to the Roman imperial court. Any notion that domestication of the upper classes was one of its primary roles is patently false, and without question it was an institution markedly different in character from Versailles. At the same time, here, too, Elias’ model has provided an attractive yardstick for comparison, as well as unfolding a vision— spatial, social, cultural—that has acted to raise and broaden perception of the Roman imperial court to an unanticipated new level. Moreover, large questions raised by Elias’ work about the genesis and roles of any court do pertain to Rome and other court societies in antiquity, and call for considered responses. This volume provides such responses in abundance, and in particular it takes the political dimension very seriously. David Potter lays vital groundwork by seeking to identify the resources and circumstances that were required to achieve the initial formation and successful maintenance of a court at Rome. He searches for signs of “proto-courts” in the Late Republic of the first century b.c.e. and convincingly singles out Pompey, not Julius Caesar, as the important forerunner to Octavian/Augustus in this connection. Extraordinary wealth, lavish expenditure, extensive contacts for self-promotion, hereditary succession, and patronage on a scale sustainable only with uninterrupted tenure of high office (a very “unRepublican” circumstance), are all seen as essential. Courts by their very nature may serve both to divide courtiers and to unite them. The manner in which rulers fostered such opportunities, while at the same time striving to resolve the tensions liable to be created by the maintenance of “inner” and “outer” circles around them, forms a leitmotif for this volume. Boris Dreyer argues that the differentiation of Seleucid court society

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into demarcated functions and titles—commonly regarded as the work of the later rulers of the dynasty, and a reflection of their weakness—was in fact neither. Rather, this “bureaucratization” was a reform enacted by the dynasty’s early, strong rulers with a view to consolidating their regime further and improving the efficiency of its administration. Even so, that regime was critically dependent upon the ruler personally and his favorites—the latter an inevitable target of hostility on the part of rivals, as Hannibal found to his cost at the court of Antiochus III early in the second century b.c.e. An astute measure by Ptolemy VI around the same time is skillfully elucidated by Ian Moyer. The bestowal of the title syngenes (“kinsman” [of the king]) upon high-ranking Egyptian administrators in turbulent Upper Egypt forged a close link in their own eyes and in those of their subjects between themselves and the king far away in the Greek capital, Alexandria. These adminstrators maintained both Egyptian and Greek identities, and in statues as well as inscriptions could flaunt their close access to the king, representing themselves as “wide of stride” at court. Whether they really ever went there remains obscure, and in any case is beside the point; for the king to bestow a high status upon them there was a powerful mark of honor. In Rowland Smith’s reconstruction, comparable thinking lies behind Constantine’s scheme for a new status-order, one of Imperial “Companions.” Although the term comes (like syngenes in Egypt) was no novelty in itself, Constantine infused it with a wholly fresh distinction, sub-dividing it into three grades and developing a solemn procedure for its conferral.6 This initiative was part of a concerted effort to persuade members of the traditional aristocracy to occupy civilian administrative positions and to distinguish themselves in them, rather than merely remaining aloof and making no contribution to the empire’s government. Much earlier, as Geoffrey Sumi shows, by the end of the 20s b.c.e. Augustus saw the need to establish a new balance between still permitting the victories of senior senators in command of armies to be recognized in the traditional way, while now accommodating this recognition securely within a state order that had to assure unrivalled primacy for the Princeps and his family. The introduction of ornamenta triumphalia as a substitute for the triumph proper was designed to achieve this delicate purpose, and the noble ancestry of the first consular to gain the distinction, L. ­Cornelius 6  The Orders conferred today by the British monarch typically have three grades, and even as many as five; popular alternative expansion of the abbreviations CMG, KCMG, GCMG for the three (ascending) grades of the Order of St Michael and St George debunks recipients’ spirit of service: “Call Me God,” “Kindly Call. . . ,” “God Calls. . . .”

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Piso, served as invaluable affirmation of the senatorial aristocracy’s acknowledgment of the new hierarchy. Karen Acton identifies and analyzes comparable difficulties that the usurper Vespasian faced in consolidating his rule while setting a fresh tone for his court and ensuring that no large-scale dissociation from it by senators ensued. Allowing each of his two sons to maintain a court alongside his own in its deliberately changed location posed a risk that he was evidently prepared to take; senators disenchanted by his frugality might still be attracted to the livelier atmosphere of either son’s court, and at least continue interacting with the imperial family and its authority there. Meantime, withdrawal from court altogether was coming to be idealized among senators as an enviable release, permitting them the opportunity to pursue the literary and intellectual activities now closely identified with their class (Johnson 2010). As Karen Acton demonstrates, the temptation is consummately encapsulated in the ecphrasis of a statuette of Hercules carved by Lysippus that Statius composed for Novius Vindex. At court, Vespasian saw the need to assert his own unquestioned control and to prevent the “subversion of social structures” always liable to occur when low-status functionaries (both male and female) acquire greater influence by virtue of their closeness to the ruler than high-ranking courtiers. In the latter event, it was to Vespasian’s advantage that the story of his encounters with Nero’s freedman Phoebus be told and retold: once Vespasian was emperor, it had to be clearly understood that control was his alone to exercise. “Pebbles on reckoning boards” was Polybius’ characterization of kings’ courtiers, Ian Moyer reminds us; “the subject always takes pleasure in living according to the ruler’s principles” was an ancient commonplace.7 Looking forward, one next step surely is to acknowledge the Versaillesmodel as inapplicable in important respects (a recognition repeatedly articulated in this volume) and to develop awareness of other court-formations that may offer instructive comparison with the ancient experience. True, disengagement from Versailles is a painful wrench when the palace holds out so much allure—copious documentation and absorbing memoirs, magnificent buildings still to be experienced at firsthand (though in fact substantially altered since the eighteenth century) and even occupied by residents until 2007. Son et lumière spectacles, exhibitions, and movie sequences also cast their spell.8 No wonder that Tony Spawforth was  Herodian 1.2.4, with reference to Marcus Aurelius.  See Newton 2000; 2006; 2008 (which turns its focus to the less salubrious underside of the architectural splendor). Occupation: Rogister 2007. 7 8

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sufficiently seduced to publish a book-length account of the human and historical story, Versailles: A Biography of a Palace (2008). In antiquity, however, the Roman imperial court in particular was never residential and was often on the move.9 Indeed the point applies to courts generally through the early modern period. Hence the traveling courts of, say, King Henry VIII of England and his contemporary Francis I of France in the sixteenth century may offer comparative insight; Henry’s travels and activities during them are amply documented, with even a detailed inventory of items that were taken on his “progresses.”10 In Asia, especially, climate and terrain have commonly made tents the normal housing for traveling courts from antiquity onwards.11 In Europe, by contrast, the Habsburgs moved between palaces, but these needed to be made ready in advance because none was equipped with its own furniture until the 1830s. The empress Maria Theresa established a department for the purpose in 1747; a visit to the Hofmobiliendepot museum in Vienna today gives a memorable sense of its resources and organization.12 While casting a wider gaze, we should also strive further to grasp a court mindset, in particular where it is plainly far from current taste. A telling illustration arises from the contributions of Ian Moyer, Geoffrey Sumi, Karen Acton, and Rowland Smith. “The civilian court-officials of the Late Roman court wore military-style uniforms and embroidered badges of rank,” the latter explains, adding, “some aspects of this style may strike moderns as quaintly comic.” He subsequently remarks upon the resemblance to the Prefects instituted by Napoleon, who “wore elaborate quasi-ceremonial uniforms; all took the title ‘count’ or ‘baron’ on appointment, and were required to possess a heraldic coat of arms or to acquire one.”13 It was not within the scope of Rowland Smith’s contribution to expand upon the point more generally, but attention may be drawn here to the passion (and expense) which the associated concerns of rank and dress (including headgear and footwear) generated throughout Europe’s many courts from the eighteenth century until well into the twentieth. There were uniforms for everyone, civilians included. Current taste, with its marked preference for informality and its resistance to regimentation,  See above all in this connection Halfmann 1986; Barnes 1982, 47–87.  Henry VIII’s progresses: Samman 1995; more generally, Sharpe 2009, esp. 173–74. Inventory: Starkey 1998, esp. 354. Francis I: Knecht 2008. 11  Stone 2010 offers an overview with particular reference to sumptuous Mongol, Ottoman, and Mughal workmanship. 12  http://www.hofmobiliendepot.at/en/home.html 13  The illustrations in the Notitia Dignitatum come to mind: see Brill’s New Pauly 9 (2006) cols. 828–30. 9

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has good reason to marvel at the 200-page periodic British publication Dress and Insignia Worn at His Majesty’s Court (last issued in 1937), complete with full-page color plates (two among them illustrating styles of buttons) and elaborate tables of precedence.14 All these stupefying fine distinctions—“prestige fetishes,” to use Elias’ term—were no joke, moreover. Rulers themselves were prone to be obsessed by them. Not to be missed on a tour of Maximilian’s idyllic castle of Miramar outside Trieste is a poignant display of designs for his officers’ uniforms drafted prior to his embarkation from there (in 1864) to become emperor of Mexico, where rather more daunting challenges awaited. In a gesture that Vespasian would have applauded, King Edward VIII on his accession—in reaction to his father George V’s conservative preoccupation with dress—at once removed any requirement for the frock coat to be worn at the British court and abolished the levée. Ironically, however, it was observed that after his abdication later the same year (1936), Edward reimposed a more formal dress code upon his household (Mansel 2005, 144). The fury unleashed upon Lt. Maurice Willoughby (2001, 248–50) by his regiment after he had committed a gaffe unawares at what would prove to be the last levée ever held by a British monarch (George V in 1935) may defy belief today, but the outlook it reflects should not simply be ignored: the Tschako (helmet) lent to Willoughby for his presentation to the king had gold braid around its top, an embellishment (had he but realized it) only to be worn by officers with the rank of Major and above. Germany’s last great courtly occasion, it may be added, occurred at an even later date, in 1942.15 In a classical context, the mitra as a feature on the statues of the Ptolemaic officials discussed and illustrated by Ian Moyer comes to mind as a comparable marker of rank, as does the triumphal garb awarded with the ornamenta triumphalia instituted by Augustus—garb to be worn on only the rarest of occasions, however, as Geoffrey Sumi cautions. Karen Acton refers to the pathetic last days of Vitellius’ rule and the city populace’s ingrained association of the Palatine with imperial power. It is no surprise to learn that appropriate dress was among Vitellius’ quandaries

14  Ed. Herbert Trendell. For the 1921 issue (same editor) online: http://www.archive .org/details/dressinsigniawor00greauoft 15  On August 31, the marriage of H. R. H. Prince Konstantin of Bavaria and H. H. Princess Maria Adelgunde of Hohenzollern at Sigmaringen Castle, chronicled with brio by the compulsive diarist “Missie” Vassiltchikov 1985, 65–71, and Plate 3a, b; see further Noakes 1996, 62–64; Möckl 1990. For recollections of comparable occasions in princely India during the 1940s, Devi and Rama Rau 1976, 135–36, 207–10, 212–14.

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at this time, according to Cassius Dio.16 Seasoned courtier that he was (like Vespasian) and son of a great courtier, even under the severest stress he did not forget that dress mattered at court. There is no lack of tales relishing blunders in this regard, including one (in the vein of Vespasian and Phoebus, though without the barb) about Septimius Severus long before he, too, ever had imperial prospects.17 Equally clear from Digest 1.9 and elsewhere is constant touchiness about status and precedence on the part of senators and their female relatives. Last in this connection here may be noted the godsend that London tailors received amid the grimmest of times, 1943, when the Soviet government placed orders for epaulettes and gold braid to be added to the drab post-Revolutionary uniforms of its top officials. The enhancement, it was declared, was being made in the interests of order and discipline, a justification worthy of Diocletian (Mansel 2005, 145–46). If this volume acts to raise interest in classical courts and to stimulate further study of them from multiple perspectives, it will have achieved its purpose. All six contributors give due weight to the major formative influence of politics and confirm the value of analytical and comparative frameworks, thus avoiding the trap of mere descriptive antiquarianism and showing how fruitfully the classical experience can enrich a larger engagement with courts across periods and continents. More is the pity that attention to the Roman imperial court in particular has proven such a late growth when it might have sprung up sooner. The series of missed opportunities is intriguing. The last academic year in which Norbert Elias taught sociology at the University of Leicester before retiring from his position there and leaving to take up another at the University of Ghana was 1961–62. That same year was also Keith Hopkins’ first of two at Leicester as assistant lecturer in the same department; in fact he still had to learn the discipline of sociology, and one means he adopted was to attend Elias’ lectures (Harris 2005, 86). It was around this time, too, that he was preparing his magisterial article, “Eunuchs in Politics in the Later Roman Empire,” published in 1963 (after his move to the London School of Economics), the whole setting for which is the court of the Late Roman empire in the east. In the first footnote he thanks “Professor N. Elias and the members of the staff seminar of the Department of Sociology of the University of Leicester for valuable criticisms,” and  65.16.4; cf. Tac. Hist. 2.89 (Vitellius’ adventus into Rome as emperor).  SHA Sev. 1.7; Paterson’s association of Severus Alexander with this incident is a slip (2007, 147). 16 17

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subsequently (70) he once cites (without further comment) Elias’ Über den Prozess der Zivilisation.18 Conceivably, he might then have opted to turn his focus to the Late Roman court, but other directions claimed his attention instead, first at the London School of Economics (1963–67), next at the University of Hong Kong (1967–70). By the end of the 1960s, as mentioned above, Elias’ Die höfische Gesellschaft had been recovered and published. It was not noted by Fergus Millar, however, even though the very first sentences of his book, The Emperor in the Roman World (1977), quote Marcus Aurelius cautioning himself: “Reflect continually on the fact that all such things as happen now, also happened before, and on the fact that they will happen again. The whole dramas and the comparable scenes which you know from your own experience or from the history of the past, place these before your eyes, such as the whole court of Hadrian, the whole court of Antoninus, and the whole court of Philip, Alexander, Croesus. All these were similar, only the actors were different.”19 Despite this opening, however, the court never became Millar’s focus, and he, too, pursued other lines of enquiry—in an immense, wide-open field, it should be remembered, where he made no secret of his inability to offer a comprehensive study of the emperor’s roles. Moreover, he had resolved to keep any comparative approach to a minimum (xii): “I have rigidly avoided reading sociological works on kingship or related topics, or studies of monarchic institutions in societies other than those of Greece and Rome.” Hopkins in his lengthy review-discussion of Millar’s book (1978b) took issue, among much else, both with its scope and with the author’s self-imposed aversion to greater comparative awareness. He concluded by wishing for a more court-related study although he does not use the term; even so, China rather than Europe takes pride of place in his brief comparative allusions, and Elias goes unmentioned. The same year, when Hopkins’ 1963 article on eunuchs was reissued—with a new title and considerable revisions—as a chapter in his Conquerors and Slaves (1978a, 172–96), the opening expression of thanks to Elias and the Leicester staff seminar was dropped,20 although the subsequent reference to Über den Prozess der Zivilisation was expanded upon (1978a, 181): “—in my view a neglected sociological masterpiece; but now see his Die höfische Gesellschaft (Berlin [sic], 1969a) especially the chapters on sociology and  The 1939 edition, of course; there was no other till 1969. See n. 4 above.  Med. 10.27; cf. 1.17.3 for features of court life that Marcus regards as typical. 20  Note, however, the general expression of thanks to “my colleagues at the University of Leicester who first taught me sociology” at the end of the Preface (xii). 18 19

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history, and on court etiquette as a restriction on the king’s freedom of action.” Among ancient historians of his generation, none was better equipped than Hopkins to embrace the inter-disciplinary approach that court studies require, and it is only natural to regret that he never pursued this theme further. All the same he pointed the way, and we should continue to expand our investigation of the interaction of rulers and ruled in this absorbing context. Millar (2004), for his part, has underlined its extraordinary breadth even once a Roman imperial court was established, with a reminder that for centuries thereafter emperors tolerated rule by local monarchies both on the fringes of the empire and within it.21 To this extent, therefore, the Roman emperor truly was a king of kings. University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill e-mail: [email protected]

BIBLIOGRAPHY Arce, Javier. 2000. “Imperial Funerals in the Later Roman Empire: Change and Continuity.” In Rituals of Power from Late Antiquity to the Early Middle Ages, ed. Frans Theuws and J. L. Nelson, 115–29. Leiden: Brill. Asch, R. G., and Birke, A. M., ed. 1991. Princes, Patronage, and the Nobility: The Court at the Beginning of the Modern Age c. 1450–1650. London and Oxford: German Historical Institute / Oxford University Press. Barnes, T. D. 1982. The New Empire of Diocletian and Constantine. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Bauer, F. A., ed. 2006. Visualisierungen von Herrschaft. Frühmittelalterliche Residenzen. Gestalt und Zeremoniell. Istanbul: Ege Yayınları. Devi, Gayatri, and Santha Rama Rau. 1976. A Princess Remembers: The Memoirs of the Maharini of Jaipur. Garden City, N.Y.: Anchor Books. Duindam, Jeroen. 2009. “Early Modern Court Studies: An Overview and a Proposal.” In Historiographie an europäischen Höfen (16.–18. Jahrhundert): Studien zum Hof als Produktionsort von Geschichtsschreibung und historischer Repräsentation, ed. Markus Völkel and Arno Strohmeyer, 37–60. Berlin: Duncker & Humblot. Elias, Norbert. 1939. Über den Prozess der Zivilisation: soziogenetische und psychogenetische Untersuchungen. 2 vols. Basle: Haus zum Falken. 21  Although he makes the point with reference to the East, it also applies to the West and North. He identifies the Bosporan kingdom as lasting longest (into the fourth century); another remarkable survival (well into the third century) was the kingdom of Edessa: see Ross 2001.

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———. 1969a. Die höfische Gesellschaft: Untersuchungen zur Soziologie des Königtums und der höfischen Aristokratie, mit einer Einleitung: Soziologie und Geschichtswissenschaft. Darmstadt and Neuwied: Luchterhand. ———. 1969b. Über den Prozess der Zivilisation: soziogenetische und psychogenetische Untersuchungen. 2 vols. Bern and Munich: Francke. ———. 1978, 1982. The Civilizing Process: Sociogenetic and Psychogenetic Investigations. Trans. Edmund Jephcott. 2 vols. Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 1983. The Court Society. Trans. Edmund Jephcott. Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 2000. The Civilizing Process: Sociogenetic and Psychogenetic Investigations. Trans. Edmund Jephcott (with rev.). Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 2006. The Court Society. Trans. Edmund Jephcott (with rev.). Dublin: University College Dublin Press. Halfmann, Helmut. 1986. Itinera Principum: Geschichte und Typologie der Kaiserreisen im römischen Reich. Stuttgart: Steiner. Harris, W. V. 2005. “Morris Keith Hopkins, 1934–2004.” Proc. Brit. Acad. 130:81–105. Hopkins, M. K. 1963. “Eunuchs in Politics in the Later Roman Empire.” Proc. Camb. Phil. Soc. 189 (n.s. 9):62–80. ———. 1978a. “The Political Power of Eunuchs.” In Conquerors and Slaves, ed. Keith Hopkins, 172–96. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 1978b. “Rules of Evidence” [review of Millar 1977]. JRS 68:178–86. Johnson, W. A. 2010. Readers and Reading Culture in the High Roman Empire: A Study of Elite Communities. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Knecht, R. J. 2008. The French Renaissance Court 1483–1589. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press. Mansel, Philip. 2005. Dressed to Rule: Royal and Court Costume from Louis XIV to Elizabeth II. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press. Millar, Fergus. 1977. The Emperor in the Roman World (31 BC–AD 337). London: Duckworth. ———. 2004. “Emperors, Kings, and Subjects: The Politics of Two-Level Sovereignty.” In Rome, the Greek World, and the East. Vol. 2. Government, Society, and Culture in the Roman Empire, ed. H. M. Cotton and G. M. Rogers, 229–45. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press [orig. pub. 1996]. Möckl, Karl, ed. 1990. Hof und Hofgesellschaft in den deutschen Staaten im 19. und beginnenden 20. Jahrhundert. Boppard am Rhein: Boldt. Newton, W. R. 2000. L’espace du roi: La Cour de France au château de Versailles, 1682–1789. Paris: Fayard. ———. 2006. La petite Cour: Services et serviteurs à la Cour de Versailles au XVIIIe siècle. Paris: Fayard. ———. 2008. Derrière la façade: Vivre au château de Versailles au XVIIIe siècle. Paris: Perrin. Noakes, Jeremy. 1996. “Nazism and High Society.” In Confronting the Nazi Past: New Debates on Modern German History, ed. Michael Burleigh, 51–65. New York: St. Martin’s Press.

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Paterson, Jeremy. 2007. “Friends in High Places: The Creation of the Court of the Roman Emperor.” In Spawforth 2007, 121–56. Pfeilschifter, Rene. 2008. “The Great Palace at Constantinople Put into Context” [rev. of Bauer 2006]. JRA 21:727–33. Price, Simon. 1987. “From Noble Funerals to Divine Cult: The Consecration of Roman Emperors.” In Rituals of Royalty: Power and Ceremonial in Traditional Societies, ed. David Cannadine and Simon Price, 56–105. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rogister, John. 2007. Review of Newton 2006. TLS 5463 (14 December):12. Ross, S. K. 2001. Roman Edessa: Politics and Culture on the Eastern Fringes of the Roman Empire, 114–242 C.E. London: Routledge. Samman, Neil. 1995. “The Progresses of Henry VIII, 1509–1523.” In The Reign of Henry VIII: Politics, Policy and Piety, ed. Diarmaid MacCulloch, 59–73, Basingstoke: Macmillan. Sharpe, Kevin. 2009. Selling the Tudor Monarchy: Authority and Image in SixteenthCentury England. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press. Spawforth, A. J. S., ed. 2007. The Court and Court Societies in Ancient Monarchies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2008. Versailles: A Biography of a Palace. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Starkey, David, ed. 1998. The Inventory of King Henry VIII: Society of Antiquaries MS 129 and British Library MS Harley 1419. London: Harvey Miller. Stone, Caroline. 2010. “Movable Palaces.” Saudi Aramco World 61.4:36–43. Trendell, H. A. P., ed. 1921. Dress and Insignia Worn at His Majesty’s Court. London: Harrison and Sons. Vassiltchikov, Marie. 1985. The Berlin Diaries 1940–1945. London: Chatto and Windus. Willoughby, Maurice. 2001. Echo of a Distant Drum: The Last Generation of Empire. Lewes, East Sussex: The Book Guild. Winterling, Aloys. 2009. Politics and Society in Imperial Rome. Oxford: WileyBlackwell.

COURT, CHORA, AND CULTURE IN LATE PTOLEMAIC EGYPT Ian S. Moyer

 Abstract. Indigenous Egyptian elites who held titles in the late Ptolemaic court hierarchy offer a counterpoint to the typical model of Hellenistic court society as a culturally and ethnically exclusive social space. Though underrepresented in standard accounts, several Egyptians held the honorific title of “kinsman” of the king (syngenes). Statues of these men wearing the mitra of the syngenes in the forecourts of temples, together with Greek and Egyptian epigraphic evidence, show that indigenous elites who circulated between Alexandria and Upper Egypt contributed to the creation of a transcultural space that was critical for maintaining the power of the Ptolemaic state in the Egyptian chora during the troubled conditions of the second and first centuries b.c.e.

In the final century of Ptolemaic rule over Egypt, visitors to the temples of Hathor at Denderah or Horus at Edfu would have seen statues of priests and important officials placed in the temple forecourts in continuance of a tradition that stretched deep into the pharaonic past. Among these statues, the visitors might notice some cloaked and striding figures distinguished by a mitra worn around the head, a band not unlike the diadem worn by the king himself. If they could read demotic or hieroglyphic Egyptian, they might even notice an inscription that identified the subjects of these statues as “kinsmen” or “brothers of the king,” bearers of the title syngenes, the highest in the hierarchy of the Ptolemaic court. These “kinsmen” from towns up-country, in the Egyptian chora, proclaimed that they had entrée into the most privileged space in the kingdom, the Graeco-Macedonian royal court at Alexandria. In celebrating status and royal affiliation in text and image, these statues of kinsmen illuminate one of the later chapters in the three-centuries-long history of negotiations between the Hellenistic court and the Egyptian elites of the chora, between the indigenous and the immigrant cultures of Ptolemaic Egypt. The position of the Egyptian kinsmen was ultimately the result of a transformation of the Ptolemaic court that had begun early in the second century. In the reign of the young Ptolemy V American Journal of Philology 132 (2011) 15–44 © 2011 by The Johns Hopkins University Press

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Epiphanes (204–180)1, the social space of the court had expanded, and an elaborate hierarchy of honorific court-titles extended the prestige of royal affiliation beyond the king’s immediate circle of Friends to include members of the Ptolemaic administration working far from Alexandria at the regional and local levels. The statues of Egyptian kinsmen from Edfu, Denderah, and elsewhere, along with other evidence of Egyptian courtiers, show that this expansion eventually crossed the ethnic and cultural boundaries that are usually taken to define the ruling stratum of Hellenistic kingdoms. In the process, the court became—at least in one critical region—a more flexible and transcultural space that extended into those parts of the chora where the intervention of the Ptolemaic state had been the most gradual and had met the most resistance. 1. THE SOCIAL SPACE OF THE HELLENISTIC COURT This opening picture of Egyptian courtiers and the transcultural dimensions of the late Ptolemaic court runs counter to most generalized descriptions of the society that ruled the Hellenistic world. Since Christian Habicht’s seminal study of the Hellenistic herrschende Gesellschaft (1958), a well-developed line of research has maintained that power in the Hellenistic kingdoms, including those established in the Near East and Egypt, was the exclusive preserve of a Graeco-Macedonian elite. The core of this elite was the Hellenistic royal court constituted by the king and his “friends”—men who were virtually all Greeks and Macedonians, recruited and maintained through personal relations of philia. Though Alexander himself had adopted Achaemenid ceremonial traditions and had integrated prominent Persians into his court (Spawforth 2007b), the model that his successors followed is usually traced back to the relatively informal Macedonian institution of the king’s companions and defined by a Hellenic ethnic and cultural exclusivity.2 The history of this Hellenistic court follows a familiar periodization: the paradigmatic (even ideal) form was an institution of the third century, but in the subsequent age of decline the court was formalized into elaborate and “artificial” hierarchies, and a few natives even found their way into the ranks of court  All dates are b.c.e.  Habicht 1958, 5–6. See also, for example, Mooren 1978; Weber 1997, 32–35; SavalliLestrade 1998, 289–354. For the ethnic exclusivity of the Hellenistic courts, note Herman 1997, 207–8. Mooren 1985, 222, refers to the Ptolemaic court of the late third century as Hellenic and hermetic. Ma 2003, 186–88, follows this model but uses Pierre Briant’s term, “dominant ethno-class.” 1 2

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society.3 The third-century model is derived primarily from Greek literary sources, and especially the detailed accounts of events and individuals at the Hellenistic courts in Polybius’ Histories. The major exception to the preponderance of attention devoted to the third-century courts is in the study Ptolemaic Egypt itself. Here the comparative wealth of documentary evidence facilitated Leon Mooren’s detailed prosopographical study of the court hierarchy in the second and first centuries, to which I shall return shortly.4 But it is Polybius’ Histories, and particularly his accounts of interactions among courtiers and between kings and courtiers, that have attracted the most attention in formulating the Hellenistic court as an object of historical-sociological study. Drawing on Norbert Elias and a stream of work reacting to his analysis of early modern European courts, scholars of ancient history have recently paid renewed attention to the royal courts of antiquity.5 Abstracted from the particular historical questions that he pursued, Elias’ model has proved a useful comparandum for outlining the features and functions of ancient courts. Especially important for the Hellenistic period is Gabriel Herman’s analysis of the Hellenistic court as a social milieu with several characteristics that it shares with other courts.6 These include: specific norms; rules of conduct and ceremonial practices—in particular those regulating access to the ruler; the idea of the court as an abstraction based on a palace or household that was physical but also multifocal and mobile; and the emergence of courtiers, the quintessential representatives of the court society. In Polybius’ Histories, the sole source for Herman’s study, courtiers are called οἱ περὶ τὴν αὐλήν (“those around the court”) or simply οἱ αὐλικοί.7 The Hellenistic court was clearly an entity recognized in contemporary thought and language, and the recent approaches inspired by Elias and other historical ­sociologists

3  For the periodization, see Habicht 1958, 14–16. Weber 1997 largely follows him, though he does note the later incorporation of Egyptians into the Ptolemaic hierarchy. On the other hand, Boris Dreyer in this volume argues that the differentiation of the court hierarchy began already in the third century in the Seleucid case. 4  Mooren 1975b and 1977, along with several other shorter studies; see also SavalliLestrade 1998. 5  Elias 1983 (rev. 2006), with important critiques by Duindam 1994; 2004. Recent collections on ancient courts include Winterling 1997 and Spawforth 2007a. 6  Herman 1997. Also important is Weber 1997 and to some extent Mooren 1985 (based only on Polybius). 7  Polyb. 5.26.13; 5.34.4; 5.41.3; 16.22.8; 22.13.5; 23.5.4. Further examples in Herman 1997, 213, n. 33. He also identified a number of peculiarities of Hellenistic court society in the third century (1997, 223–24).

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have undertaken to study it as a social configuration of various interdependent relations among kings and courtiers. The ancient terms for the court and its courtiers, like the more recent ones, make it clear that the court was also a form of social space, in the sense developed by Henri Lefebvre: it was a space produced through human activity and through the reproduction of social relations. ­Lefebvre barely mentioned royal courts.8 Elias, however, began his historical analysis of court society under Louis XIV by examining the structure of aristocratic dwellings as spaces in which and through which courtiers consumed conspicuously, but also asserted their rank and social distance, and engaged in various spatial practices related to those of the palace at Versailles (2006, 45–72). In a similar vein, one could say that the Hellenistic royal courts were the overblown households at the economic, political, and administrative cores of states derived from and produced by Alexander’s massive, violent, primitive accumulation and domination of space.9 In this wider context, the court was a space of appropriation, redistribution, spectacular consumption, as well as its own production in the form of palaces and their attendant spatial practices. The social space of the Hellenistic court was also produced by, and reproduced, a narrower set of relations between the king and his courtiers. In its elaborated form (to which I shall turn shortly), the Ptolemaic court in particular was a social space defined by graded relations of kinship, friendship, and other forms of social or physical proximity to the person of the king. The privilege of proximity to him was expressed and experienced through titles, insignia, and the spatial practices embodied in the palace or its itinerant equivalents. Social connections between king and courtier were maintained economically—by a kind of exchange, a reciprocity that was actually a symbolic violence of dependency and obligation on the part of the courtier, euphemized as an economy of material rewards

8  Lefebvre 1991; for the central insight of his complex work in brief, see his own convenient summary (348–49) with Smith 1998, 54, also quoted by Unwin 2000, 18. In historical terms, his revised Marxian periodization was much more concerned with urban development (1991, 31–33, 47–59); Smith 1998, 57, provides an overview. 9  Lefebvre’s historical overview considers all of ancient Greek and Roman civilization as part of his period of “absolute space”; but surely reassessments of ancient economies and urbanism permit various spaces in antiquity to be reimagined as verging on the “historical space” that he associated with urbanism, the separation between production and reproduction, socio-economic differentiation, and accumulation (Smith 1998, 57; Lefebvre 1991, 48–49). For the domination of space and the state’s rationality of accumulation, see (with similar qualifications) Lefebvre 1991, 280–81.

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and honor (especially the prestige-fetishes of royal proximity) given in return for service and loyalty.10 Remarking on the vagaries of court life, Polybius summed up the Hellenistic court of his day with a wonderful spatial and economic metaphor: he observed that courtiers “are like pebbles on reckoning-boards . . . at the will of the reckoner they are now worth a bronze coin and now worth a talent.”11 His view is thoroughly steeped in a Greek anti-tyrannical discourse that emphasizes the servility and dependence of courtiers, and one must take him with a grain of salt. Whatever the insecurities of their position, those on the board were able to compete for the power, status, and wealth that flowed from proximity to the king in this privileged space.12 The question remains, however, as to whether non-Greeks and nonMacedonians were kept off Polybius’ reckoning-board and excluded from the space of the court. In the case of Ptolemaic Egypt, the usual picture of the Hellenistic court as a space produced and occupied by a limited, ethnically homogeneous Hellenic elite does not adequately account for changes in the court over time. The best counterpoint to this model is the group of Egyptians who held the title syngenes and who took part in the spatial practices of the late Ptolemaic court at Alexandria, or at the very least represented this space and its practices in the documents they produced. Following Lefebvre’s analysis of the production of space, these indigenous elites contributed to the (re)production, and even the transformation, of the space of the court as they brought back their representations of the court to the chora. The statues of these Egyptian kinsmen wearing the mitra of their rank in the forecourts of temples, along with Greek and Egyptian epigraphic evidence, show that the indigenous elites who (at least discursively) circulated between Alexandria and Upper Egypt created a transcultural space that was critical for maintaining the power of the Ptolemaic state in the Egyptian chora during the troubled conditions of the second and first centuries.

 On this type of domination, see Bourdieu 1977, 189–97, esp. 190–91.  Polyb. 5.26.12–13. Walbank 1970–1979, 1.559–60, notes that the calculation-board known as the “Salamis tablet” has a series of columns for monetary calculations that range from a bronze coin to a talent. 12  The king’s behavior was constrained to some extent by the rules of the game, and courtiers could and did pursue their own goals: see Habicht 1958, 9–12; Herman 1997, 212–13, 220–22; Weber 1997, 42–43, 58–61. Cf. Duindam 1994 and 2004, who has argued that Elias’ model exaggerates the power of the monarch and underestimates the level of mutual negotiation between court and monarch. 10 11

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2. THE EGYPTIAN KINSMEN OF THE KING The title syngenes was part of a new, more elaborate articulation of the space of the court that first emerged early in the second century during the reign of Ptolemy V Epiphanes (204–180). In its initial form, the new system included ranks that were familiar from earlier Macedonian and Ptolemaic court societies: there were “friends,” “bodyguards,” “successors,” and other gradations based on these concepts. In his fundamental work on the Ptolemaic hierarchy, Mooren (1977, 19–73) argued that it was created deliberately by Aristomenes, the regent and guardian of the young king, or by his successor in that role, Polycrates. The creation took place at a time when the Ptolemaic state was in a weak position and facing various threats, including a major revolt in Upper Egypt which had resulted in the secession of the Thebaid under the independent rule of the Egyptian pharaohs Horwennefer and Anchwennefer (207–186).13 In Mooren’s view, the system was aimed primarily at the bureaucracy and was intended to strengthen the connections between the king and his officials by extending the honor of court titles to them.14 On the other hand, the new system was also a reform of the court itself, which had just emerged from a period of intrigue and conflict centered on tensions between an “inner” and an “outer” court; that is, between factions and individual courtiers permanently at the palace and those friends of the king who fulfilled administrative or military functions elsewhere and were only intermittently in his presence. In the context of such tensions, the new hierarchy of titles served to rationalize the system of honors and privileges in an increasingly large and complex court, while also integrating more thoroughly those royal agents stationed at a distance from the palace, thereby fostering the loyalty of Ptolemaic officials and extending the space of the court beyond Alexandria.15 After the troubled reign of  On the revolt, see Pestman 1995; McGing 1997, 285–89; Veïsse 2004, 11–26, 85–99.  Mooren 1977, 54–58; 1981, 300. 15  For this modification of Mooren’s thesis, see Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 371–73: she notes that Agathocles sought to defeat his opponents at court by having them sent away on various missions (Polyb. 15.25.20–21), and that the rivalry between Sosibius, Ptolemaios and their supporters, and the regent Tlepolemos and his supporters, encapsulated a conflict between an “aristocratie de ‘cour’” and an “aristocratie de ‘fonction.’” See also Herman 1997, 214, who points out that Polybius’ account of the reign of Ptolemy IV reveals divisions between the courtiers proper, those who administered the country, and those who conducted affairs outside Egypt (Polyb. 5.34; 5.40.2–3). A divide existed, too, between those who built up their power within the court and those who had the support of the military (5.36.4). Cf. Mooren 1985, who analyzed the factions at court in this period solely on the 13 14

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Ptolemy IV and his murder, and the under-age succession of Ptolemy V, the multiplication of ranks in the hierarchy may also have served to magnify Ptolemaic kingship as an institutionalized social position. Oriented by proximity to the king as the source of all prestige, the hierarchy not only elevated courtiers, but it also increased the social distance between the king and those on the periphery or completely outside the court’s topography of value.16 Although the hierarchy was undoubtedly the intentional creation of a particular moment, Mooren’s careful prosopographical study reveals it to have been subject later to piecemeal and ad hoc processes of development. The new system began with at least five titles but was expanded over time; by the first century it included eight ranks. The title syngenes, the pinnacle of the hierarchy and an entirely novel court title, is not attested until the reign of Ptolemy VI Philometor (180–145). Royal kinship had obviously existed before, and there were literal kinsmen of the king who had been important at court, but up to that point the title syngenes had not been conferred as a fictive status in the Ptolemaic kingdom.17 Over time, the court-title held by a Ptolemaic official also began to correlate with his importance and power in the administration of Egypt, and after about 145 this connection was relatively consistent.18 From 135, to choose one apposite example, the strategoi of the Thebaid all bore the title of syngenes. Not long afterwards, indigenous Egyptian syngeneis begin to appear in the evidence. Their numbers and significance, however, have generally been underestimated, and Egyptians are a negligible presence in most discussions of the Ptolemaic court.19 In particular, while Mooren’s pro­ sopographical work on the court hierarchy is fundamental (as mentioned above), his survey omitted a number of Egyptians who held the rank

basis of familial relations. On divisions between “inner” and “outer” courts more generally, see Weber 1997, 37–38, 53; Spawforth 2007, 8, 18, 23, 84–85. 16  Cf. the discussions of ceremonial and social distance in Elias 2006, 110–13; Duindam 1994, 133–34. 17  Mooren 1977, 39–41. Despite the absence of earlier evidence either within Egypt or outside, Mooren (21) suggested that syngenes was part of the original hierarchy; but it does seem to have undergone further development in the reign of Ptolemy VI and afterwards (21–24), so the later addition of syngenes cannot be excluded. 18  Although Mooren 1977 argued that a direct connection between court rank and official position was in place from the start, it probably developed in a more ad hoc way through accumulated precedents, rather than as a set of fixed rules (see Thomas 1983). 19  Mooren 1975b; 1977 (see discussion below); 1978; 1981, 299–301; 1985, 222. For a more balanced view of Ptolemaic elite society, see Rowlandson 2007.

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of syngenes. The main reason is that he did not accept the equivalence between the Greek syngenes and the Egyptian version of the title, sn nysw.t (“brother of the king”), an equivalence now confirmed and generally accepted.20 By counting up all the figures that Mooren studied, together with individuals from demotic and hieroglyphic texts excluded by him or unknown to him, I have so far gathered twenty-six Egyptian individuals who held the title syngenes, almost all of them connected to the Theban region.21 This total is a figure that represents about 20 percent of all the syngeneis attested in Ptolemaic Egypt. My criteria for identifying Egyptian ethnicity are crude but defensible in this case. The individuals I have identified all have Egyptian names, and most are attested in demotic or hieroglyphic Egyptian texts. Determining ethnicity on the basis of names is, of course, an uncertain business, especially in later Ptolemaic Egypt, but many of these twentysix Egyptian syngeneis are attested in Egyptian-language commemorative inscriptions or show other signs of affiliation with Egyptian culture. As to those only appearing as Egyptian names in Greek sources, it is important to recall Willy Clarysse’s argument (1985) that Egyptian or bicultural individuals often adopted Greek names and used them when working in the Greek linguistic and cultural context of the Ptolemaic administration; in consequence, Egyptians are likely to be underrepresented in official Greek sources. Given this likelihood, 20 percent is a significant proportion, and it poses a challenge to the idea of the ethnic

20  See Mooren 1975b, 33–34; 1975a, 236–37. For the arguments in favor of the equivalence, see Yoyotte 1969, 135; 1989, 83–84 (drawing on Meulenaere 1963, 91); Guermeur 2000, 74; Gorre 2009, 461–62. 21  By comparison, in Mooren’s catalog (1975b) there are thirteen syngeneis with Egyptian names: nos. 058, 0120, 0123, 0124, 0127, 0128, 0129, 0132, 0138, 0148, 0341, 0342, 0343; Mooren 1981, 301, n. 73, acknowledges seven of these as Egyptians. Many of the other Egyptian syngeneis are included in the prosopography compiled by Gorre 2009, i.e., his nos. 4, 5/6, 8, 11, 29, 30, 32, 38, 76. The remaining five Egyptian syngeneis are mentioned by Gorre (17, 20, 45, 47, 52, 141) but are not included in his prosopography. I list them by reference number in the Prosopographia Ptolemaica (PP) where possible: Psais (PP VIII 301c; III/ IX 5708); Kalasiris, son of Monkores (PP I/VIII 266, II 2118, III 5627); Monkores II, son of Pamonthes-Plenis (Farid 1995, 297; O. Strass. dem. 631; O. Theb. dem. 22); Ptolemaios, son of Ptolemaios/Pa-sher-pa-khy (Farid 1992, 105–14); swdЗ=f-pЗ-ϲЗ, son of Ptolemaios/ Pa-sher-pa-khy (Farid 1992, 105–14). I exclude from this count four syngeneis who appear to have been ethnically Greek, but adopted Egyptian language or cultural practices, or both: Eraton, Plato the Younger, Dorion, and Aristonikos (Gorre 2009, nos. 2, 24, 54, 75). Another possible example is the syngenes Asclepiades, who also bears the Egyptian title λεµυσα (= mr mš ϲ, “general”), and is perhaps to be identified with Mooren 1975b, no. 0264 (see Quaegebeur 1989, 167).

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exclusivity of the court hierarchy. But what can these numbers really tell us about the actual presence and participation of Egyptians in the social space of the court? There is one glaring peculiarity in the evidence that suggests caution is required in attempting to answer this question: by far the largest number of Egyptians with court-titles hold the title syngenes, the highest in the hierarchy. All the known Egyptians (defined by the same rough criteria above) who held lower titles amount to less than a third the number of the syngeneis.22 It seems implausible that this imbalance reflects the actual distribution. Perhaps the lower ranks are underrepresented because they or their families lacked the resources to produce the durable, monumental commemorations that document so many of the Egyptian syngeneis. This is a reasonable conjecture, but another answer may lie in the title of syngenes itself, and its successful translation into the Egyptian language and its representational contexts. Among all the titles in the court hierarchy of the second and first centuries, it is the only one for which a new Egyptian counterpart was created.23 Egyptian versions of the title show a range of linguistic approaches to incorporating it into the Egyptian language. At times, syngenes was transliterated phonetically into either the demotic or hieroglyphic script and marked by a determinative as a foreign word (e.g., συγγενής > ­snynys).24 There are also, as already mentioned, translations of the term into equivalent phrases such as sn ny-sw.t (“brother of the king”) in

22  Courtiers with Egyptian names or other possible Egyptian ethnic indicia: Santobithys, ἀρχισωµατοφύλαξ (PP I 326); Chomenis, λαάρχης (leader of native troops) and also τῶν πρώτων φίλων (Mooren 1975b, no. 0213); Isidotos, λαάρχης and τῶν πρώτων φίλων ­(Mooren 1975b, no. 0214); Inaros, τῶν πρώτων φίλων (Mooren 1975b, no. 0226); Herodes (priest of Egyptian temples at Elephantine, Abaton, Philae), τῶν διαδοχῶν and ἀρχισωµατοφύλαξ (Gorre 2009, no. 1); Apollonios Euergetes (member of an Egyptian family), τῶν φίλων (Gorre 2009, no. 5; see also Mooren 1975b, 161); Dioscourides (Egyptian mother; buried in Egyptian sarcophagus), ἀρχισωµατοφύλαξ (Gorre 2009, no. 50). Others to be considered include Ptolemaios (bearer of the Egyptian title φριτ(ο)β / pЗ h.ry-ỉdb), τῶν φίλων (Quaegebeur 1989, 161, 167), and Pelaias (bearer of the title ỉmy-ỉb tpy n ny-sw.t bỉty, perhaps translating τῶν πρώτων φίλων (Gorre 2009, no. 82; see next note). 23  The title ἀρχισωµατοφύλαξ, for example, is transliterated into demotic (Clarysse 1987, 21) and hieroglyphic (Collombert 2000, 48). The title τῶν πρώτων φίλων is translated directly into hieroglyphic Egyptian as nty ỉmy.w ỉmy-ỉb.w tp n H.m.f (“who is among the first friends of the king,” Philae II, line 4; Sethe 1904, 2.217, line 6); cf. the title of Pelaias in the previous note. The fragmentary demotic version of the Philae text appears to read nty hn[w] nЗ ϲn[.w] (“who is among those who are good” [or “esteemed”?]). 24  Demotic variants listed in Clarysse 1987, 29–30; see also Farid 1989, 159–60, for demotic and hieroglyphic attestations.

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hieroglyphic texts, and sn n Pr-ϲЗ (“brother of the pharaoh”) in demotic texts.25 An indication of the degree to which the title became integrated into the Egyptian language is the etymological word-play used in some transliterations. In transliterating Greek into demotic Egyptian, only monoliteral signs were normally used, but in several transliterations of syngenes (snynys) the word begins with the biliteral demotic sign sn, which happens to be the same sign used to spell the word sn (“brother”). The transliteration is all the more striking, since this is the only word for which biliteral signs are used in a demotic phonetic transcription of a Greek word.26 The same pattern of transliteration, using the hieroglyphic sn-sign, is also found in some hieroglyphic texts.27 Judging by the transliterations, the hieroglyphic translation sn ny-sw.t probably also sounded similar to the Greek word syngenes. All these factors suggest that the title of “kinsman” was an unusually successful linguistic transfer because of partial congruences between Greek and Egyptian phonetic and semantic units. So, is the relative overrepresentation of Egyptian syngeneis a chance artifact of interlinguistic homophony and graphic word-play? Would other Egyptian courtiers be more visible in the record if their titles were more readily adaptable to the Egyptian language and its graphic conventions? Egyptian biographical texts in hieroglyphics often did revive ancient court-titles and even formulaic strings of titles, but so far no study has been able to discern a clear correspondence between these and the titles of the Greek court hierarchy. On the other hand, these old titles may at times be understood as generalized expressions—in a formal indigenous idiom—of affiliation with the king or perhaps even the royal court.28 This uneven texture of the Egyptian evidence is a salutary reminder that the “prosopographical data” we possess are often generated by discursive practices that were not intended to answer the questions we pose. My next sections try to overcome these problems to some extent by casting a wider evidentiary net and examining what the discursive and visual self-representations of the indigenous elite reveal about their position in the social space of the court. 25  For the hieroglyphic writings of sn ny-sw.t, see, e.g., Cairo CG 22050 and JE 46059 (further examples in Farid 1989, 159). Note also sn n mhw n ny-sw.t (“brother of the family of the king,” Cairo JE 85743; Guermeur 2000, 73–74). 26  Clarysse 1987, 15. See Berlin 22468; Cairo CG 31083, 31092, 50044, 50045; JE 46375. Farid 1989, 160. 27  Cairo JE 46320; CG 50047. Gorre 2009, no. 10. 28  See, for example, the traditional sequence rp ϲt h.Зty-(p) ϲ(t), smr w ϲty (“hereditary noble, prince, unique friend”) and variants; Gorre 2009, 461–62.

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Before taking up that task, however, let me anticipate an objection that could be made to my attempt to locate Egyptian elites in the social space of the Ptolemaic court: namely, that these individuals only appear relatively late in Ptolemaic history, when the nature of the court had changed and titles had become “honorific”—in other words, when they no longer necessarily signified the “effective” or “real” relations between the king and his friends that had constituted the third-century court and still continued to shape the inner court at Alexandria.29 This argument posits that, despite the restructuring of the court hierarchy, there was a continuing divide between those courtiers in the administration and those associated with the royal household in Alexandria. In fact, actual proximity to the king probably did still count for something, but the distinction between honorific title-holders and real “friends” is not so clear-cut. The king’s “friends” in the older sense could acquire a formal title in the new hierarchy either while at the court itself or by virtue of appointment to some administrative or military position that sent them away from it.30 In any case, literary sources do in fact mention three examples of Egyptians directly connected to the monarch. Around 165, the Egyptian rebel Dionysius Petoserapis, described as one of the “friends” of the king and wielding considerable influence at court, began his attempt to gain power in Egypt through court intrigues at Alexandria, before withdrawing to the south to incite armed rebellion there. In 142, an Egyptian by the name of Ptolemy Sympetesis was given the extraordinary command of all of Cyrene (probably as strategos) by Ptolemy VIII himself. Although no specific title is mentioned, this is around the time when the court hierarchy became linked with positions in the administration, so he would presumably have acquired some sort of court-title in his new position. Near the 29  For these distinctions, see Mooren 1977, 38–41, 46–48; he is followed by Weber 1997, 53–57; Samuel 1993, 185–87. 30  Savalli-Lestrade 1998, 368–73, argues that the new system of titles applied to the court as well as the administration. Mooren 1977, 48, addressed the exceptions that blur his distinction by arguing that those “real” friends who held honorific titles did so only by virtue of their office; but that begs the question, from whom did they receive their commissions? As Thomas 1983 points out, a number of cases suggest that ad hoc decisions could be made in the case of particular appointments to office and court rank, perhaps by the king. There is also a problem of evidence: “honorific” title-holders tend to appear in Ptolemaic administrative documents, but “real” friends only in literary sources that give sufficient details of interaction with the king—and these sources are less plentiful for the second and first centuries. This said, the one substantial contemporary literary description of the later Ptolemaic court, the Letter of Aristeas (discussed further below), mentions two figures who are in direct contact with the king and bear the “honorific” title archisomatophylax (12, 40).

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end of the Ptolemaic period, an Egyptian named Achillas appears as one of the chief advisors to Ptolemy XIII.31 Finally in this connection, there is also evidence that a few Egyptians had positions (formal or not) at the third-century court. Individuals like Senu, the governor of Coptos, a close advisor to Ptolemy II Philadelphus who also held the position (real or honorific) of overseer of the royal household (mr-pr ỉp.t-ny-sw.t) of Arsinoe,32 suggest that Manetho of Sebennytos, the priest, historian, and Ptolemaic advisor, was not as exceptional as once thought. These are all suggestive examples, but in much of the evidence to be discussed below, the formal, even formulaic, nature of the texts makes it difficult to determine the “real” extent to which Egyptian syngeneis were integrated into the social space of the Ptolemaic court. Nevertheless, it was part of their discourse of self-representation. To use Lefebvre’s terms of analysis, their representations of space, their evocation of the “representational” space of the court in defining their social status, and their concrete spatial practices, all contributed to the production of the court’s social space.33 3. EGYPTIANS AT COURT: REPRESENTATIONS OF SPATIAL PRACTICE In Polybius, as mentioned above, the members of the Ptolemaic court are denominated οἱ αὐλικοί (“the courtiers”) or οἱ περὶ τὴν αὐλήν (“those around the court”). Their name and their social existence are derived from the αὐλή (“the court”)—or indeed the palace, since the word αὐλή was used to describe the entire royal residence at Alexandria. This was perhaps more than a simple synecdoche. The palace and its proper denizens were so closely entwined that calling the palace the court could also function as a metonymy: the palace was the particular space of the courtiers. But how was this social space produced, and how did it function to reproduce the social relations that it embodied? The physical 31  Dionysius Petoserapis: Diod. Sic. 31.15a (see McGing 1997, 289–95; Veïsse 2004, 27–44, 99–112); Ptolemy Sympetesis: Polyb. 31.18.6 (see Walbank 1970–1979, 3.486); Achillas: Plut. Pomp. 77. On Dionysius Petoserapis and Achillas, see Rowlandson 2007, 41. 32  Cairo CG 700331; London BM EA 1668. Derchain 2000, 16, 22–31, 44–53; Lloyd 2002, 123–27; Rowlandson 2007, 44. There is some disagreement as to how to read the name. Though Derchain 2000, 22, reads the signs as Snw-Šrỉ, Lloyd 2002, 123, and n. 24, prefers Snn-šps(w). I follow Guermeur 2003, 336: Snw.w. The argument of Gorre 2009, 118, that the title mr-pr ỉp.t-ny-sw.t refers to a cult position in Coptos is not convincing; see Lloyd 2002, 124–27. 33  See esp. Lefebvre 1991, 36–46.

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details of the palace are difficult to reconstruct. Despite the intriguing finds of the underwater survey led by Franck Goddio, the remains of the palace quarter at Alexandria have revealed little of its Ptolemaic layout.34 Nevertheless, the archaeological evidence does give a sense of the density and scale of the construction in the area, to some extent confirming Strabo’s description of the monumentality of the palaces at Alexandria a few years after Octavian’s defeat of Antony and Cleopatra (17.1.8, adapted from Loeb): The city contains the finest public precincts and also the royal palaces, which constitute one-fourth or even one-third of the whole circuit of the city; for just as each of the kings, from love of splendor, was in the habit of somehow beautifying the public monuments further, so also he would invest himself at his own expense with a residence, in addition to those already built, so that now, to quote the words of the poet, “there is building upon building.”

The palace quarter that Strabo saw was the end result of three centuries of the production and reproduction of the particular space of the Ptolemaic monarchy and the society through which and over which this system ruled, including, of course, the court. Other literary sources provide some further glimpses of its space and spatial practices, especially the social distances measured out by the ceremonies of entrée and audience that unfolded in the massive complex of the palace. Polybius’ account of the events leading to the death of Agathocles at the hands of the Alexandrian mob in 203 reveals that the palace of that era had at least three gates leading to its interior, as well as a special entrance for official audiences, known as the chrematistikos pylon or “business gate” (15.31). As in other court societies, the king’s residence and household were the mediating space through which he ruled his subjects and administered the kingdom.35 The chrematistikos pylon of the palace at Alexandria was likely a monumental portal similar to the colonnaded propylaion of Ptolemy IV’s massive, palatial Nile barge (the Thalamegus), or to the façades of better preserved Hellenistic governors’ palaces, although undoubtedly on an even more impressive scale.36 Polybius also describes a monumental courtyard that was used for audiences with  Goddio 1998, esp. 43–50; also Yoyotte, Charvet, and Gompertz 1997, 84–85.  Elias 2006, 45–47. 36  See Nielsen 1994, 19–20, 133, on the governors’ palaces at Tyrus and Ptolemais. Note also Callixenus’ description of the Thalamegus (Ath. 5.204d–206d), and the palace of Aeëtes in Colchis (Ap. Rhod. Argon. 3.215–34). 34 35

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large numbers of people: “the largest peristyle in the palace,” where the self-appointed regents Agathocles and Sosibius announced the deaths of Ptolemy IV and Arsinoe III to the household troops and soldiers stationed in Alexandria.37 The space of the palace and its official functions also had to be mobile. When on campaign, Ptolemy IV had a “conspicuous and official tent” (epiphanes kai chrematistike skene) in which he dined and conducted his business, perhaps in the manner that Alexander had done a few generations before.38 The chrematistikos pylon and the chrematistike skene were not merely points of access; they were portals through which access was controlled, and in which the relations of power between the king and those who approached him were enacted. The pseudonymous Letter of Aristeas provides some rare insights into the ceremonial constraints on access to the later Ptolemaic court. Although this text purports to be a contemporary account of the translation of the Torah into Greek by seventy-two Jewish scholars at the court of Ptolemy II (282–46), it was composed in the second half of the second century by an author who was likely a Jewish resident of Alexandria;39 several details show that he was very familiar with the Ptolemaic court and administration in the period roughly contemporary with the earliest of the Egyptian syngeneis. When recounting the scholars’ reception at the palace, the narrator of the letter describes how the king, in his enthusiasm to meet them, waived the usual protocol: When we reached Alexandria, news of our arrival was given to the king. Andreas and I were introduced to the court, we paid our warm respects to the king, and we presented the letters from Eleazar. The king was anxious to meet the members of the deputation, so he gave orders to dismiss all the other officials, and to summon these delegates. The unprecedented nature of this step was very clear to all, because it was custom that those who arrived regarding business (chrematismos) should come into the presence of the king on the fifth day after their arrival, while representatives of kings or important cities were rarely admitted to the court within thirty days.40 37  Polyb. 15.25.3: τῷ µεγίστῳ περιστύλῳ τῆς αὐλῆς. Nielsen 1994, 20, 130, suggests that this occurred in front of the chrematistikos pylon. 38  Polyb. 5.81.5. See Spawforth 2007, 94–97, for particular attention to the ceremonial tents in which Alexander conducted business and sat in judgment. 39  This is the most favored date, but the issue continues to be debated; see, in brief, Fraser 1972, 1.696–700, 2.970–72, n. 121; Collins 2000, 98–99. Particularly relevant here are the references to archisomatophylax (n. 30 above), suggesting that the author has in mind the court hierarchy of the second and first centuries. 40  173–75; trans. adapted from R. J. Shutt in Charlesworth 1985.

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The act of entering the court and coming before the king was constrained by ceremonial delays of at least two different durations depending on the nature of the visitor. Traversing the distance between the ordinary, outside world and the king in his court became a ritualized spatio-temporal journey. All this, of course, heightened the prestige of those who were regularly in the presence of the king or could claim entrée to the court. To use Elias’ terminology, such distinctions of access and presence became “prestige fetishes” indicating the social position of an individual by means of the spatio-temporal coordinates of the court.41 A few surviving biographical inscriptions of Egyptian syngeneis show that this prestige-fetish of entrée was also a mark of distinction in the formal commemorative discourses through which Egyptian elites asserted their social identity. A statue of the Egyptian syngenes (sn ny-sw.t) Pachom, discovered in the course of excavations at the temple of Hathor at Denderah (see Plate 1), depicts a high official in the striding draped-male style of late Ptolemaic Egyptian sculpture.42 The statue has been dated to the late second or early first century. Although found at Denderah, the lacunose inscription indicates that this Pachom was strategos at Edfu, serving as the chief administrative official of that nome.43 In describing various honors granted to him, the hieroglyphic inscription on the back pillar of the statue proclaims that “(when) he proceeds to and goes forth from the palace, he is not hindered—standing and sitting in the presence of His Majesty.”44 Another inscribed statue of an Egyptian syngenes from Denderah makes a briefer claim to the same privilege. Panas, the son of Psenobastis, who was strategos there at the end of the Ptolemaic period, is described as “great of praise in the palace, he who enters the house of the king.”45 The statues of two other first-century syngeneis from Upper

41  Elias 2006, 91–95. Note the exclusion of Apelles from the royal quarters of Philip V, with immediate and devastating consequences for his social prestige (Polyb. 5.26.9–11; Herman 1997, 216). 42  Cairo JE 46059. See Bianchi 1976; 1978; Kaiser 1999 (dating the emergence of this type to ca. 125). 43  Daressy 1917, 91–93; Meulenaere 1959, 3, 10–11, 24 (dating); Känel 1984, 142–45, no. 64; Abdalla 1994, 8–11, fig. 3, pl. V; Gorre 2009, no. 8. 44  Cairo JE 46059, col. 2: wdЗ pr(·f) pr-ny-sw.t n ỉtn·n·tw·f ϲh.ϲ h.ms m-bЗh. h.m·f. 45  Cairo CG 690. Gorre 2009, 133, transliterates the phrase wr h.sw m stp-sЗ, h.Зt m pr-nsw and translates as “grand favori du palais, admis dans la demeure royale,” following Daressy 1893, 159–60. Borchardt’s entry in the Catalogue Général differs; following it, I transliterate wr h.sw m stp-sЗ, ϲk. m pr-nsw (for the writing, see Wilson 1997, 180). See also the statue of Pelaias from Tanis (Cairo CG 687; see Gorre 2009, no. 82), where the inscription refers to him as ỉmy-ỉb tpy n ny-sw.t bỉty, perhaps a translation of the title protos philos (“first

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Plate 1. The temple of Hathor at Denderah. Photograph by author.

Egypt, Korax and Plato, express the privilege of free movement at court with a particularly vivid turn of phrase: they are described as “wide of stride” (wsḫ -nmt.t) in the palace or in the king’s audience hall.46 The phrase evokes, in a very corporeal way, the image of the courtier walking quickly and confidently through the space of the court. Suggestive though the phrase may be, it does not necessarily lead us to the courtier’s distinctive bodily habitus at court, let alone his experience of movement in this space. The formula wsḫ -nmt.t was not new to the Ptolemaic period, but is attested at least as early as the 30th Dynasty

friend”). He is described as ϲk. h.m.f m dr.t, trans. by Zivie-Coche 2004, 191, as “qui pénètre jusqu’à Sa Majesté dans ses appartements” (preferable to the reading in Gorre 2009, 419). See Wilson 1997, 1241–42; Erman and Grapow 1926–1963, 5.600. 46  The inscriptions on two statues of Korax (Cairo JE 45390; Philadelphia 40-19-3) include the phrase wsḫ -nmt.t m stp-sЗ (“wide of stride in the palace,” Daressy 1916, 269; Ranke 1945, 241). Gorre 2009, 125, reads the phrase as wsḫ m stp-sЗ (“important au palais”), but wsḫ -nmt.t makes better sense of the walking-legs sign in both inscriptions. For the expression, see Wilson 1997, 259, and the references below. The statue of Plato the Younger (Cairo JE 48033, back pillar col. 1) calls him wr h.sw m pr-nsw, wsḫ -nmt.t m šnϲ (or rw.t?) (“great of praise in the palace, wide of stride in the audience chamber”); see Coulon 2001 88–89, 91; Gorre 2009, no. 24.

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(380–43).47 It, and other expressions of free movement and access to the palace, were continuations of longstanding Egyptian discourses developed in the context of pharaonic courts. In these earlier courts, as in so many others, access and entrée were privileges of court rank.48 This does not mean, however, that formulaic expressions like “wide of stride in the palace” were meaningless archaic survivals of a bygone day—far from it. While it is impossible to tell from the evidence available whether these particular syngeneis did actually stride through the gates of the palace, the fact that they situated themselves in the space of the royal court in public self-representations shows that these statements still had a pragmatic utility in discourses of identity and social standing. Although archaizing in many respects, late Egyptian modes of elite self-presentation were not manifestations of an ossified and uncomprehending formalism, but living traditions capable of transformation and adaptation; the translation of the title syngenes confirms the point, as does the display of visual signs of court rank discussed below. 4. THE COURT IN THE CHORA We should bear in mind that these biographical inscriptions proclaiming the privileges of entrée enjoyed by Egyptian syngeneis were composed for a very limited audience. Since they were in hieroglyphs, only those trained to read and write this ancient script could understand the titles and honors described. This written discourse, therefore, was effectively limited to the elite priestly milieu from which the Egyptian syngeneis came. There were, however, other audiences and other ways for Egyptian courtiers to communicate their status. The head of a prominent secondcentury family from Edfu commissioned a poet named Herodes to compose epitaphs in Greek elegaic couplets for members of his family, which were then inscribed on stelae set up in the necropolis of Edfu at Nag el-Hassaia. The name of this patriarch was Ptolemaios, but he also had the Egyptian name Pamenches. Jean Yoyotte has perceptively shown that, in addition to their Greek grave stelae, these Edfu notables had stelae inscribed in hieroglyphs in a traditional Egyptian manner, in which they

47  Meulenaere 1955, 229–30. For the early attestation, see Bayonne, Museé Bonnat no. 498 (Meulenaere 1962, 33–34). 48  See, for example, Spence 2007, esp. 290–91, on the New Kingdom court, and Coulon 2002, 11–12, on the Middle Kingdom. For the space of the palace (esp. the throne room) described as sacred (dsr) in the New Kingdom, see Hoffmeier 1985, 177–83.

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went by their Egyptian names and titles.49 This was a family that lived in two worlds, occupying important positions in the Ptolemaic court and administration, but also in the Egyptian temples at Edfu, Denderah, and elsewhere. Their dual funerary monuments addressed (at least formally) both worlds. In the Greek epitaph of Apollonios, the son of Ptolemaios, the voice of the departed defines his identity and achievements in relation to those of his father: I am Apollonios, son of famous Ptolemaios, whom the Benefactors honored with the mitra, the sacred perquisite of the kinsman’s dignity. Loyalty took him even into the inner parts of the country and up to the ocean. Therefore, gazing on the fine fame of my father, I felt the urge to reach the same excellence . . .50

This text proclaims that the “Benefactors,” Ptolemy VIII Euergetes and his two wives, granted Ptolemaios the title of kinsman and also the emblem of that rank: the mitra. Though the Greek epigram is not explicit about his military and administrative positions, Apollonios’ hieroglyphic stela refers to him as “great chief of the army” (mr mš ϲ wr), “chief of the cavalry” (mr smsm), and “first lieutenant of his majesty in the south” (ỉdnw tpy n h.m=f ỉr sḫ rw m-ϲ rsy), so he appears to have held the position of strategos of the Thebaid (Cairo CG 22050), one of the most important posts in the Ptolemaic administration. He also held the court title of “brother of the king” (sn ny-sw.t)51 and therefore would have worn the same mitra as Ptolemaios. Father and son communicated their status with a visual symbol that could be understood by all, even those unable to read either Egyptian or Greek. Unfortunately, there is hardly any evidence that can provide information on the contexts in which the Ptolemaic syngeneis would have displayed the mitra while alive. Perhaps a rite of investiture lay behind the brief reference to the “Benefactors” honoring Ptolemaios with the mitra, a ceremony that is also suggested by the biographical inscription on the statue of the syngenes Pachom mentioned above:

 Yoyotte 1969; see also Clarysse 1985, 62–64.  Cairo CG 9205, lines 3–8: Εἰµὶ γὰρ εὐκλειοῦς Ἀπολλώνιος ὁ Πτολεµαίου | κοῦρος, ὃν Εὐέρκται µίτρᾳ ἐπηγλάισαν, | συγγενικῆς δόξης ἱερὸν γέρας · εὔνοια γάρ µιν | βαῖνε καὶ εἴσω γᾶς ἄχρι καὶ ὠκεανόν. | Τοὔνεκα κἀµὲ πατρὸς καλὸν κλέος εἰσορόωντα | τῆς αὐτῆς ψαύειν θυµὸς ἔθηγ᾿ ἀρετῆς . . . (for the full text, see Bernand 1969, no. 5). 51  According to Mooren 1977, 85, the strategoi of the Thebaid bore the title syngenes after about 135. 49 50

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twn.n.f sdd·f m tr n ḫ rp·f (m) hkr.w ny-sw.t ỉwty sn.nw rdỉ·n·f mh. n sЗwy r h. Зt·f . . .52

He [the king] rewarded his speech in the time of his administration (with) royal ornaments without peer. He placed a fillet of gold on his brow . . .

Otherwise, however, the best evidence for the mitra as an emblem of rank is found in statues that were placed in the forecourts of Egyptian temples in Upper Egypt.53 No statues are known for Apollonios or Ptolemaios, and the head of the statue of Pachom is missing, but four other statues of syngeneis, all from the Thebaid, depict their subjects wearing a mitra. In two cases, the head of the statue is still connected to the body, so the mitra is plain to see. The statues are all of the “striding draped male” type mentioned earlier. This statue-type was a new style of visual selfpresentation that emerged around 125 (Kaiser 1999)—in other words, at the same time that Egyptians began to appear in the highest ranks of the court hierarchy. In this style, the subject is shown standing with one foot forward in the pose of a well-established Egyptian sculptural tradition, but one hand is held at the front of the torso, usually clasping part of a new tripartite costume that is draped over the body: a fringed outer shawl combined with a short-sleeved tunic and a long wrap-around skirt. A rough, partly finished statue in this style that is now in the collection of the Detroit Institute of Arts (51.83; see Plate 2) shows a strategos and syngenes who is named Pachom in Egyptian and Hierax in Greek.54 The statue, which was probably set up in the forecourt of the temple of Hathor at Denderah in the middle of the first century, bears a mitra.55 Pachom steps forward with his left foot, while his left hand clasps part of a fringed outer garment at the front of his body; the right hand is clenched  Cairo JE 46059, col. 2 (see n. 43 above for bibliography).  There is one possible exception: a fragmentary letter written in demotic (P. Claude 2, 95 b.c.e.) that describes the gift of “a chiton of the Pharaoh and a crown of gold” (wϲ.t gtn.t (n) Pr-ϲЗ h.nϲ wϲ glm (n) nwb) from the strategos Ptolion to a certain Horos of the Ptolemaic garrison at Pathyris. Unfortunately, there is no mention of the “kinsman” rank; see Chauveau 2002, 49–57. 54  His names are known from: the hieroglyphs on the statue; a statue base from Edfu inscribed in Greek (SB I 1560); the demotic inscription on the base of his son’s statue (Cairo CG 50047; see further below); and a lintel from Denderah inscribed in hieroglyphs (Cauville 1991, 79, pl. 32). The name Pakhom (PЗ ϲhm) refers to Horus in falcon form (see Wilson 1997, 178, for references), thus the Greek Ἱέραξ is equivalent. 55  Statue first published by Meulenaere 1959, 12–17; see also Stricker 1959, pl. IV, no. 6; 1960, 28; Bothmer 1969, 178–79, pls. 128–29, figs. 340–41, 343; Bianchi 1978, 98–100, figs. 59–60; 1988, 126–27; Walker 2001, 180–82. Prosopography: PP I.265, 990; III.5711; VIII.301; Mooren 1975b, no. 0127; Gorre 2009, no. 9; see also Farid 1990. 52 53

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Plate 2. Statue of Pachom, ca. 50–30 b.c.e. Grey granite. Detroit Institute of Arts 51.83. Founders Society Purchase, William H. Murphy Fund. The Bridgeman Art Library.

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at his side. Another statue discovered in excavations at Denderah and now in Cairo depicts the son of Hierax/Pachom, the high official and priest Pamenches, who wears a mitra decorated with rosettes.56 This statue, which probably dates to the very end of the Ptolemaic period (ca. 30), is also of the “striding draped male” type. Like his father, Pamenches was a syngenes, and also a strategos (mr mš ϲ wr) with authority over a considerable area of Upper Egypt.57 The two other statues of syngeneis wearing mitrai are damaged, but carved on the back pillars of each statue are the loose ends of the mitra which would have hung down from a knot tied at the back of the missing head. One of these statues, that of the syngenes Pachompsais, is also from Denderah, and depicts him in the same tripartite costume as the other statues.58 There is, however, a variation in the statue of the syngenes Pamonthes-Plenis,59 who was a member of a prominent family from Hermonthis (modern Armant), a short distance to the south of Thebes. On top of the usual garments, he wears a panther skin that was the traditional mark of a sem-priest (a specialist in funerary rituals) and also associated with the priesthood of Amun at Thebes.60 This hybrid image of the Theban priest wearing the mitra of a high-ranking courtier once again raises the question of the culture and ethnicity of the Ptolemaic court. What role, if any, did such distinctions play in relations between the Ptolemaic court and the indigenous elite, especially in the case of the priestly courtiers, the Egyptian kinsmen of the Macedonian king? The assertion of court status can hardly be taken as a sign of “Hellenization” in individuals who retained such overt indicia of their Egyptian affiliations as their language, their names, their religious practices, and so forth. Rather, the overlap and interaction between the

56  Cairo JE 46320 / CG 50047, most recently published by Abdalla 1994, 5–8, pls. IV, VIIc, fig. 2, but with minor errors in the text (see next note). Earlier discussions: Daressy 1919, 186–88; Spiegelberg 1922, 88–90; 1932, 19–20, pl. XI; Rowe 1940, 17–18, fig. 2; Meulenaere 1959, 3–6; Bothmer 1969, 157; Dack, 1989, 87. Prosopography: Mooren 1975b, no. 0128; PP III.5688; VIII.292b; Gorre 2009, no. 10. 57  According to col. 1 of the inscription, he had control over Edfu, Denderah, Nubia (i.e., the Dodekaschoinos), Philae, El Kab (Eleithyiaspolis), and Hierakonpolis (Kom el Ahmar). In Abdalla 1994, 5, his title of syngenes (snyns) has been mistranslated as Esna. For the correct rendering, see Spiegelberg 1922, 89; 1917, 128–29. 58  Cairo 6/6/22/5 (Farid 1989); see also Gorre 2009, no. 32. On the costume, see Bianchi 1978; 1988, 66–67. 59  Louvre E 20361. Daressy 1893, 162; Farid 1995, 296–97; Gorre 2009, no. 12. 60  The leopard skin is also worn with the tripartite costume on the statue of the syngenes Plato (Cairo JE 38033); see Coulon 2001, esp. 87, n. 15.

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Ptolemaic court and indigenous elites generated new forms of distinction that crossed such boundaries. The mitra itself was just such a new form, even if its comprehensibility derived from antecedents in both the Hellenic and Egyptian traditions. One obvious referent was the royal diadem worn by the Ptolemies themselves, and hence the mitra could be an extension of the royal symbolism of the diadem to include the “kinsmen” of the ruler.61 On the other hand, there were also Egyptian parallels and antecedents with which an imagined ancient viewer could associate the mitra. Ptolemaic reliefs and inscriptions at the temple of Horus at Edfu depict the “crown of justification” (mh. n mЗϲ-ḫ rw), a fillet or headband in a variety of forms that was presented to Horus in a symbolic rite of investiture that celebrated the god’s victory over his enemies and assumption of his father’s kingship over Egypt.62 If the mitra was made of gold, the grant of this emblem could be understood in terms of other pharaonic gifts of gold, such as the “gold of valor” (nbw k.nw) or “gold of praise” (nbw h.sy), which were traditionally bestowed by pharaohs as favors and tokens of distinction.63 Each of these reference points could well have been available to one viewer or another. Without precluding any of these interpretative possibilities, there are advantages to recognizing that the mitra was at some point stipulated as the mark of the syngenes in the Ptolemaic hierarchy and that it developed its own significance as it was granted, worn, and represented in various contexts. It was as new as the title itself, so its emergence and development should be interpreted as much through its contemporary contexts as by reference to antecedents Hellenic or Egyptian. The fact that the evidence for the mitra can be drawn from such different sources—from a Greek poetical epitaph, a golden fillet in a hieroglyphic Egyptian biographical text, and visual representations on late Ptolemaic statues—is itself part of my argument that the emblem of 61  The diadem would have been familiar from coins, if not from Hellenistic portrait sculpture; see Kyrieleis 1975. Brandenburg 1966, 156–57, connects the mitra of Apollonios with the royal diadem. In Bianchi 1988, 127, the headband of Hierax/Pachom (Detroit 51.83) is interpreted as a “blatant appropriation of the royal Alexandrian wide diadem.” 62  For the rite, see Derchain 1955, who compares one version of the crown to that of the statue of Pamenches, discussed above. 63  Suggested by Bianchi 1976, 102–3. On royal gifts of gold, see Feucht 1977. Evidence for this idea in the Ptolemaic period is the mention of a reward of gold for soldiers who fought at Raphia (Greek: Bernand 1992, no. 14, ll. A.20–22; Gauthier 1925, 38, l. 29; Simpson 1996, 252–53). The gift of a crown of gold mentioned in P. Claude 2 (see n. 53 above) could well be of this type (Chauveau 2002, 55).

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the kinsman was a transcultural sign, not one limited to a single culture’s frame of reference. Like those who wore it, the mitra could move freely within and between at least two privileged spaces of social practice and representation. The Egyptian syngeneis described here not only had access to the space of the court, but they were also priests of the divinities at Edfu, Armant, Thebes, Denderah, and elsewhere, and as such had the privilege of passing through the gates of the temples (near to which their stone likenesses stood) and on into sacred space. The statues of the syngeneis were placed in the forecourts of the temples, a liminal space that played multiple roles for the inhabitants of the Egyptian chora. In addition to serving as the site of various rites which they may have attended, and at which the syngeneis may have officiated as priests, it was the same monumental space where the “kinsmen” of the king, in their role as strategoi, would at times have carried out their own chrematismos of receiving petitioners and exercising judicial functions.64 Here, in this space that mediated between the profane world and the more sacred and secluded parts of the temple proper—an area, moreover, accessible on at least some occasions to the wider population—the mitra was a perfectly intelligible claim to the prestige and power that emanated from access to the king’s court. Through the “brothers of the king” who wore it, the inhabitants of the chora experienced a mediated and distant connection to the king himself. CONCLUSION As mentioned earlier, “kinsmen” first appear in texts dated to the reign of Ptolemy VI Philometor as part of a system of court-titles originally created under Ptolemy V Epiphanes. The elaboration of this new hierarchy of honorific titles was part of an internal political reform undertaken in response to the crises that the Ptolemaic kingdom faced at the time: instability within the court, external threats from the Seleucid and Antigonid kingdoms, and, of course, revolt in Upper Egypt. The new titles both extended the reach of the court into the chora and added to the prestige and authority of the officeholders who were carrying out the king’s business there. This symbolic effort was especially important in the Thebaid—alongside, indeed, the more substantive changes in its 64  Quaegebeur 1993. See also Allam 1991, 111, n. 7, 117, 119–20; Sauneron 1954; Clarysse 2000, 54. Coulon 2001, 107, has suggested that Plato the Younger (Gorre 2009, no. 24) received oracles from Amun while conducting judicial business in the temple forecourt.

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administration that followed the restoration of Ptolemaic control there in 186: the creation of an epistrategos based in Ptolemaïs with authority over the chora, and the administration of the Thebaid as a single unit by a strategos superior to the strategoi governing its various nomes.65 Starting during the reign of Ptolemy VIII, local indigenous elites regularly held this high position as the governor of the Thebaid or served as strategoi of multiple nomes, and they therefore played crucial roles in the extension and maintenance of Ptolemaic power in the south. They did so as “kinsmen” or even “brothers” of the king (if the Egyptian translations are taken literally), the most exalted members of the court hierarchy. Fictive kinship with the king extended the social space of the Ptolemaic court to the critical and sometimes turbulent Theban region and to the Egyptians who increasingly exercised the state’s power there. The surviving statues of some syngeneis show that this expansion of the court was made visible in the chora by a new transcultural practice: the grant of a mitra as a sign of their kinship with the king and their integration into the imagined social space of his court. The Egyptian identities of the “kinsmen” show that the ethnic and cultural boundaries of the herrschende Gesellschaft were quite porous in the Ptolemaic state during this period. At the same time, the display of the mitra on statues set up in the forecourt of Egyptian temples or near their propylaia, together with the integration of the title into the Egyptian language and its graphic traditions, reveals that membership in the court did not necessarily involve Hellenization or assimilation. The alliance between indigenous elites and the Ptolemaic court could be forged in an imagined transcultural space at the intersection of two privileged spaces—that of the temple and that of the court—a space that stretched from the palace in Alexandria to temple forecourts far in the south.66 University of Michigan, Ann Arbor e-mail: [email protected]

65  See Veïsse 2004, 181–83. Later in the Ptolemaic period, the offices of epistrategos and strategos of the Thebaid may have been combined, or (if separate) commonly held by a single person. See Huss 2001, 525–26. 66  Research for this article was supported in the first instance by a generous grant from the Mellon Foundation and membership at the Institute for Advanced Study, Princeton. I also thank Ann Russman and her staff for their assistance while consulting the Corpus of Late Egyptian Sculpture at the Brooklyn Museum.

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HOW TO BECOME A “RELATIVE” OF THE KING: CAREERS AND HIERARCHY AT THE COURT OF ANTIOCHUS III Boris Dreyer

 Abstract. It has long been held that the Seleucid court hierarchy was created by the dynasty’s weak second-century rulers. This article claims that, on the contrary, it was instituted earlier by their stronger predecessors when they faced a pressing need to organize newly conquered territories. They drew in part upon models from elsewhere (Achaemenid and Ptolemaic, especially). As a result, the Seleucid regime acquired long-term robustness, even though its functioning still remained dangerously dependent upon the king himself.

This article sets out to challenge traditional understanding of the Seleucid dynasty by advancing the claim that the differentiation of its court society into specific functions and titles was a development which predates the “weak” rulers of the second century.1 The Seleucids were not unusual in their wish to regulate their followers’ access to themselves by such means. However, it was the dynasty’s strong rulers, not its weak ones, who instituted these practices. In order to perpetuate their own accomplishments, and the dynasty itself, they created a robust, differentiated court society. As the kingdoms of the East fell under the influence of the Roman republic, this “bureaucratization” played a major part in providing the Seleucid regime with a degree of permanence in the first century, even under weak rulers who wielded little real power. After first outlining the general trends that influenced Seleucid court society,2 this article proceeds to identify distinctive conditions for its court life. It concludes with a discussion of the changes newly instituted or reintroduced by Antiochus III; coverage must inevitably be selective. Alexander was a model that all Hellenistic kingdoms and their rulers sought to emulate. This was especially true of the Seleucids, given that the

 For the traditional view, Weber 1997, esp. 35. All dates are b.c.e.  Note that the technical terminology was not as fixed as that used in, say, late antiquity and the early modern period: cf. Winterling 1997b, 13–14; Weber 1997. 1 2

American Journal of Philology 132 (2011) 45–57 © 2011 by The Johns Hopkins University Press

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largest part of his former empire fell to them, in both the ­geographical and hence also the administrative sense (Spawforth 2007b). Those kingdoms whose people had not been homogeneous—as in the case of the empires of Alexander and the Seleucids—faced similar circumstances on which to base the organization of their rule.3 For the Seleucids in particular, the obvious strategy was to pursue Alexander’s policies. Long before establishing an empire of his own, Seleucus (I) personally adhered to Alexander’s concept of integration by remaining loyal to his marriage to Apama, a native of Iranian origin; he alone among Alexander’s Companions showed such loyalty. Likewise, among the Successor dynasties it was the Seleucids who followed the policy of integration most consistently, as their program of colonization, for example, well demonstrates.4 Even in the Seleucid case, however, Greek or Macedonian elements remained dominant, as they did in the other Successor empires.5 Above all, the official administrative language of the empire was Greek rather than Aramaic; Greek was the first language of the elite surrounding the king. It was this feature that led Christian Habicht (1958) more than fifty years ago to state two principles that remain valid today.6 The first is that it was easier for someone who was Greek or Macedonian and spoke Greek to succeed at court. The second is that all other criteria for social ascent (see below) did not bar non-Greeks as long as they fulfilled the first criterion. Prosopographical data show well over ninety per cent of those close to the Seleucid kings appearing to be of Greek or Macedonian origin.7 That said, in practice some “courtiers” could have adopted Greek names instead of using their indigenous ones; instances are attested in Mesopotamia,8 and probably

 Dreyer 2010; Dreyer and Mittag 2011.  In all major regions: for Syria, Asia Minor, Mesopotamia, see Cohen 1978. For Alexander’s policy of fostering democracies in Greek cities of Asia Minor and mainland Greece, followed partly by the Seleucids, see Dreyer 2007, 300–320; 2009. 5  The point applies especially to the time of Antiochus III, when indigenous elements were reduced by comparison with the dynasty’s initial policy: note the fate of Apamea (a city of the Syrian Tetrapolis), Strabo 16.2.4–10, with commentary by Austin 1981, no. 174. Even if Alexander seemed increasingly to follow Achaemenid traditions with respect to court ceremonies and structures (cf. Spawforth 2007b; Brosius 2007, 44), the Successors abandoned his far-reaching program of integration despite making propagandistic references to it (Weber 2007a; 2009). 6  See also Mehl 1999; 2003. 7  See Savalli-Lestrade 1998; Grainger 1997. 8  See Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993 132, 150, with Mittag and Boiy, forthcoming; cf. Moyer (this volume) for Ptolemaic Egypt. 3 4

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within the Seleucid family itself.9 Pressure to adopt Greek names and to behave as Greeks would have been great. Even though the Successors’ administration was strongly characterized by the preexisting Achaemenid structure (in the case of the Seleucids via Alexander’s empire), the culture, festivals,10 behavior, and self-understanding of the king—to which all oriented themselves—were bound up with the dominant (though not exclusively) Greek and Macedonian traditions.11 Important among these was the direct derivation of the term philos/philoi (“friend,” suggesting proximity to the ruler) from the aristocratic groups of hetairoi (“companions”) at the fourth-century court of Philip in Pella, when he was first able to neutralize the powerful lords of Upper Macedonia by forcing them and their sons there, thus bringing them all under his control.12 Also among the courtiers were poets, intellectuals, political exiles, and others—expatriate Greeks and Macedonians who had diverse interests and whose only means of maintaining their position against competitors was to enjoy the king’s favor. Like Philip, the Successor monarchs recruited philoi indiscriminately from within their kingdoms and beyond,13 making their courts “international” and not limited by borders, although Greek in custom and language.14 Successful establishment and maintenance of such a complex system of loyalty and control was only possible—against internal resistance—for a monarch who was able to assert his rule unchallenged, especially within the framework of charismatic kingship in the Macedonian tradition.15 The kings were aware of their implicit dependence on success (Gehrke 1983). The establishment and stabilization of power were two parallel processes from the outset. Capable supporters were needed. The criteria for access to the king and for a career at court were invariably loyalty and skill rather than heritage and birth.16 When the historian Hegesianax  See Dreyer 2007, 286–87, n. 235.  For Daphne, see Mittag 2006, 282–95; for Sardis in 213, see Gauthier 1989. 11  Even so, regional administration—as in Mesopotamia (above)—could be strongly influenced by local traditions. 12  For Philip’s reliance upon long-established Achaemenid models, see Brosius 2007; Spawforth 2007b, 92. For later complexity of titles and ranks, see Mittag 2006, 62; Ehling 2008, 62–67; Wiesehöfer 2007, 63–74 (Sasanians). 13  A notable contrast with the Achaemenid empire, where Medes and Persians were typically preferred: see Brosius 2007, 54. 14  Alexander, however, had also tried to integrate the main indigenous peoples at court; cf. Weber 2009, 97–98; Spawforth 2007b, 106–12. 15  Spawforth 2007b; Weber 2009. 16  For these qualities note esp. RC 44, lines 18–28, on the investiture of a priest: to be philos, familiar and capable. In general, see Weber 1997, 45, 55–58. 9

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of Alexandria Troas recited some of his own work to Antiochus III, the king was sufficiently pleased to make him one of his philoi (Ath. 155b). Even foreigners, including non-Greeks or exiles (such as Hannibal, below), might succeed at court if their knowledge could be put to use. As the system grew more elaborate, ranks were created and hierarchies established. But when? The Egyptian court system was not fully developed until the end of the reign of Ptolemy IV and under Ptolemy V, around 200 (Huss 2001, 524–28), even though it was precisely then that indigenous elements, priests in particular, gained increasing influence to the detriment of the king.17 The same seems to be true of the Seleucids: for example, the books of Maccabees and various documents indicate that in the first half of the second century they had an established system based on ranks (six to eight in all) with terms of kinship for the top echelons of the court, and the standard term philoi for the lower ranks.18 At the top of the Seleucid system were the so-called “relatives” (syngeneis). These men could be designated as the “co-raised” (syntrophoi),19 with variants such as the “brother” of the king (2 Macc. 11.22), or “father” in the case of the high-ranking older minister Zeuxis (see below) whom the king addressed as such. At the next level down, that of the syntagma (“corps”) of philoi (“friends),”20 the organization was by rank: in descending order, protoi philoi (“first-ranking”),21 timoumenoi philoi (“esteemed”),22 and plain philoi (without a qualifying adjective).23 A synhedrion (“council”) of all the philoi could even be summoned to offer advice; in this event, the order of speakers was determined by rank (Polyb. 5.41, 49–50). Since these “titles” were conditional on a close relationship to the king, the bearer had privileged access, with the title being an expression of precisely that. These proofs of favor were partly handed down by the Persians. However, they could be withdrawn at any time and had to be confirmed by each new ruler—in contrast to the practice at the Achaemenid court, where ranks and titles increasingly became hereditary and the court itself a closed society. It is evident that marks of rank—such as a purple robe or golden ornament bestowed by the 17  Note in this connection the discourse of the famous priestly decrees (Pfeiffer 2004); also Moyer (this volume). 18  See Sherwin-White and Kuhrt 1993; Bikerman 1938, 40–50. 19  MAMA 3 no. 62. 20  Polyb. 30.25.7, 26.9. It is often unclear exactly what group a reference to philoi signifies: as extremes, the term could be used of just a close circle round the king, or of no more than the lowest rank within the corps; see further Meissner 2000. 21  Cf. Livy’s description of Minnion as princeps amicorum (35.15.7). 22  RC no. 45, lines 1–5. 23  OGI nos. 255–56; RC no. 45; 1 Macc. 10.20, 65.

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king—also came to be developed (as at the Achaemenid court).24 These honorific court ranks could also be combined with functional titles in the style οἱ ἐπὶ . . . (again perhaps of Persian origin)25 as in the letter of Antiochus III to Magnesia26 or in the Mysia dossier of 209 (below). Hermeias, principal minister under young Antiochus III, could be described as προεστῶτος τῶν ὅλων πραγμάτων or as one who ἐπέστη ἐπὶ τὰ πράγματα (Polyb. 5.41.1–2). The Seleucid empire fared badly in the early part of the second century. The Peace of Apamea in 188 brought grave losses. Antiochus III himself was killed the following year while plundering to pay reparations to the Romans. His successor Seleucus Nicator was in turn humiliated by them and was eventually murdered by Heliodorus, his syntrophos and minister.27 Under Antiochus IV, whose attitude to Rome was friendly, the situation next appeared to improve initially, until his forced withdrawal from Egypt on Rome’s abrupt orders in 168. Even though he tried to counter any such impression, this “day of Eleusis” weakened the king’s authority, as well as bringing the loss of further territory (Mittag 2006, 282–95). With all these losses the population under Seleucid rule declined. For the regime, conditions could be foreseen to approach the situation in Ptolemaic Egypt with respect to the peoples, territories and therefore diversity of traditions to be accommodated within a single state. One possible explanation, then, for the similar systems adopted at the two courts might stem from the similar challenges that both regimes faced. Even so, this does not mean that the differentiated court hierarchy has to be a result of the kingdom’s weakness.28 Rather, the differentiation of Seleucid court life had already taken shape well before 200 and was the consequence of a strong king’s policies and his need to organize territorial gains. MEASURES TO SECURE THE SELEUCID REGIME The Seleucid empire was a latecomer among the empires of the Successors. It began with Seleucus I’s takeover of Babylonia in 312 and did not reach its “final” form until 281. Moreover, because of the heterogeneity  Instances in 1 Macc. 10.20, 65, 89; cf. Brosius 2007, 53–56.  Probably a Greek translation, as seemingly in the Seleucid case of “Hemiolios” (Polyb. 5.42.5; Müller 2005); for the Attalids, cf. Jonnes and Rickl 1997. 26  RC 31 = OGI 231, lines 25–26. 27  Dreyer 2007, 340–66, 375–76. 28  Cf. Brosius 2007, 55, for the Achaemenid case. 24 25

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of the territories under its rule, it had always been exposed to more centrifugal forces than other Successor empires and had to withstand these.29 Proactive efforts to do so began at an early stage. Given the necessity of delegating power in so vast an empire while also securing loyalty, shortly after 300, Seleucus I wanted to tackle the problem on a long-term basis by producing more descendants—assuming that the statement attributed to him by Plutarch is authentic, or at least represents a reasonable summary of his thinking (Demetr. 31.3): Not long afterwards, however, Seleucus sent and asked for the hand of Stratonice, the daughter of Demetrius and Phila, in marriage. He already had a son, Antiochus, by Apama the Persian; but he thought that his realms would suffice for more successors (οἰόμενος δὲ τὰ πράγματα καὶ διαδόχοις ἀρκεῖν πλείοσι).

The same principle is certainly attributed to Seleucus by Appian (Syr. 55–63): the subsidiary kingdoms were distributed to the heirs to his throne, whereas he himself ruled only in the core of the empire. Generally speaking, descendants were deployed in the subsidiary kingdoms, with their own courts and administration, while remaining subordinate to the center of power in Syria. It was in Syria around 300 that a number of capital cities came into being, named after members of the dynasty who fulfilled special roles for the entire empire (in line with the Achaemenid model). Collectively these capitals are referred to as the “Tetrapolis”: Antioch, Seleucia, Laodicea, Apamea.30 The construction of new palaces likewise reflects the development of the new regime. There were two palaces in Antioch alone, one in the city itself on an island in the Orontes river, and another at Daphne eight kilometers south of the city. In all the subsidiary capitals, new palaces were built (as at Seleucia-on-the-Tigris) or old Achaemenid ones were taken over, just as Alexander had done earlier.31 Like the court of Alexander, the central Seleucid court and administrative center were very mobile compared to the courts of rival rulers.32

29  Note the discussion between the Roman and Seleucid envoys, Galba and Menippus, in the 190s: Livy 34.57.6–11; 35.16.7–13, with Dreyer 2007, 300–301. 30  Strabo 16.2.4–10. For indirect reference to the Tetrapolis in the Teos dossier, see Herrmann 1965, II, lines 90–100 (= SEG 41 [1991] no. 1003). 31  Nielsen 1994, 112–29, 209–17; Capdetrey 2007, 51–76; for the relation of court, capitals, residences and, palaces, Weber (2007c), 105, 114–16. 32  Spawforth 2007b, 94–97, 112–20, for Alexander‘s tented quarters and Persian models.

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CHANGE UNDER ANTIOCHUS III The first to fourth Ptolemaic kings were able to consolidate and expand their empire in the course of the third century—its internal structure in particular, and the court as part of that. The Seleucid regime, however, fell into a deep crisis in the second half of this century. The dynasty tore itself apart in a fratricidal war, with many peripheral territories being lost or overrun.33 Wracked by faction and threatened by ruin, the regime of Antiochus III (223–187) was ill-fated at the outset. His aim of reestablishing the founder’s empire was ambitious; at the start no one believed he would succeed in achieving it. But he could, and even do more, when— seemingly invincible—he extended his kingdom as far as the borders of Macedonia in 196 to 194. Antiochus III needed proven personnel and reliable administrative structures to attain his ambitious aims and to organize the newly conquered territories under his rule. This made him a magnet for all those who were capable and eager to exert influence beyond their own cities.34 There were promising models from which to choose: among them, that of the Seleucids themselves before their mid-third-century losses, but particularly the Ptolemaic model, since many of the “reconquered” territories had been ruled in the meantime by the Ptolemies or had a long tradition of Ptolemaic rule. The models become apparent not only in the organization of the newly conquered provinces (as strategeiai), but also in the representation of the dynasty itself. In accordance with the Ptolemaic model, Antiochus created the joint rule (Samtherrschaft) of sibling kings.35 This was a fiction insofar as his spouse Laodice was not his sister, as would have been the case with the Ptolemies. Nonetheless, by this means the dynasty itself—in addition to the ruler—became the obvious center of power. The children, and especially the heir to the throne, appeared in municipal documents (such as the first Euromus decree, below) whenever reference was made to the dynasty, as well as in documents connected with the dynastic cult that Antiochus III created around 205.36  For maps, TAVO B V 3 and 4.  Cf. Wiesehöfer 2007, 67, for the Sasanid experience. 35  See, for example, the Teos dossier of 204–2 (Herrmann 1965, Block C/D lines 11–12). Ehling 2008 offers a Seleucid stemma. For Laodice also addressed as “sister,” see OGIS 219; cf. Ma 2003, 256–59, for dating. 36  See Dreyer 2007, 300–320; cf. Sartre 2006. For the dynastic family, especially the children addressed in Antiochus III’s letter to Sardis in 213, see Gauthier 1989, no. 1; Ma 2003, no. 1, pp. 284–86, fr. II lines 13–14. See also his letter of 196 to Heraclea-by-Latmus: Wörrle 1988; Ma 2003, no. 31, pp. 340–45, I lines 3–4; II line 10. Queen Laodice had her 33 34

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Like his predecessor Seleucus Nicator, Antiochus appointed members of his family as viceroys. The elder son, Antiochus, had to rule over the Upper Satrapies; he had his own retinue and court at the capital city of Seleucia-on-the-Tigris. The younger son, Seleucus, was to administer the newly conquered territories in Europe from the city of Lysimachia, likewise with his own palace and court.37 We are best informed about the subsidiary kingdom centered at Sardis in Asia Minor. It was here that Zeuxis was deployed after 213; unlike his predecessor Achaius,38 he was not a relative of the king, but held the court rank of “father” even before that date and therefore belonged to Antiochus’ innermost circle.39 Zeuxis had proven his worth before 213; subsequently, between then and 189, he was very prominent as satrap of Lydia (Polyb. 21.16.4), with extended responsibility for all the territories west of the Taurus mountains. In lines 3–5 of the first Euromus decree (August, 197) he is termed ὁ ἀπολελειμμένος ὑπὸ τοῦ βασιλέως Ἀντιόχου ἐπὶ τῶν ἐπιτάδε τοῦ Ταύρου πραγμάτων (“[the man] left in charge of affairs on this side of the Taurus by King Antiochus”).40 With the recovery of territory in Asia Minor, it became necessary to make many appointments to the various official positions. Thus for the administration of cults and temples (including their finances), the worthy Nicanor—a “friend” of the king and close to him as superintendent of the bedchamber (τὸν ἐπὶ τοῦ κοιτ[ῶνος] ὄντα τῶν φίλ[ων)—was appointed by Antiochus in 209 as a subordinate to Zeuxis.41 The local hierarchy thereby mirrored the court hierarchy in a way that had been already common practice in the period before the territories in Asia Minor were lost following the death of Antiochus II (246). Antiochus III says in appointing Nicanor (lines 39–41): ᾠόμεθα δὲ δεῖν εἶναι αὐτὸν καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν ἱερῶν καὶ τὰς προσόδους τούτων, καὶ τἆλλα διεξάγεσθαι ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ καθὰ καὶ ἐπὶ τοῦ πάππου ἡμῶν ὑπὸ Δίωνος (“We thought it necessary that own personnel: I. Iasos no. 4, fr. I, lines 15–32; cf. Savalli-Lestrade 2003; Savalli-Lestrade and Cogitore 2010. 37  Livy 33.40–41; Polyb. 18.49–51; Dreyer 2007, 291–93. 38  Bad experience with “real” relatives may have caused a change in policy. For the death of the usurper Achaius, see Ehling 2007; for Molon’s insurrection, Dreyer 2007, 240, 256–58. 39  Joseph. AJ 12.148: βασιλεὺς Ἀντίοχος Ζεύξιδι τῷ πατρὶ χαίρειν; cf. 13.127 (I Macc. 11.32: Demetrius to his officer Leosthenes); 11.218 (Apocr. Esther 13.6: the Achaemenid Artaxerxes to Haman). 40  Ma 2003, no. 29, p. 338. 41  Lines 18–20 of Antiochus’ letter to Zeuxis (in the Mysia dossier): Ma 2003, no. 4, p. 288.

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he should also be in charge of the sanctuaries, and that their revenues and the other matters should be administered by him, just as was done under our grandfather by Dion”). Despite this distribution of responsibilities, it was also necessary for the king to travel with his entire court and royal guard in order to show his presence at the local level—as Antiochus III did, for example, in 204 at Teos in Asia Minor.42 To be in the king’s favor and a holder of his appointments conferred authority. Officials dispatched from the central court to perform duties in far-off places took every opportunity, therefore, to refer to his supreme authority.43 While it is true that loyalty as well as efficiency were assured by this means, possible misjudgments by the king himself remained a source of danger; the same may said of others’ inability to act in his absence, since everything depended upon the “strong ruler” personally. Hence in summer 193, when the heir to the throne (Antiochus) died and his father (Antiochus III) was not available to negotiate with the Romans, even Minnion princeps amicorum proved unable and unwilling to act for the king.44 A further example with far-reaching consequences may be cited. This is the case of Hannibal in 196—reported by Polybius, who had good sources for court affairs at this date, shortly before Antiochus’ conflict with Rome. Hannibal met the king at the court in Ephesus and was able to penetrate rapidly into the closest circle of his counselors for very typical reasons: he had relevant expertise. His aim (revenge against Rome) closely converged with that of the king (conquest of the oikoumene), and his loyalty was assured because he had nowhere else to turn. However, his actual influence varied greatly, depending on the extent to which he enjoyed the king’s favor. He had two main obstacles to overcome, one systemic in nature, the other a matter of human behavior. The first obstacle, from the outset, was the controversial nature of his war plan. At court, advocates of conventional warfare included high-ranking ministers like Minnion. He was certainly concerned about his own influence when he argued that Hannibal’s concept of a successful double strike against Rome was not only too audacious, but was also impossible to achieve, since the main attack had to be carried out by the king and not 42

 Herrmann 1965, esp. lines 22–25; cf. the king’s letter to Magnesia in 208 (above,

n. 26). 43  Note, for example, the decree of the Euromians on constitutional matters (after 197): Errington 1993; Ma 2003, no. 30, pp. 339–40. 44  Dreyer 2007, 208, 216–25.

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(as ­Hannibal naturally envisaged) by Hannibal himself. Even so, until the very last minute it remained possible that Antiochus could still be won over by Hannibal’s plan (Dreyer 2007, 223–28). By chance, however, it was changed very shortly before it was due to be implemented. Aetolian envoys who enticed the king into attacking the port of Demetrias in Greece were skillfully manipulated by the plan’s opponents. These Aetolians deceived the king (who was convinced of his own invincibility) about the true situation in Greece and the Greeks’ attitude towards him.45 Thus duped, the king failed. Thereby he revealed the weaknesses of a regime based solely on a strong king; to be sure, at the topmost administrative level he had the support of a court differentiated by rank, but it lacked authority of its own. CONCLUSION So far as the development of court society is concerned, the Seleucid empire was involved in general processes that had been established as early as Alexander or even his father Philip. However, the organization of the Persian empire also had an influence, as did the Ptolemaic kingdom later (around the mid-second century), and not only with regard to the structure of the court. At that time, the Seleucid court showed the highest degree of inner differentiation, yet it is essential to appreciate that this was not a consequence of the king’s weakness nor of growing autonomy on the part of courtiers. Differentiation within the top administrative echelons gave the dynasties of the eastern Mediterranean a degree of permanence, and hence also practical legitimacy, even when later as “client kingdoms” they did nothing more than carry out orders from Rome. In the Seleucid case this differentiation was established as early as the third century, during the reign of Antiochus III especially. It was he who deployed the Greekspeaking members of his court according to positions of rank based on proven skill and ability, molding them into an administrative elite with far-reaching influence over the reorganization of conquered territories following his reestablishment of Seleucid power. In so doing, Antiochus looked to Ptolemaic, earlier Seleucid, and Achaemenid traditions. Expertise, loyalty, and the king’s favor were the criteria that qualified individuals for these roles. The administration was made efficient as a result, but it was also vulnerable. The focus on the king alone meant that political 45

 Dreyer 2007, 223–28, 233–37.

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action had to depend exclusively upon the judgment of a ruler who took the credit for every success, but who also had to bear sole responsibility for every failure. University of Erlangen-Nürnberg e-mail: [email protected]

BIBLIOGRAPHY Austin, M. M. 1981. The Hellenistic World from Alexander to the Roman Conquest. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bikerman, Elias. 1938. Institutions des Séleucides. Paris: Geuthner. Brosius, Maria. 2007. “New out of Old ? Court and Court Ceremonies in Achaemenid Persia.” In Spawforth 2007a, 17–57. Capdetrey, Laurent. 2007. Le pouvoir séleucide. Territoire, administration, finances d’un royaume hellénistique (312–129 avant J.-C.). Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes. Cohen, G. M. 1978. The Seleucid Colonies: Studies in Founding, Administration and Organization. Wiesbaden: Steiner. Dreyer, Boris. 2007. Die römische Nobilitätsherrschaft und Antiochos III. (205 bis 188 v. Chr.). Frankfurt: Marthe Clauss. ———. 2009. “Heroes, Cults and Divinity.” In Alexander the Great: A New History, ed. Waldemar Heckel and L. A. Tritle, 218–34. Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 2010. “Die Rolle der lokalen Eliten abhängiger griechischer Städte vor dem Hintergrund der Entwicklung königlicher Administration und städtischer Politik im 2. Jh. v. Chr.” Klio 92:344–68. Dreyer, Boris, and P. F. Mittag, eds. 2011. Lokale Eliten, hellenistische Könige und römische Patroni. Berlin: Verlag Antike. Ehling, Kay. 2007. “Der Tod des Usurpators Achaios.” Historia 56:497–502. ———. 2008. Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der späten Seleukiden (164–63 v. Chr.). Vom Tode des Antiochos IV. bis zur Einrichtung der Provinz Syria unter Pompeius. Stuttgart: Steiner. Errington, R. M. 1993. “Inschriften von Euromos.” EA 21:15–32. Gauthier, Philippe. 1989. Nouvelles inscriptions de Sardes II. Geneva: Droz. Gehrke, H.-J. 1983. “Der siegreiche König. Überlegungen zur hellenistischen Monarchie.” Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 64:247–77. Grainger, J. D. 1997. A Seleucid Prosopography and Gazetteer. Leiden: Brill. Habicht, Christian. 1958. “Die herrschende Gesellschaft in den hellenistischen Monarchien.” Vierteljahresschrift für Sozial- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte 45:1–16. Herrmann, Peter. 1965. “Antiochos der Grosse und Teos.” Anadolu 9:29–159. Huss, Werner. 2001. Ägypten in hellenistischer Zeit. Munich: Beck. Jonnes, Lloyd, and Marijana Rickl. 1997. “A New Royal Inscription from

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­ hrygia Paroreios: Eumenes II Grants Tyriaion the Status of a Polis.” EA P 29:1–30. Ma, John. 2003. Antiochos III and the Cities of Western Asia Minor. 2d ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mehl, Andreas. 1999. “Zwischen West und Ost / Jenseits von West und Ost. Das Reich der Seleukiden.” In Zwischen West und Ost: Studien zur Geschichte des Seleukidenreichs, ed. Kai Brodersen, 9–43. Hamburg: Kovac. ———. 2003. “Gedanken zur ‘Herrschenden Gesellschaft’ und zu den Untertanen im Seleukidenreich.” Historia 52:147–80. Meissner, Burkhard. 2000. “Hofmann und Herrscher. Was es für die Griechen hieß, Freund eines Königs zu sein.” Archiv für Kulturgeschichte 82:1–36. Mittag, P. F. 2006. Antiochos IV. Epiphanes. Eine politische Biographie. Berlin: Akademie. Mittag, P. F., and Tom Boiy. Forthcoming. “Die lokale Eliten in Babylon.” In Dreyer and Mittag (forthcoming). Müller, Helmut. 2005. “Hemiolios, Eumenes II, Toriaion, und die Finanzorganisation des Alexanderreiches.” Chiron 35:355–84. Nielsen, Inge. 1994. Hellenistic Palaces: Tradition and Renewal. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Pfeiffer, Stefan. 2004. Das Dekret von Kanopus (238 v. Chr.). Kommentar und historische Auswertung eines dreisprachigen Synodaldekrets der ägyptischen Priester zu Ehren Ptolemaios’ III. und seiner Familie. Munich: de Gruyter. Sartre, Maurice. 2006. “Religion und Herrschaft: Das Seleukidenreich.” Saeculum 57:163–90. Savalli-Lestrade, Ivana. 1998. Les philoi royaux dans l’Asie hellénistique. Geneva: Droz. ———. 2003. “La place des reines à la cour et dans le royaume à l’époque hellénistique.” In Les femmes antiques entre sphère privée et sphère publique, ed. Regula Frei-Stolba, Anne Bielman, and Olivier Bianchi, 59–76. Bern: Lang. Savalli-Lestrade, Ivana, and Isabelle Cogitore, eds. 2010. Des Rois au Prince: Pratiques du pouvoir monarchique dans l’Orient hellénistique et romain (IVe siècle avant J.-C. - II e siècle après J.-C.). Grenoble: Ellug. Sherwin-White, S. M., and Amelie Kuhrt. 1993. From Samarkand to Sardis: A New Approach to the Seleucid Empire. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Spawforth, A. J. S., ed. 2007a. The Court and Court Society in Ancient Monarchies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. ———. 2007b. “The Court of Alexander the Great between Europe and Asia.” In Spawforth 2007a, 82–120. Weber, Gregor. 1997. “Interaktion, Repräsentation und Herrschaft. Der Königshof im Hellenismus.” In Winterling 1997a, 27–71.

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———. 2007a. “Der Hof Alexanders des Großen als soziales System.” Saeculum 58:229–64. ———. ed. 2007b. Kulturgeschichte des Hellenismus: von Alexander dem Grossen bis Kleopatra. Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta. ———. 2007c. “Die neuen Zentralen. Hauptstädte, Residenzen, Paläste und Höfe.” In Weber 2007b, 99–117. ———. 2009. “Alexander’s Court as Social System.” In Alexander the Great. A New History, ed. Waldemar Heckel and L. A. Tritle, 83–98. Oxford: Blackwell. Wiesehöfer, Josef. 2007. “King, Court and Royal Representation in the Sasanian Empire.” In Spawforth 2007a, 58–81. Winterling, Aloys, ed. 1997a. Zwischen “Haus” und “Staat”: antike Höfe im Vergleich. Munich: Oldenbourg. ———. 1997b. “‘Hof’ – Versuch einer idealtypischen Bestimmung anhand der mittelalterlichen und frühneuzeitlichen Geschichte.” In Winterling 1997, 11–25. Wörrle, Michael. 1988. “Inschriften von Herakleia am Latmos I: Antiochos III., Zeuxis und Herakleia.” Chiron 18:421–76.

HOLDING COURT IN REPUBLICAN ROME (105–44) David Potter

 Abstract. Given that in any Roman aristocratic household during the Republic elements of the future imperial court can be found, what were the key features that enabled the latter to emerge and grow? Drawing upon Elias’ analysis of court societies, this chapter maintains that the transition depends upon extraordinary religious charisma, access to renewable sources of immense wealth, and the development of integrative structures linking provincial and Roman supporters in a hierarchy dependent upon an individual rather than tenure of office.

Viewed from afar, the Roman senate of the second century appeared to be the antithesis of royal societies in the eastern Mediterranean. The author of some lines now incorporated into the third Sibylline Oracle wrote that “the rule of another kingdom shall arise, white and many-headed from the western sea,” while the author of the first book of Maccabees told of the assembly of 320 men that met every day to decide the fate of the world, governed each year by one man.1 In the middle of the second century, this vision was perhaps not so far from reality. Rome’s only provinces were in Sicily and Spain, and they were ruled by officials who rotated rapidly out of office. Crucially, the practice of leasing public services to equestrian corporations ensured that the governor lacked unfettered access to the revenues produced by his province, as well as control of basic government activities such as the supply of materials to armed forces. Foreign affairs were handled either through embassies that came to Rome to address the senate, or through diplomatic commissions that the senate would create in response to perceived crises elsewhere. In light of the vision of the authors of the Sibylline Oracle and of Maccabees, a discussion of courts in a Republican context requires some explanation. I certainly do not propose to assert that there were fully developed courts (other than that inhabited by Mark Antony 1  Orac. Sib. 3.175–76; 1 Macc. 8.15–16; on the lines in the oracle, see the comments of Buitenwerf 2003, 184–85. For issues with their composition, see now Gruen 1998, 269–91; Lightfoot 2007, 220–42, replacing the imbecilic discussions collected in Collins 1997. All dates are b.c.e.

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at ­Alexandria) on the Roman scene before the battle of Actium; the development of what would become the court structures of the imperial period was a gradual project of the Augustan age. My purpose is instead to explore the process through which “pre-court” structures evolved into “proto-courts” at various points in the century before Actium. The process casts light both upon the dysfunction of late Republican government and upon the singularity of the Augustan achievement in creating an actual court that succeeded in linking the imperial household with the magisterial structure of the late Republic. It was the failure even to attempt such a linkage that characterized and ensured that previous proto-courts did not develop into full-blown court societies. The search for the component aspects of court society—the division of a group of courtiers into “inner” and “outer” circles, career paths for the servants of the ruler, the use of the ruler’s residence as a forum for social ranking, and structures of communication—must begin within the domus of any great Roman aristocrat. It was at his house that he met with clients and friends. It was through his children that he constructed alliances with other members of the ruling class. It was from his estates that he derived the income necessary to fund the acts of public munificence that he would need to offer if he hoped to make the rare leap from tribune of the plebs to praetor, and thence from praetor to consul (only 10 percent of plebeian senators could hope for the consulship). The senatorial domus, with its large staff of slaves, was a sort of pre-court in that it was through the domus that an aristocrat provided the access that outsiders might desire to the political system. It was here that he made contacts across diverse regions of Italy and the provinces, and here that he could assemble the professionals he might need if he wished to erect a building or sponsor games. I use the terms “pre-” and “proto-” court structures to distinguish the historical process in the first century from that examined by Norbert Elias in his seminal works of the 1930s. To describe the process of court formation, Elias coined the term Verhöflichung, which has unfortunately been rendered in English as “courtisation,”2 a word that occludes the gist of a formulation related to the adjectives höfisch (“courtly”) and höflichung (“manners”). The point of Elias’ formulation is to suggest a movement towards behaviors that are in keeping with a court, and the sense of a term that is perhaps better understood in English as a “movement towards accommodation.” The focus of Elias’ discussion in what he

 On this point, see Ammon 2001, 75–76.

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describes as the Verhöflichung der Krieger was indeed the accommodation of the warrior gentry to court society. Elias’ point was to emphasize an important aspect in the grand narrative of early modern history as originally constructed by Leopold von Ranke, which is that the modern state emerged from the development of a royal monopoly of violence. Medieval kings, despite the trappings of religious authority, were essentially no more than members of an aristocracy who had somewhat greater power than their peers. In the course of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries— so the story goes—kings were better positioned than other members of the aristocracy to take advantage of the increase in the money supply stemming from the discovery of the Americas. Greater access to wealth gave the king greater access to military power, so that he was able to suppress less-organized opponents and incorporate them within a more centralized form of government. In this way (in Elias’ formulation) royal courts became engines of progress, and the crucial bridge from feudalism to mercantilism.3 The Roman imperial court fulfilled many of the functions of the court societies of the early modern period in that it offered a venue for the organization of aristocratic activity, and the integration of diverse interest-groups around the person of the emperor and within the physical space of imperial residences.4 That said, neither the process nor the impact of the court’s formation were comparable to the early modern example. The impact of the Roman monarchy was not to provide support for the mercantilist economic expansion that was needed to create credit markets and industrial development. Rome’s imperial system did not come into being because an aristocrat, who had inherited an official position greater than that of his peers, was able to exploit the economic advantage derived from it to triumph over his rivals. Rather, the impact of the monarchy was to ensure control of the economic and political system by the large landholders of Italy and the provinces. They had no interest in encouraging industrial development, and, in the case of the emperor himself, had some perceived interest in discouraging it (Brunt 1980). The men who emerged victorious in the struggles of the late Republic were all products of the lesser, rather than the higher, nobility. Marius was the first member of his family to enter the senate. Sulla was a member of a patrician family so “decayed” that no member had ever risen above the 3  Elias 2006, 45–48. For the prevalence of this model, see Pincus 2009. For the prehistory of this analysis, see the debate represented in Weber 1930; Tawney 1926; Stone 1948; Trevor-Roper 1951; Elton 1953, 415–27. 4  See Saunders 1997, 67–68, on the general theory; Patterson 2007 on the specific case.

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praetorship, and the last family member to hold even that office had done so in 183. Gnaeus Pompey was admittedly the son of a consul, but his father was the first member of the family to rise to that rank, while the line of Julius Caesar was dignified by his aunt’s marriage to Marius and his father’s ascent to the praetorship. His uncle may have been consul in 92. These were not scions of the great houses of the Republic—the Caecilii Metelli, the Fabii, the Cornelii Scipiones or Pisones, the Claudii, the Valerii, or the Sulpicii. A court society is not so much the product of a specific set of circumstances, but rather of a specific conglomeration of administrative needs in a society that otherwise has a strong hierarchical bias towards oligarchic control. This bias may be manifest even in cases where—as in Rome—there were democratic elements that could serve to create sufficient competition among aspiring oligarchs for popular control to be exercised over their actions under normal circumstances.5 The specific needs that seem to be met in the cases where proto-courts are evidently emergent are the creation of an ideology that can differentiate the exceptional career from others (ordinarily through appeal to divine machinery outside the limits of the state religious apparatus); the development of powerful proletarian support in the countryside; vast wealth, with agents spread throughout the empire; the ability to attract the support of cultural figures and other opinion-makers outside of the typical governing class; and a graded household where rank is determined by ability and type of service. In some cases these forms of activity will be more pronounced than in others, but that variation might be as much a result of the variable quantity of our evidence as it is representative of actual activity. RELIGIOUS CHARISMA Perhaps the most telling aspect of a proto-court is the religious. By asserting that a man possessed special charisma, the agents of a court and the aspirant to power could most clearly differentiate a proto-monarch from a typical aristocrat. The image of the typical Roman aspirant to influence within the state would tend towards an amalgamation of ancestry, demonstrations of courage (if any) on the battlefield, regional loyalty, service to fellow aristocrats, local reputation, and general demeanor— including a lifestyle with limited scandal, no obvious signs of debauchery, 5  On the importance of democratic elements in the Roman constitution, see (still) Millar 1998, and the valuable discussion of reactions in Jehne 2006.

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and general decency to inferiors. If there was some sort of divine touch, it might be revealed through the dedication of a temple in fulfillment of a vow taken for success; such an action was public and visible to all. Being important men, proto-monarchical figures do themselves tend to have roles within the official religious hierarchy: Scipio Africanus was a member of the Salii from early in his life, while Marius, Sulla, and Pompey were all augurs (Marius and Sulla stressed the point). Caesar topped them all as pontifex maximus. These official positions would not, in and of themselves, suggest that their holders were especially linked to the gods. Very different was Scipio’s evident routine in public suggesting that signs and portents guided his actions, or his assertion that Neptune appeared to him and guided his attack on Carthago Nova in 209 (Livy 26.19; Polyb. 10.11.7–8). So, too, the stories that he was the son of Jupiter or specially linked with Hercules, even if they are not contemporary, still reflect a view that he was the sort of Roman to whom these things happened (Scullard 1970, 19–23). It would be interesting to know what image of Scipio existed in the Roman mind at the end of the second century (the stories of his divine birth are retailed by contemporaries of Caesar) when Marius, in the period prior to the battle of Aquae Sextiae, was constantly accompanied by a Syrian woman named Martha who had won his trust by correctly interpreting the outcome of gladiatorial combats. She was carried about in a litter and, when offering sacrifice, would carry a small spear and wear a purple dress. The army itself appears to have rejoiced in the company of a pair of vultures who wore bronze collars that the troops had made for them; in addition, a gentleman named Bataces, a priest of Cybele, appeared in Rome predicting victory for Marius (Plut. Mar. 17). Although not otherwise noted at this point for his links with the eastern Mediterranean, Marius must have had some sort of network that made it possible for him to contact people like Martha and Bataces; even if they were volunteers in his cause, they seem to have been aware that their actions would be welcome. At the very end of his career, when in exile after Sulla’s march on Rome, Marius revealed that as a child he had caught seven eagles in his clothing and claimed that the augurs had told his parents he would become the greatest man in the world (Plut. Mar. 36). Sulla himself appears to have increased his stress on the divine machinery that assisted his career towards the very end. There is, for instance, no evident stress on the role of Fortuna in early representations of the capture of Jugurtha, which is depicted as an act of homage from Bocchus to Sulla himself. It was not until 82 that Sulla took the title Felix for himself, and stressed in a speech before the senate that Fortune

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had played a crucial role in his success.6 The point was obvious: there were a lot of brave men in the world, but only one who was lucky. The theme was continued at length in the memoirs that Sulla completed on the last day of his life. During the civil war he was also accompanied by a personal haruspex named Postumius.7 The records of Pompey’s life play down the role of divine guides. One dream attested in Plutarch involves Mithridates escaping Pompey because of a warning received in a dream; this may have come from Mithridates’ own record of his dreams. Pompey and Crassus are said to have staged a reconciliation after an equestrian announced that Jupiter had appeared in a dream saying that the two should not lay down their consulship in 70 b.c.e. unless they had reconciled.8 It is only much later, at the time of Pharsalus, that Pompey himself is said to dream—but these dreams portend ruin and were presumably provided by the Caesarian tradition.9 Cicero, however, says that Pompey arranged to have information sent from Italian haruspices to him during the Pharsalus campaign (Div. 2.52–53). Caesar avoids reference to divine machinery in his own work until the battle of Pharsalus, at which point portents are recorded, but it was well known that he traveled in the company of his own haruspex, Spurinna, and prophetic moments abounded in the civil war traditions as a whole, from whatever source (mostly, one surmises, Caesarian).10 WEALTH AND EXPENDITURE On a more mundane level was the need to acquire—and spend—vast quantities of money. Political life was staggeringly expensive, and even very wealthy men could outspend their revenues, though perhaps none could do so more spectacularly than did M. Aemilius Scaurus, Sulla’s stepson, who not only inherited a vast fortune from his stepfather, mother, and father, but also received enormous bribes totaling some 4.2 million  For a review of the relevant scholarship, see Santangelo 2007, 210–13.  Cic. Div. 1.72; the event appears to have been recorded in Sulla’s Memoirs, though Cicero is said to have been witness to it; on Postumius, see Wardle 2006, 284. 8  Plut. Pomp. 32.4, 37.2, 23.1. 9  Plut. Pomp. 68.2, 73.4–5, repeated in Plut. Caes. 42.1. 10  Caes. B Civ. 3.105 (miracles in Asia connected with Pharsalus); Cic. Fam. 9.24; Div. 1.119; Suet. Iul. 81; Val. Max. 8.11.2 (Spurinna); Plut. Caes. 47; Gell. 15.18.1–3; Dio Cass. 41.61.4–5; Obsequens 65 (prophecy of Cornelius on Pharsalus); Suet. Iul. 32 (Rubicon); Plut. Caes. 32 (dream after crossing the Rubicon; elsewhere said to have been in Spain in 67, see Suet. Iul. 7). 6 7

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sesterces in the course of the sixties.11 His house on the Palatine would sell for 14.8 million sesterces to Publius Clodius in 53. He had to sell because he was broke. Clodius’ own political activity depended as much on a network of estates, including properties in Etruria, Aricia, Alba, and Transalpine Gaul, as it did on his own abilities; he seems to have had between 9 and 12 million sesterces with which to bribe the jurors at his trial for impiety in 61. Even if the size of the bribe is exaggerated in the scarcely unbiased testimony of Cicero, it was plainly conceivable that Clodius could have that sort of cash on hand.12 L. Domitius Ahenobarbus allegedly offered each of roughly 15,000 soldiers whom he conscripted in 49 an estate of forty iugera from his own lands.13 This again may be an exaggeration (the statement derives from Caesar), but at the very least it represents a promise that he might have made and is an indication of the size of his estates. Economic power of this sort at the upper end of the aristocracy offers a touchstone against which to gauge the fortunes accumulated by generals. Two former Sullan marshals, L. Licinius Lucullus and L. Licinius Crassus, had fortunes that appear to have dwarfed those of men who lacked their experience; Crassus was also adept at land speculation within Rome itself, and was able to obtain an enormously influential position without regular access to military commands. Lucullus is said to have been worth nearly 100 million sesterces, while Crassus was reputed to have owned property of twice that value.14 The Elder Pliny, who offers one figure for Crassus’ fortune, claims that he was the wealthiest Roman after Sulla. In so doing, Pliny seriously underestimates the fortunes of Pompey, Caesar, and, quite likely Marius. That said, his observation that private wealth exploded at Rome from the end of the second century onwards is undeniably correct (HN 33.141–50). Pliny says that after his victory over the Cimbrians, Marius drank from silver tankards in imitation of the god Dionysus (HN 33.150). He could do so in some very swank properties that he likely acquired in the wake of his victories. He had two villas on the bay of Naples—one at Baiae, the other at Misenum for which Lucullus would pay 2.5 million

 Details in Shatzman 1975, 290–92.  Cic. Att. 1.16.10. Some of the cash may have been borrowed, but the sum is not out of line with his assets in 53; for details, see Shatzman 1975, 324–28. 13  Caes. B Civ. 1.17.4; I am in substantial agreement with Shatzman 1975, 339, n. 373, on the status of the text for the reason given in the previous note. 14  Diod. Sic. 4.21.1; Plin. HN 33.134; Plut. Crass. 2.2. 11 12

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sesterces—and an estate at a place called Solonium.15 He no doubt also kept a place in Arpinum, and very likely had a villa near Minturnae. His house at Rome was near the forum, and he was able to pay for a temple to Honos and Virtus out of the profits from the northern wars.16 No source gives a denarius figure for his total wealth, but the trophy properties suggest that whatever he kept from the booty amounting to 3,700 pounds of gold, 5,775 pounds of silver, and 87,000 denarii of coined money, displayed in Rome after the Jugurthine War, may not amount to a substantial portion of his fortune.17 His army awarded him the entire booty from the victory over the Teutons (much of which he must have returned to his men), while Pliny implies that provincials paid him vast sums of money.18 In the course of the war with the Cimbrians and Teutons it would also appear that Marius was able to exercise some influence over the production of coinage. Issues by Gaius Fabius in 102 and Gaius Fundanius in 101 carry images evocative of Marian victories; so do issues by Titus Cloulius in 98 and Gaius Egnatuleius in 97 that may have been produced to support colonial settlements of Marius’ veterans.19 With Sulla the picture is somewhat clearer, in part because we are assured that his property exceeded 200 million sesterces. He, too, had his share of trophy properties located at places such as Cumae, Puteoli, Tusculum, and, possibly, Minturnae.20 In terms of cash, the sums that passed through his hands were staggering—which is perhaps not to be wondered at since his wars with both Mithridates and the legitimate government at Rome required private financing. He took nearly 50 million sesterces from Mithridates after the Peace of Dardanus and demanded 480 million from the cities of Asia. He had previously looted sacred treasuries throughout Greece to pay his army.21 The cost of the civil war has been estimated at 280 million sesterces, and while Sulla certainly did not keep the entire surplus (and may not have realized anything like 480 million from the cities of Asia), these sums still indicate the order of magnitude  Plut. Mar. 34.4; 35.9 Ziegler; and in general Shatzman 1975, 280–81.  Plut. Mar. 32.1 Ziegler for the house; LTUR for the temple. 17  Plut. Mar. 12.6 Ziegler. 18  Vell. Pat. 2.12.5; Plut. Mar. 21.4–5 Ziegler; Plin. HN 36.116. 19  See Crawford 1974, nos. 322, 326, 332–33 and pp. 629–30 for the suggestion that these issues were linked with settlements of Marian veterans; certainty is impossible, because good evidence for the settlement of troops from the northern wars is lacking. Veterans from the African war were settled near Rome; see App. B Civ. 1.132, 134, 139 with Brunt 1962, 72, n. 43 (= Brunt 1998, 250, n. 43). 20  Shatzman 1975, 270–72, for the fortunes of Sulla and his properties after 88. 21  Plut. Sulla 25.4; App. Mith. 259 with Santangelo 2007, 111–12. 15 16

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of his activities. To all this must be added the alleged 350 million sesterces at which the property of those who died in his proscriptions was valued.22 Evidence from coins shows, not surprisingly, that Sulla and his generals minted extensively in order to pay their troops.23 The property of Gnaeus Pompey would equal, if not vastly exceed, that of Sulla. His son Sextus was offered 200 million sesterces in compensation for the confiscation of his father’s estates in 42, which seems to have been a knockdown price. Cicero says in 43 that Sextus was offered 700 million, which may have been a fairer valuation.24 By the mid-fifties Pompey’s establishment at Rome included his house in the Carinae, a house in the Campus Martius, and the massive house that he built near his theater. He had estates in Alba, Formiae, Tusculum, Falernum, Cumae, Baiae, Lucania, Tarentum, Alsinum, and Picenum. He also had a house in Naples. Pliny says that in evaluating estates, Pompey was careful to make sure that they not be consolidated into large plots, presumably to minimize the impact of crop failure (HN 18.35). The distribution of sites—including the east coast of Italy, economically less developed than the region from Rome to Naples—also offered access to a wide range of contacts. Typical aristocratic houses at Rome symbolized the aristocratic equality of the early state, and tended to be limited in size as well as old (as much as 500 years old on the Palatine). Pompey’s houses by contrast were substantially larger and more “modern” and could offer more individualized statements about the tastes of their occupants.25 The sums of money that Pompey brought back from his eastern campaigns, and the contacts that he established, altered the economic landscape of Roman politics in the fifties. These sums included the 480 million sesterces that he deposited in the Aerarium, grants of 6,000 to each of his soldiers, and of 100 million to each of his senior officers.26 Pompey’s campaigns in the east enabled him to set up an extensive banking network that prefigured the later imperial fiscus in its size and extent.27 Pompey was scarcely the only member of the governing class to 22  Plut. Sulla 22.5; Luc. 4.1, 20.4; App. Mith. 62–63; FGrH 434 fr. 25 (Asia); Livy, Per. 89 (proscriptions). 23  Crawford 1974, nos. 359, 366–71, 374. 24  App. B Civ. 3.11; Cic. Phil. 13.10–12. 25  For a summary, see Welch 2006, 513–17; for issues of identity and architecture, see Wallace-Hadrill 2008, 144–210. 26  Plin. HN 37.16; App. Mith. 565–70; Plut. Pomp. 45.6–7; for plunder used to pay lavish rewards on the campaign, see Strabo 11.14.10. 27  The terms of the lex Gabinia may also have prefigured this development, giving Pompey access to provincial fisci; see the discussion in Alpers 1995, 255–56.

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have a private fiscal machine in the provinces—those of Marcus Brutus and Lucius Aelius Lamia are especially visible to us—but his operated on a scale that seems to have dwarfed those of his contemporaries.28 The interest on his loans to King Ariobarzanes III of Cappadocia amounted to 9.6 million sesterces a year by 51; in effect, therefore, the structures of the Pompeian proto-court were financing those of the actual court of a minor king. Pompey must also have had extensive properties in Spain, especially in the south where his sons would find supporters in 45.29 His agents themselves became wealthy men—Cicero gives a striking description of the young Vedius Pollio who traveled about in Asia with a pet baboon in a chariot (among other accouterments), while Pompey’s agents in Cappadocia had access to forces that could permit them to receive slaves in lieu of cash payments.30 The significance of Pompey’s establishment, all of which fell to Caesar and his supporters after 48, is that it was built up over a period of many years with the intention of supporting Pompey’s power within the state even when he was not occupying a military command. Caesar’s own fiscal administration was a product of his command in Gaul, which he rapidly leveraged into a Mediterranean-wide financial network. A key figure in it was the fabulously successful banker Rabirius Postumus—nephew and adopted son of a man Caesar had tried for treason in 63—who became, for a time, the chief financial minister of Egypt so that the king could repay loans to Caesar and Pompey.31 Caesar had been notoriously debtridden in his earlier years, depending heavily upon the support of Crassus in order to finance what was, until 58, no more than a good career of a traditional sort. It was only as a result of his campaigns in Spain during 61 and 60 that Caesar could pay off other creditors and finance his own run for the consulship. As the careers of multimillionaires like Aemilius Scaurus, Aemilius Paullus, or Gaius Curio suggest, the requirements of magnificence in political life ordinarily went beyond the resources of the average aristocrat; these three men were all far wealthier than Caesar in the early stages of their careers. The costs of aristocratic display had been climbing rapidly ever since the middle of the second century, and it is plausible that this increase had the effect of decreasing the ability of 28

 For Brutus, see Cic. Att. 5.21.10–13, 6.1.3–7, 6.2.7–9, 6.3.5; for Lamia, see Cic. Fam.

12.29.2. 29  For Ariobarzanes, see Cic. Att. 6.1.3, 6.3.5; for Spain, where the evidence is often more suggestive than precise, see Richardson 1996, 111–17. 30  Cic. Att. 6.1.25 with Syme 1961, 23–30 (= Syme 1979, 518–29). 31  For Rabirius, see Siani-Davies 2001, 32–35, 48–53.

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senators to maintain their status without the deluges of gold and silver that a Pompey or Caesar could pour upon their associates.32 In creating financial systems that could distribute their resources, maximize their access to fresh supplies of money, and sustain their power without active military campaigning, Crassus and Pompey were genuinely innovative figures. Caesar’s own fiscal situation is very difficult to quantify, in part because he grossly exaggerated the scale of his operations, but it is significant that in dealing with the territory in Gaul he dispensed with the ordinary apparatus of tax collection through independent equestrian corporations, and instead collected the revenue to support his operations through his own agents. It is alleged that the income from Gaul amounted to 160 million sesterces a year, and was in addition to any booty accruing in the course of ongoing campaigns.33 The claim may be an exaggeration, but there is no question that Caesar raised sums vastly in excess of what he needed to pay his army, and that his personal finances were transformed by the opportunity of command. By the late fifties he was buying a great deal of support both in Italy and the provinces (Gelzer 1969, 177). CONNECTIONS The Vedius Pollio whom Cicero met as a servant of Pompey’s interest would at some point in the next few years switch his allegiance and join with the partisans of Caesar; later still, he would prove himself a notorious brute whose cruelty to his slaves angered even Augustus. Vedius’ career, however, illustrates the problem of describing Verhöflichung in the Roman context. The typical connections of a senator would include complete dependents—slaves and freedmen; a network of friends of roughly equal status; and in addition, while he was in office, further adherents who expected to pursue a life of serial connections. This is an aspect of Roman life perhaps best summed up in the speech delivered by the centurion Ligustinus in Livy’s narrative for 171, where he says (42.35.5–11): I became a soldier in the consulship of Publius Sulpicius and Gaius Aurelius. In that army, which was transported to Macedonia, I served for two years as a common soldier against King Philip; in the third year, in recognition of my courage, Titus Quinctius Flamininus promoted me to the rank of

32 33

 For the costs, see Wallace-Hadrill 2008, 345–55.  Suet. Iul. 25.2 with discussion in Shatzman 1975, 348–50.

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decurion of the hastati. When Philip and the Macedonians were defeated, we were brought home to Italy and released from service; I set out immediately for Spain as a volunteer with the consul Marcus Porcius. Anyone who has done long service and experienced him and other leaders knows that no general, of those now living, was a sharper observer and judge of courage. This general, who first appointed me as centurion of the first cohort of hastati, judged me worthy. Serving for a third time after that as a volunteer in the army sent against the Aetolians and King Antiochus, I was appointed by Manius Acilius as commander of the first century. When King Antiochus was expelled and the Aetolians were defeated, we were brought back to Italy; and then I served for two years in legions that were raised on an annual basis. Twice thereafter I served in Spain, for the first time when Fulvius Flaccus was praetor, the second time when Sempronius Gracchus was praetor. I was brought home by Flaccus with the others selected for their courage whom he led in triumph from the province. I was asked by Gracchus to return to the province.

The serial service envisioned here for Ligustinus is illustrated for members of the upper class by the inscription from Asculum listing the consilium of Pompeius Strabo in 89. In this case there are fifty-nine men on the list, including five legates, a quaestor, sixteen military tribunes, and thirty-seven men of equestrian status (including four who hold the rank of primipilus). Of the five senators, three of the legates were former praetors, one had been aedile, and the fifth had been quaestor. A sixth legate is missing from the text but is attested on sling pellets found at Asculum. The missing person is the brother of Marcus Sulpicius Rufus, whose activity as tribune in 88 would bring about Sulla’s march on Rome. One of the other legates would be a significant supporter of Cinna, while a third would be devoted to the cause of Sulla (Criniti 1970, 94–102). A fourth, Lucius Gellius Publicola (cos. 72), probably joined with Sulla and would later serve under Gnaeus Pompey in the war against the pirates (Criniti 1970, 93–94). Among the military tribunes are another future supporter and legate of Pompey, Attius Varus; Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, who would try to destroy the Sullan system in 78/77; Cornelius Dolabella, a future Sullan governor of Cilicia; Aurelius Cotta, Sullan stalwart and future consul (in 74); Gaius Rabirius, the aforementioned uncle/adoptive father of Rabirius Postumus; Lucius Terentius, a future attempted assassin of Pompey (described at the time of his attempt as Pompey’s friend); and Publius Vettius, who played various roles as an informer against first Catiline and then aristocratic foes of Pompey.34 In addition, Catiline himself  See (all refs. to Criniti 1970) for Varus, 103–4; Lepidus, 106–8; Dolabella, 109; Cotta, 111–12; Rabirius, 116–17; Terentius, 127 with Plut. Pomp. 3.1–3; Vettius, 128–31. 34

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was on the staff, as was Cicero, though he does not appear in this text;35 so, too, was the young Gnaeus Pompey. As both texts makes clear, it would ordinarily be very difficult to predict the later loyalty of a man on the basis of any earlier connection— but that was precisely the challenge that a Pompey or Caesar, a Marius or Sulla faced in assembling a long-term administrative staff.36 Indeed, there was no need for someone without an official position to maintain an extensive staff. Marius and Sulla sought instead to ensure that they would have supporters ready and at hand in case of a crisis. Thus they settled large numbers of veterans in colonies whose leaders presumably maintained some sort of contact with the general’s household. In Sulla’s case it appears that his Campanian villas were a short distance from some such major settlements, but it cannot be proven that he maintained properties near every place where he settled his men.37 The 10,000 slaves whom he freed in 81 may have been released after short periods of time in bondage to act as a local source of support in the event of emergency.38 They do not, however, seem to have seen themselves as bound to support his policies and are not heard of after his funeral as supporters of his settlement. Pompey does seem to have taken a more systematic approach to the maintenance of contact with local leaders who had once been in his service: Caesar notes a number of Pompeian officers who tried to raise troops to support their general at the beginning of the campaign of 49.39 Pompey’s contacts in Spain and the east likewise proved important as the wars continued. Although his statement in 50 that all he had to do was stamp his foot and legions would spring to arms to resist Caesar was a substantial overstatement, it was believed at the time, presumably because people were aware of Pompey’s network.40 Caesar plainly could not compete in either area, and the support garnered by the sons of Pompey in Spain is but one part of the story. After Caesar’s death, the legions in Syria were likewise disloyal, and his assassins were able to raise an enormous army from entirely eastern sources.41 The two places  Criniti 1970, 160–62, 179–81; Cicero’s connection emerges from Cic. Phil. 12.11.  See in general, Brunt 1998, 443–502. 37  On Marian settlements, for which evidence is problematic, see n. 19 above; on the Sullan settlements, see now Santangelo 2007, 147–57, with ample reference to earlier studies. 38  App. B Civ. 1.469 with ILLRP 353. 39  Caes. B Civ. 1.12.3, 1.13.4–5, 1.15.4–5, 1.18.1. 40  Plut. Pomp. 57.5 with Gelzer 1949, 204, 212. 41  For the Syrian legions, see Dio Cass. 47.27 with discussion in Gelzer 1969, 305, 322; for the armies of Brutus and Cassius, see Brunt 1971, 480–88. 35 36

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that obviously resisted—Rhodes and Lycia—are ones where Caesar had formed a special relationship; the text of a remarkable treaty that he sponsored with the Lycian league has recently come to light (AE 2005.1487). He may have been attracted to Aphrodisias, too, not only by its affinity with Venus, but also as a way of effacing the memory of Sulla who had taken an interest in the temple there. Caesar responded positively to a request for asylia (recognition of a shrine’s inviolability), one of a number of requests that he granted in the last months of his life, but that was not enough to wean the eastern provinces from the Pompeian cause.42 Caesar’s veteran settlements in Italy, which involved his finest soldiers, proved decisive in 44 as his heir looked for aid against the pretensions of Antony. These were the men of the Gallic army which, by and large, was raised from Cisalpine Gaul. The decision to seek lands for them in Etruria is a sign that Caesar understood his possible need for a loyal cadre in the countryside.43 The weakness of a household unsupported by active office-holding may be starkly illuminated by the careers of various men of letters who traveled to Rome in search of patrons. With the exception of Theophanes of Mytilene (deified in his home city because of his links to Pompey), these men seem to have looked to multiple patrons.44 Lucretius memorably dedicated his De Rerum Natura to Gaius Memmius (who subsequently purchased the house of Epicurus in Athens, and when exiled for disgraceful conduct in the consular elections of 54 would have torn it down but for the intervention of Cicero). Memmius also gave the young Catullus a post on his staff in Bithynia.45 In accepting it, Catullus had expected to make money (he says he did not, and attributes similar complaints to coevals who went to Spain). That the theme should be so open offers some insight into the mentalité of the temporary subordinate: loyalty should be bought. By the winter of 54, Lucretius seems also to have sought the company of Cicero; about the same time perhaps, Catullus was reconciled with Caesar, who seems not to have minded that his stunningly offensive 42  For Sulla and Aphrodisias, see now Santangelo 2007, 208–9, pointing out that Sulla’s claim involved claims of kinship; for Caesar, see AE 1989, 684, and Reynolds 1982, 54–91. 43  Cic. Att. 16.8.1–2; Phil. 2.102; Nic. Dam. Caes. 132 (on legions 7 and 8 settled in Campania). The absolute numbers were small (Brunt 1971, 319–24), but the locations were decisive, a point made in App. B Civ. 2.507 (noting that they were mustered in organized groups for settlement), 2.585–88 (a speech of Brutus, probably invented, but the point was plainly an obvious one). 44  FGrH 188 T. 10; for the general context, see Rawson 1985, 66–99. 45  Catull. 10, 28 with Gaisser 2009, 4–5.

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poems stayed in circulation.46 Terentius Varro, the greatest Roman intellectual of the first century other than Cicero, first attached himself to the star of Pompey (he wrote a book on how to run meetings of the senate for him in 70), but after Pharsalus joined the ranks of the Caesarians.47 Titus Pomponius Atticus provided both banking and intellectual services to many of his contemporaries, while Posidonius (the leading Greek intellectual of the day) befriended many in the aristocracy.48 Thus was he drawn into the debate about whether the Iunii Bruti of the late Republic could really claim descent from the Republic’s founder, given the fact that they were plebeians. He had Caesar as a student in his lectures and received Pompey more than once on Rhodes.49 Was the reason that he turned down Cicero’s request to write about his consulship really the result of his admiration for Cicero’s ability in Greek prose composition, or did it stem from certain knowledge that, whatever Cicero might think, he would never be a domestic Pompey? (Cic. Att. 2.1.2). Of course, Posidonius was not the only Greek intellectual on offer, and his life had been less adventurous than that of some. Tyrannio of Amisus and Parthenius of Nicaea (who was to prove influential among Latin poets hailing from the north of Italy) were both brought to Rome as captives in the third Mithridatic war.50 Alexander of Miletus, later known as Polyhistor, was enslaved by Cornelius Lentulus in 82, freed by Sulla, and continued to live in Rome, writing all the time in Greek. Gabinius brought Timagenes of Alexandria, the son of an Alexandrian banker, to Rome in 55; he was freed by Faustus Sulla. He would end his days, after a quarrel with Augustus, well ensconced in the house of Asinius Pollio.51 Pompey inspired histories by a number of supporters and seemed to feel that he should be seen as both an intellectual and a patron of the arts.52 Caesar genuinely was an intellectual and moved comfortably in such company; intellectuals become prominent in his circle after Pharsalus.53 The relationships formed between leading dynasts and members of the entertainment industry seem to have been somewhat different. Sulla was close to a number of actors: it was alleged that he began an affair with  Suet. Iul. 73 with Gaisser 2009, 2–3, and Cic. Q Fr. 2.10.3.  Gell. 14.7.3 with Rawson 1985, 105, 113. 48  Rawson 1985, 101–3. 49  Posidonius fr. 256; T. 35–39 Kidd. 50  Lightfoot 1999, 9–16. 51  FGrH 273 T. 1; 88 T. 1–2. 52  Rawson 1985, 105–6. 53  For public perception of Caesar’s intellectual interests, see Catull. 57.7; Rawson 1985, 110, notes the chronological issue. 46 47

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an actor named Metrobius when he was young, and that he could sing very nicely.54 This early friendship continued into Sulla’s retirement, though by then Metrobius would not be the only actor to keep him company. The comedian Roscius and the mime Sorex were evidently prominent in the group of musicians and harpists with whom he allegedly drank away his declining years (Plut. Sull. 2.4, 36.1). Before he died, Sulla made Roscius a member of the equestrian order (Macrob. Sat. 3.14.13). Caesar’s interests initially led him into the realm of gladiatorial entertainments, beginning with his assemblage of an enormous troupe for his aedilician games of 65. Like Cicero, who also got into the gladiator business, he seems to have seen this as an opportunity for profit and to have treated his gladiators with some decency. According to Suetonius, he had agents who would save famous gladiators who fought without winning the favor of the people. As a result, when Caesar crossed the Rubicon, his enemies felt the need to imprison members of the familia around Capua in case it should become a fifth column. Caesar’s last act before crossing the river had been to inspect a new ludus that he was building at Ravenna, and it might not have been without reason that the author of the Bellum Africum thought of him as giving instructions to recruits “like a lanista.”55 Caesar did not limit himself to gladiators. The vast spectacles that he put on at his triumphs of 46 and 45 required entertainers of all sorts, and some care in listening to what they said. He would not repeat Pompey’s embarrassment in 78, when he had thought to have his chariot drawn by four elephants. Perhaps he had irritated the person who might otherwise have told him that it would not work. Later Pompey showed something of a tin ear at the opening of his great new theater—again where elephants were concerned—as the crowd felt sympathy for them when they were slaughtered.56 Still, to do what he did, Pompey needed to establish broad contacts with the entertainment world, and Caesar needed to show that he would be as grand a patron (Lebek 1996, 46–48). Such contacts made a difference. Five days after Caesar’s assassination, Antony (a man notoriously well connected with the acting community) was able to stage a funeral that included trained choruses, a mime acting the role of Caesar, and a remarkable wax likeness of Caesar attached

 Macrob. Sat. 3.14: ut L. Sulla, vir tanti nominis, optime cantasse dicatur.  Suet. Iul. 10, 26.3, 31; Caes. B Civ. 14.4; [Caes.] B Afr. 71.1. 56  For these issues with elephants, see Plut. Pomp. 14.4; Cic. Fam. 7.1; for another problem with the performance community incurred by Pompey, see Cic. Att. 2.19.3. 54 55

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to a stage device that he would use to inflame the crowd.57 It is notable that at the same time Brutus could not get a troupe of actors to perform the play that he wanted.58 THE INTEGRATION OF GREAT HOUSEHOLDS The greater the household, the greater the chances that its diverse members would not be particularly well integrated. The basic staff of the average aristocratic household consisted of slaves and freedmen, and it could be the case that members of the equestrian and senatorial orders—as well as their agents elsewhere—resented having to deal with such people to gain access to the great man. Cicero had to tell his brother when the latter governed Asia, that Statius, the freedman who controlled access to him, was an object of deep irritation to the publicani of the area.59 Pompey had a freedman named Demetrius, described as a person of intelligence who abused the position that it was his good fortune to hold.60 Demetrius’ estate would later amount to nearly 100 million sesterces. Pompey was also friendly with a prostitute named Flora, and it is of some interest that a story could be told about a man “in his entourage” named Geminus who confessed that he loved her as well. Pompey broke off his affair and left her for Geminus. We do not know the status of Geminus, or his subsequent history, except that the affair did not seem to have lasted; but he was clearly close to Pompey and must have been a man of some status to afford an expensive companion (Plut. Pomp. 2.3–4). Pompey’s partners on his final boat ride into Alexandria included two centurions, a freedman named Philip, and a slave named Scythes (Plut. Pomp. 78.4). It was presumably freedmen of his—entering his service in the 60s, and gaining experience of the intricacies of command while he was alive— who served as admirals under his son Sextus in the civil wars of the 30s (Treggiari 1969, 184–85). Caesar had a freedman named Rufio, whom he is said to have liked, and to whose son he entrusted the garrison of Alexandria after 47 (Suet. Iul. 76.3). Like Pompey, for whom Theophanes came to act as virtually a prime minister, Caesar on the whole seems to have preferred to select his closest associates from free men who came from just outside the  For the organization of the funeral, see Sumi 2005, 100–112.  Cic. Att. 16.5.1, 16.2.3. 59  Cic. Q Fr. 1.2.1–3 with 1.1.10–14 and Treggiari 1969, 181; Lintott 2008, 254. 60  Plut. Pomp. 2.4, 40.1; see also Treggiari 1969, 184–85. 57 58

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s­ enatorial elite (and would become spectacularly wealthy as a result of his friendship). Most prominent in this regard were Balbus, from Spain, and the equestrians Oppius, Matius, and Rabirius (Gelzer 1969, 277). Others who began in his entourage and went on to greater fame and fortune as a result included Publius Ventidius, Aulus Hirtius, and Vibius Pansa. Still, it was the secretaries who took his constant dictation; there were Caesarian freedmen in charge of important public services with respect to state revenues; and his wife Calpurnia, who controlled his unpublished decisions, played a crucial role after his assassination.61 The inner and outer circles of great men would not always get along, and it is in the context of such conflict that it might be best to see Cicero’s first major forensic episode—the defense of Roscius of Ameria. A Sullan veteran himself (albeit of the Social rather than the Civil War), Cicero stood not just as a representative of his client, but also of his class, and it is thus telling that he concentrates upon the figure of Chrysogonus as the villain of his piece. It is Chrysogonus who is responsible for the conspiracy against Roscius, so Cicero says (Rosc. Am. 124, 127). Sulla does not know of the things that are done in his name, and, if he was correctly informed about what was done in his name, he would set things right. Thus it is that (Rosc. Am. 130–31; Loeb [adapted]): . . . there is no-one who does not know that on account of the immensity of his business, many men did many things of which Lucius Sulla knew very little. Is it right, then, that in these matters anything should be passed over without the ruler knowing it? It is not right, judges, but it is inevitable. . . . How can we wonder that Lucius Sulla, when he alone was governing the whole republic, and administering the affairs of the whole world, and strengthening by his laws the majesty of the empire, which he had recovered by arms, should have been forced to leave some things unnoticed? Is it so surprising that the human mind has not attained what divine power cannot obtain?

In effect, Cicero is asking the jury, and also by implication members of the outer circle, to send a message about a member of the inner circle. Despite his later claims to the contrary, he is not offering a principled objection to the tyranny of Sulla here; rather, he is making a significant complaint about the behavior of the inner circle on behalf of people like himself.62 Chrysogonus further threatened the status of aspiring leaders 61  For Caesar’s freedmen in public roles, see Suet. Iul. 76: praeterea monetae publicisque vectigalibus peculiares servos praeposuit. 62  Cic. Off. 2.51 with discussion in Lintott 2008, 425–27; Dyck 2003, 241–43. On Sulla’s involvement with the trial behind the scenes, see Plut. Cic. 3.5 with Treggiari 1969, 183–84.

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of the state through his egregious displays of wealth: he had hordes of slaves, a big house on the Palatine filled with the latest amenities (including an ancient version of a samovar), threw lavish banquets, and was surrounded with entertainers. He was single-handedly pushing up the price of aristocratic competition.63 Such behavior may in fact have helped the jury find Roscius innocent. CONCLUSION Just as the influx of new money in early modern Europe appears to have stimulated the development of courts there, it is arguable that the redistribution of money caused the development of proto-courts in firstcentury Rome. The costs of obtaining magistracies, and the lavish lifestyles seemingly expected of Romans who wished to claim a leading position in the hierarchy of the Republic, could stretch even the most ample budget. It was only the opportunity for a long-term command outside the normal structure of the state that could enable the development of novel structures of control. Perhaps most significant is the fact that there were no structures within the Republican system of government that could be turned to these purposes. Instead, Marius and Sulla, Pompey and Caesar, like Scipio before them, had to transform their households into bureaucratic centers. It was this step, as Christian Meier has suggested, that shaped the flow of late Republican politics, creating the division between routine and crisis politics.64 By acting thus, the holders of extended commands might hope to dominate the institutions of the Republic, which could then be used to provide rewards to loyal followers. Even so, the reward structure was arguably too attenuated to be wholly satisfactory; hence there arose the tensions between insiders and outsiders. Moreover, the opportunities for such commands were perhaps too fortuitous, dependent upon the ability to manipulate crises initiated by outsiders—at least until the passage of the lex Gabinia showed the way to manufacture a campaign by creating an “invasion.” Peter Brunt (1998, 84–92) has rightly raised the issue of whether the failure of Republican government should be seen as structural or as the result of contingent circumstance. His argument raises metaphysical issues, but the lex Gabinia of 67 offers a more mundane set of considerations. With this lex, Pompey arguably created a model through which 63  Cic. Rosc. Am. 131–35; for the authepsa as a samovar, see Wallace-Hadrill 2008, 355 (it might be identified with an object found at Pompeii). 64  Meier 1980, xiv–lvii, 163–90.

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structure could control contingent circumstance. His subsequent commands, as well as those of Caesar and Crassus in the 50s, were defined by legislation; only in the case of the lex Manilia in 66 was there arguably an actual threat. The essential problem with the late Republican model of protocourt was its lack of any scheme of succession that could operate independently of the official structure of the state; there was no mechanism to ensure continued loyalty to a household. The system would have to be reinvented over and over again from the ground up. It may perhaps have been Pompey who saw this most clearly. By 49 he had sons old enough to be seen as possible successors, and they were treated that way, at least in Spain, by his supporters there. Through his efforts—albeit sometimes clumsy ones—to combine the affairs of his household with the government of the Republic, Pompey showed how it might be possible to create a very different system of government. As Eduard Meyer realized, Pompey could envision a system that prefigured the Principate (1922, 5). Caesar could not. His style, especially through its use of the dictatorship as a quasi-royal office, was more Sullan than Pompeian. Just as the Sullan regime failed, so, too, would that of Caesar until his heir could reshape his legacy. The result would be a new court. It would not result in modernity, but it would bring peace. University of Michigan, Ann Arbor e-mail: [email protected]

BIBLIOGRAPHY Alpers, Michael. 1995. Das nachrepublikanische Finanzsystem: Fiscus und Fisci in der frühen Kaiserzeit. Berlin: de Gruyter. Ammon, Ulrich. 2001. The Dominance of English as a Language of Science: Effects on Other Languages and Language Communities. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Brunt, P. A. 1962. “The Army and the Land in the Roman Revolution.” JRS 52:69–86. Rpt. in Brunt 1998, 240–80. ———. 1971. Italian Manpower 225 B.C.–A.D. 14. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 1980. “Free Labour and Public Works at Rome.” JRS 70:81–100. ———. 1998. The Fall of the Roman Republic. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Buitenwerf, Rieuwerd. 2003. Book III of the Sibylline Oracles and its Social Setting with an Introduction. Leiden: Brill. Collins, J. J. 1997. Seers, Sibyls and Sages in Hellenistic-Roman Judaism. Leiden: Brill.

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Crawford, M. H. 1974. Roman Republican Coinage. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Criniti, Nicola. 1970. L’epigrafe di Asculum di Gn. Pompeo Strabone. Milan: Pubblicazioni dell’ Università cattolica del Sacro Cuore. Dyck, A. R. 2003. “Evidence and Rhetoric in Cicero’s Pro Roscio Amerino: The Case against Sex. Roscius.” CQ n.s. 53:235–46. Elias, Norbert. 2006. The Court Society. Trans. Edmund Jephcott (with rev.). Dublin: University College Dublin Press. Elton, G. R. 1953. The Tudor Revolution in Government: Administrative Changes in the Reign of Henry VIII. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gaisser, J. H. 2009. Catullus. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Gelzer, Matthias. 1949. Pompeius. Munich: Bruckmann. ———. 1969. Caesar: Politician and Statesman. Trans. Peter Needham. Oxford: Blackwell. Gruen, E. S. 1998. Heritage and Hellenism: The Reinvention of Jewish Tradition. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Jehne, Martin. 2006. “Methods, Models and Historiography.” In Rosenstein 2006, 3–28. Lebek, W. D. 1996. “Moneymaking on the Roman Stage.” In Roman Theater and Society, ed. W. J. Slater, 29–48. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Lightfoot, J. L. 1999. Parthenius of Nicaea: Extant Works Edited with Introduction and Commentary. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 2007. The Sibylline Oracles with Introduction, Translation and Commentary on the First and Second Books. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lintott, Andrew. 2008. Cicero as Evidence: A Historian’s Companion. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Meier, Christian. 1980. Res Publica Amissa: eine Studie zu Verfassung und Geschichte der späten römischen Republik. Rev. ed. Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp. Meyer, Eduard. 1922. Caesars Monarchie und das Principat des Pompejus: innere Geschichte Roms von 66 bis 44 v. Chr. 3d ed. Stuttgart: Cotta. Millar, Fergus. 1998. The Crowd in Rome in the Late Republic. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Paterson, Jeremy. 2007. “Friends in High Places: The Creation of the Court of the Roman Emperor.” In The Court and Court Society in Ancient Monarchies, ed. A. J. S. Spawforth, 121–56. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pincus, S. C. A. 2009. 1688: The First Modern Revolution. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press. Rawson, E. D. 1985. Intellectual Life in the Late Roman Republic. London: Duckworth. Reynolds, Joyce. 1982. Aphrodisias and Rome. London: Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies. Richardson, J. S. 1996. The Romans in Spain. Oxford: Blackwell.

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Rosenstein, Nathan, and Robert Morstein-Marx, eds. 2006. A Companion to the Roman Republic. Oxford: Blackwell. Santangelo, Federico. 2007. Sulla, the Elites and the Empire: A Study of Roman Policies in Italy and the Greek East. Leiden: Brill. Saunders, David. 1997. Anti-Lawyers: Religion and Criticism of Law and State. London: Routledge. Scullard, H. H. 1970. Scipio Africanus: Soldier and Politician. London: Thames & Hudson. Shatzman, Israel. 1975. Senatorial Wealth and Roman Politics. Brussels: Latomus. Siani-Davies, Mary. 2001. Cicero’s Speech Pro Rabirio Postumo. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Stone, Laurence. 1948. “The Anatomy of the Elizabethan Aristocracy.” The Economic History Review 18:1–53. Sumi, G. S. 2005. Ceremony and Power: Performing Politics in Rome between Republic and Empire. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Syme, Ronald. 1961. “Who was Vedius Pollio?” JRS 51:23–30. Rpt. in Syme 1979, 518–29. ———. 1979. Roman Papers. Vol. 2. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tawney, R. H. 1926. Religion and the Rise of Capitalism. London: John Murray. Treggiari, Susan. 1969. Roman Freedmen during the Late Republic. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Trevor-Roper, H. R. 1951. “The Elizabethan Aristocracy: An Anatomy Anatomized.” The Economic History Review n.s. 3:279–98. Wallace-Hadrill, Andrew. 2008. Rome’s Cultural Revolution. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wardle, David. 2006. Cicero: On Divination Book 1. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Weber, Max. 1930. The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. Trans. Talcott Parsons, with intro. by R. H. Tawney. London: Unwin. Welch, K. E. 2006. “Art and Architecture in the Roman Republic.” In Rosenstein 2006, 496–542.

CEREMONY AND THE EMERGENCE OF COURT SOCIETY IN THE AUGUSTAN PRINCIPATE Geoffrey Sumi

 Abstract. Court ceremony in the Augustan Principate served to ease the underlying tension that existed between the new form of government and Republican tradition by creating a place for consuls and ex-consuls in the imperial court. In particular, Augustus seems to have established a hierarchy of military honors, reserving the ovatio and triumph proper for members of his own family, but allowing ex-consuls to earn triumphal honors. Ultimately, court ceremony, as manifested in this hierarchy of honors, showed the proximity of members of the imperial court to the center of power and thus was a dramatization of the new political culture of the Principate.

Tacitus informs us that when Tiberius came to power, the consuls for the year 14 c.e., Sextus Pompeius and Sextus Appuleius, were the first to swear an oath of loyalty to the new princeps; there followed the Prefect of the Praetorian Guard and the Prefect of the Grain Supply, and then the senate, soldiers, and people (Ann. 1.7.2). The swearing of this oath obviously offered legitimacy to Tiberius’ succession, confirming the groundwork that Augustus had already laid in the years before his death. Privileging the consuls in this ceremony is no surprise considering the prestige this magistracy still held in the Augustan Principate. As important as it was for Tiberius to be shown ascending to power, it was necessary for the senatorial aristocracy, initially in the person of the consuls, to lend legitimacy to his elevation. With this need in mind, it is possible to view court ceremony in the early Principate as a dramatic and symbolic mediation of political relations between the senatorial aristocracy and the princeps. Such ceremony was in part a consequence of the emergence of the Principate, which was founded in 28 and 27 on Augustus’ claim to have handed back power to the senate and people of Rome (Mon. Anc. 34.1), thus at once establishing an overt connection and underlying tension between the new monarchy and the old Republic. One of the purposes of court ceremony under Augustus, as this article will attempt to demonstrate, was to ease this underlying tension by securing a place for consuls and ex-consuls (consulars) in the imperial court. American Journal of Philology 132 (2011) 81–102 © 2011 by The Johns Hopkins University Press

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Under Augustus, the imperial court consisted first and foremost of members of his own family, and it is therefore reasonable to expect court ceremony to feature these same members.1 However, their prominence in court ceremony was not to the exclusion of members of the aristocracy. An instructive case in point is the return of Tiberius to Rome following his victory in Pannonia in 9 c.e. At this date he was heir-apparent to the emperor Augustus, who escorted him from the gates of the city to the Campus Martius, where together they greeted a crowd of the Roman people at the Saepta Julia (Dio Cass. 56.1.1), the meeting-place for magisterial elections during the Augustan Principate. Suetonius describes the scene in some detail: Tiberius, wearing a toga praetexta and a laurel wreath as symbols of victory, ascended a tribunal set up in the Saepta. He took his seat next to Augustus, the two of them flanked by the seated consuls (Tib. 17.2), with other members of the senate standing around the chairs of state. This seating arrangement, with chairs of honor set for the princeps and his heir flanked by the two consuls, was innovative only insofar as it included Tiberius; according to Dio (54.10.5), the custom of having the emperor seated with the consuls in this fashion originated in 19. A brief overview of the historical context for its establishment reveals some of the underlying causes for the inclusion of consuls and ex-consuls in Augustan court ceremony, and is therefore a necessary starting-point for this article. Augustus tacitly acknowledged the enemies that he had made during his rise to power when he supervised his regime’s first purging of the senate (29/28); he was armed and surrounded by senatorial bodyguards, with a breastplate under his tunic (Suet. Aug. 35.1–2; cf. Dio Cass. 52.42.1). The memory of Caesar’s assassination had not faded. The appearance in our source tradition for 22 of the plot of Fannius Caepio and Varro Murena against Augustus, the truth of which will never be known, is an indication of some senatorial opposition to his power.2 He had indeed monopolized the consulship toward the end of the Triumviral period and in the early years of his Principate, holding the office without pause between 31 and 23. Eventually, in the latter year, he made a great show of relinquishing it in a ceremony held on the Alban Mount, and he then appointed the scion of a noble family, Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso, to hold it for the remainder of the year in his stead.3 Other incidents show further the level of political 1  On the imperial court under the Principate, see Wallace-Hadrill 1996; Paterson 2007. Dates are b.c.e. unless otherwise stated. 2  Dio Cass. 54.3. On the topic of opposition to Augustus more generally, see Raaflaub and Samons 1990. 3  Dio Cass. 53.32.2. For a brief character sketch of this Piso, see Tac. Ann. 2.43.2.

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unrest in the late 20s. The people, for instance, during a severe famine in 22 demanded that Augustus take up the dictatorship and then offered him the consulship in perpetuity; he refused both.4 Three years of electoral uncertainty followed, in which the people attempted to force Augustus’ hand. During his absence in 21, they elected only one consul for the following year, reserving the second magistracy for the princeps (Dio Cass. 54.6.2). Eventually a second consul was elected, but the political climate remained so tumultuous that Augustus dispatched Agrippa to oversee affairs in the city. Virtually the same situation recurred in the following year, with the result that only one consul was elected for 19. This time, while based in Athens, Augustus appointed a second consul. Among the many honors accorded Augustus upon his return to the city in October 19, was the privilege of sitting in a curule chair between the two consuls for the year.5 Under the political circumstances just described, one reason for this honor must be clear: it was meant, at least in part, as a compromise measure to placate the Roman people, who had so persistently communicated their desire that Augustus accept a more permanent position of executive authority, either the dictatorship or a perpetual consulship. If the princeps were to sit between the two consuls, it would be plain that his executive authority at least matched their own, even without the title of the office. This seating arrangement was used during meetings of the senate, with the chairs of state perched on a tribunal.6 The only other attested instance for it is the return of Tiberius in 9 c.e., as described above. One reason for the choice of the Saepta Julia as the venue for princeps and heir to greet the people on this occasion in 9 c.e. was its location near the Via Flaminia, the main road entering the city from the north, the direction from which Tiberius was arriving. The Saepta had the further advantage of standing outside the pomerium, which Tiberius could not cross while he still held imperium. The Saepta is also attested as a meeting-place of the senate,7 and it is possible that it gathered there on this occasion to vote Tiberius a triumph. However, we should not neglect the presence of the people at this meeting, nor forget that the 4  Mon. Anc. 5.1, 3. Augustus really had no choice but to refuse the dictatorship after it had been outlawed in 44 by the consul M. Antonius in the aftermath of Caesar’s assassination (Cic. Phil. 1.3). 5  Augustus was also voted an altar and became the supervisor of laws and morals (curator legum et morum) at this time; Dio Cass. 54.10.3 and 5. 6  Talbert 1984a, 121–22. 7  On 23 May 17 to pass decrees in connection with the Ludi Saeculares (Talbert 1984a, 120).

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principal function of the Saepta was to serve as the meeting-place of the centuriate assembly to elect consuls. In my view, Tiberius’ participation in this ceremonial seating arrangement was an honor that legitimated his position as Augustus’ successor, and this act of legitimation was possibly made more significant by its location. Another aspect of this ceremony not to be overlooked is its mediation between princeps and senate: not only were the princeps and his heir shown with magisterial authority, enjoying the approval of senate and consuls, but the consuls also sat in close proximity to the center of power as active and necessary participants in this rite of succession. The consequences of the political unrest during the years 23 to 19 may have extended beyond this ceremonial seating arrangement of princeps and consuls to influence Augustus’ method of canvassing for his chosen candidates for the consulship. Suetonius provides the most complete picture of this process: Augustus accompanied his candidates around all the neighborhoods (vici) of the city, providing visible support for their candidacy (Aug. 56.1). It seems that he learned a hard lesson from the events of 20 and 19, when the people evidently reserved a consulship for him, causing a delay in the filling of the second magistracy and forcing him in the latter year to appoint a consul. He realized that candidates for the consulship required his personal approval in order to pass muster with the Roman people, who then would more willingly accept his own absence from the office. It is possible, as a consequence, that Augustus adopted his method of canvassing in order to lend his auctoritas not only to a specific candidate but also more broadly to the office of consul. Two qualifying statements need to be made in this connection. First, we do not know whether it was only after 19 that Augustus adopted the procedure described by Suetonius. Given that he arranges his biography of Augustus topically and not chronologically, as he admits himself (Aug. 9), the means to pinpoint when Augustus adopted this method of canvassing are lacking. But even if he had always canvassed for his candidates in this way, it likely would have taken on greater significance following the years of unrest. Second, we also do not know whether this procedure was limited to consular elections alone, although from such information as survives about elections under Augustus the strong likelihood is that he would have adopted the procedure only for the supreme magistracy in the city.8

 On elections in this period, see Jones 1955; Frei-Stolba 1967, 87–129.

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THE NEW STRUCTURE OF PROVINCIAL ADMINISTRATION It may be claimed, therefore, that the way in which Augustus related to the consuls was a consequence of the political unrest of the late 20s, and that this change was also reflected in court ceremony. Here we need to extend the scope of the analysis beyond domestic politics to embrace provincial administration and the related issue of military honors. In particular, from about 19 to 7, Augustus created a new hierarchy of military honors in order to reward members of his court who had earned a significant victory in the provinces: the triumph proper, the ovatio (the lesser triumph), and the new ornamenta triumphalia (triumphal honors). Because the senatorial aristocracy participated actively in this process as both awarders and recipients of some of these honors, an examination of it can shed further light on the role taken by them (the consuls and ex-consuls, especially) in the imperial court.9 First, some background. Administration of the empire’s provinces was a pressing concern as Augustus came to power after the civil war. Not only had they been the victims of senatorial malfeasance in the late Republic, but they also remained the source of military power and renown, as the great dynasts used the provinces to recruit and train the armies of the civil wars and ultimately to advance their own political careers. The first phase of the consolidation of Augustus’ power in 27 after he had unsuccessfully tried to retire from public office—the so-called “first settlement”—was the division of the empire’s provinces. Dio provides the most detailed account:10 Augustus shared the provinces with the senate and people, keeping for himself those that required military oversight and thus ensuring control of the imperial army. With a few exceptions, most notably Egypt, all the provinces were administered by senators. In the so-called “public” provinces these were ex-praetors and ex-consuls with proconsular power chosen by lot. In the “imperial” provinces they were agents of the emperor who took the title legati Augusti with propraetorian power, showing clearly under whose auspices they governed; they were selected from among ex-praetors and ex-consuls by the emperor himself.11  On Augustus and the senate, see Talbert 1984b; Brunt 1984; Sattler 1960.  Dio Cass. 53.12.3–4; see also Strabo 17.25; Suet. Aug. 47. For a discussion of these sources and their larger implications, see Millar 1966. 11  Dio Cass. 53.15.1. His account is somewhat confused here. In 53.13.5, when describing the title conferred on the legati Augusti, he states that even ex-consuls who were legati governed with propraetorian rank. Later, however (53.15.1), when discussing the disposition of legions, he states that generally the legati were chosen from among ex-praetors, although ex-quaestors were also chosen; he makes no mention of ex-consuls. 9

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According to Dio, the process of selecting governors for the public provinces also devolved upon the emperor, as he assembled a list of candidates that corresponded to the number of provinces and then had each province assigned to a candidate by lot (Dio Cass. 53.14.3–4).12 Of the public provinces, Asia and Africa were the prizes awarded to ex-consuls, while the rest were assigned to ex-praetors (cf. Dio Cass. 53.14.2). The imperial provinces assigned to consulars were security concerns, recently pacified areas still prone to rebellion: Hispania Tarraconensis (which included the territory of the Cantabri, last of the Spanish tribes led under the Roman yoke), the two Germanies, and the Balkan provinces—Pannonia and Moesia. The other imperial provinces were assigned to ex-praetors. This administrative structure remained in place for three centuries, but in 27 the initial dispensation of power to Augustus was for a ten-year term (Dio Cass. 53.13.1). The precise legal basis of his authority in the provinces remains a matter of scholarly dispute. Formally, on 16 January 27, he handed power back to the senate and people. The senate, in response, requested that he maintain a share of power. In Dio’s account, the division of provinces was part of this sharing, but strictly speaking the provinces belonged to the senate and people, as shown by the conferral of imperium13 on Augustus through a law passed in the comitia tributa;14 he was only the caretaker of a portion of them. In 23, when he relinquished the consulship, he received imperium maius along with tribunicia potestas. Whatever the precise legal basis of his power, and despite the fact that the provinces technically belonged to the senate and people, it is clear that provincial business tended to find its way into the hands of the emperor, which shows that he was recognized as the ultimate authority.15 When the senate renewed Augustus’ imperium in 18 for an additional five years, Agrippa, who had since become Augustus’ son-in-law by virtue of his marriage to Julia, also received imperium along with 12  This is one indication that a strict division between these two categories of provinces never obtained, for the emperor regularly intervened in the administration of the public provinces (Millar 1966). 13  Probably imperium proconsulare, following Syme 1939, 314; cf. Kienast 1982, 74–75. Eder (1990, 107) disagrees, following Badian 1986 (79–84), who argues that Augustus administered the provinces by virtue of his authority as consul until 23, when he relinquished this office and took on imperium proconsulare maius. 14  This would have been in accordance with Republican precedent, but it is likely that Agrippa received his grant of imperium through a law, according to Augustus’ laudatio for him (P. Köln 4701; see Koenen 1970); on the grant of imperium to Agrippa by the people, see Badian 1980–81, 99–101. 15  Bowman 1996, 346–47.

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tribunician power,16 making him virtual co-regent. A few years later, Tiberius and Drusus began their careers as provincial governors, when they received commands in the Alpine provinces. Their commands would grow in importance in subsequent years. Also around this time, consulars increasingly served as legates of Augustus.17 The military honors (triumphs and triumphal honors) that then accrued to these commanders, both Augustus’ stepsons and the consulars, marked them out as belonging to the inner and outer circles of the imperial court, in a manner similar to the seating arrangement at the Saepta Julia upon Tiberius’ return to Rome in 9 c.e. THE CONFERRAL OF TRIUMPHS AND OTHER TRIUMPHAL HONORS With this basic administrative structure in mind, we can now turn to the conferral of triumphs and other triumphal honors during the Augustan Principate, a process that underwent a significant change, as noted above, following the renewal of Augustus’ imperium in 18 and in subsequent years. Throughout the Triumviral period and into the early Principate, Augustus was generous with triumphs, conferring about thirty all told, according to Suetonius, and an even greater number of men received triumphal honors.18 The majority of triumphs were conferred before 19, when those celebrated by members of the aristocracy ended abruptly with the triumph of Lucius Cornelius Balbus, as was shown on the so-called Fasti Triumphales, the listing of triumphs that likely decorated the Arch of Augustus in the Forum Romanum.19 After Balbus’ triumph, such victory 16  P. Köln 4701. The precise nature of Agrippa’s imperium remains a matter of dispute. Koenen (1970, 268–83) argued for imperium maius based on the language of Augustus’ laudatio, Badian (1980–81, 105–106) for imperium aequum. 17  Syme 1986, 334. The division of Hispania Ulterior into Lusitania and Baetica probably occurred in this same period (ca. 16–13) (Richardson 1996, 136). Note that Lusitania was imperial, and Baetica under the control of senate and people; Augustus took care to share these provinces. 18  Suet. Aug. 38.1; cf. Dio Cass. 54.12.1–2. Suetonius’ count is credible only if he is including triumphs from the Triumviral period, beginning in 43 with those of M. Aemilius Lepidus and L. Munatius Plancus, consuls designate for 42. From 43 to 19 the Fasti Triumphales record twenty-one triumphs (Inscr. Ital. 13.1, p. 87); if we add Drusus’ triumph in 9 (awarded but never celebrated) and Tiberius’ two triumphs, the first in 7, the second in 12 c.e., we reach a total of twenty-four. The Fasti, as now preserved, lack sixteen lines between the years 34 and 28. Cf. Dio Cass. 54.12.1, who also states that Augustus was generous with triumphs in his early years. 19  Inscr. Ital. 13.1, pp. 1–4; Beard (2007) 61–67, 72–75.

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celebrations became much rarer, with Augustus restricting this ceremony to members of the imperial family. The first imperial triumph was likely awarded in 9 to Augustus’ younger stepson Nero Drusus, whose untimely death precluded the celebration (Dio Cass. 55.2.5). The first imperial triumph actually celebrated was that of Tiberius in 7. Therefore, between the last “senatorial” triumph in 19 and the first imperial triumph in 7, there opened up a sizeable gap in the celebration of this most prestigious Republican ceremony, perhaps the longest gap in the whole history of the triumph down to this time. It might have been a consequence of the transition to the more regularized system that Augustus eventually established. At least for part of this period, the senate continued to decree triumphs, one for Agrippa in 14 (which he declined—more on this below) and another for Tiberius in 12. This Augustus declined on Tiberius’ behalf and he then offered him triumphal honors instead (Dio Cass. 54.31.4), making him the first recipient of this new honor. Tiberius was soon followed by Lucius Calpurnius Piso (cos. 15), who became the first person outside the imperial family to receive triumphal honors. It may be noted that Tiberius and Drusus both cele­ brated the so-called “lesser triumph” (ovatio) before being awarded triumphs proper. Even this brief overview shows significant changes within a relatively short period. It is clear that Augustus began to rethink the conferral of triumphs and other Republican ceremonies, such as the ovatio.20 The question that the remainder of this article addresses therefore, is how exactly he envisioned these ceremonies as a means of conferring honors on members of the imperial court. A useful starting-point is an understanding of the process by which triumphs were conferred during Augustus’ Principate. The language used by Suetonius in his statement that Augustus was generous with triumphs describes it in summary form (Aug. 38.1): nec parcior in bellica virtute honoranda, super triginta ducibus iustos triumphos et aliquanto pluribus triumphalia ornamenta decernenda curavit. And being no more sparing in honoring military courage he saw to it that more than thirty leaders were decreed triumphs proper and even more were decreed triumphal honors.

The words decernenda curavit are telling: even in the Principate triumphs were conferred by decree of the senate, as they had been under the 20

 As Hickson noted (1992, 127–33).

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Republic.21 Suetonius also reveals the reality of power under the Principate when he portrays Augustus as the sponsor of these senatorial decrees. It is no surprise that the princeps exercised an enormous influence over who celebrated triumphs and when, just as he exercised influence over all other aspects of imperial administration and decision-making. Hence he was equally capable of persuading the senate to decree a triumph. An instance in 19 is clearly attested, when the senate decreed a triumph for Agrippa at Augustus’ urging,22 only to have Agrippa refuse it. Although Augustus may have been the advocate of such decisions and perhaps even their ultimate arbiter, it was important for his regime that the senate be seen to bestow these honors. Our only evidence that he might veto the senate’s decree of a triumph is when he reduced to triumphal honors a triumph decreed for Tiberius in 12. He had intervened similarly when a request by Marcus Licinius Crassus in 27 for the spolia opima challenged his own position as supreme commander.23 We have no evidence that Augustus refused any triumph that had been decreed for a member of the senatorial aristocracy in the period before such triumphs ended in 19. It should be noted in this context that Augustus never hesitated to refuse triumphs for himself; rather, this was part of a veritable ethos of refusal of honors in the Principate. In his Res Gestae he states that he celebrated three triumphs (his triple triumph of 29) and two ovationes, and declined many others; one such instance might have been in 25 for his victory in the Cantabrian war (Dio Cass. 53.26.5; Flor. 2.33.53), and a second in 19 after he returned from the East having negotiated the recovery of the legionary standards in Parthia.24 He also, of course, declined offers of a dictatorship and perpetual consulship, as noted earlier, thus reveling in a gloria recusandi. The persistence of this ethos of refusal into Tiberius’ Principate illuminates the relationship between princeps and senate. Tacitus relates a proposal, originating in the senate with Cornelius Dolabella in 21 c.e., that Tiberius’ reentry into the city from his stay in Campania be an ovatio (Ann. 3.47.3–4). For him the offer of an ovatio was insulting, however, and he declined it by stating that it was beneath him to celebrate one for 21  Cf. Dio Cass. 55.10.2, where he remarks that the Temple of Mars Ultor in the Forum Augustum became the location of the senate’s votes on triumphs after its dedication in 2. 22  Dio Cass. 54.11.6: ἐκ τῆς τοῦ Αὐγούστου προστάξεως. 23  Livy 4.20.5–11; Dio Cass. 51.24.4. Cf. also Rich 1996; Flower 2000. 24  Cassiod. Chron. 385: Caesari ex provinciis redeunti currus cum corona aurea decretus est, quo ascendere noluit. Dio mentions an ovatio in this year, too, but if he is correct, then Augustus must have refused it (54.8.3; cf. 54.10.4).

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a “suburban peregrination” (peregrinatio suburbana) after having subdued defiant peoples and celebrated real triumphs earlier in his career; Tiberius added that he had rejected triumphs too (triumphos spretos).25 In describing thus how the princeps could dismissively brush aside a senator’s proposal of an ovatio (and by letter, not even deigning to attend in person), Tacitus dramatically highlights the diminution of the senate’s authority and influence. Underlying this episode, however, is a truism of the political culture of the Principate. Conferment of such honors was one means for the senate to test the limits of its authority vis-à-vis the princeps. The latter’s acceptance or rejection of these honors defined for the moment what those limits were. Although no similar episode from the Augustan Principate is attested, it is likely that the same set of expectations was always present. It was part of the senate’s role in the political culture of the Principate to continue dispensing these honors even at the risk of refusal.26 Lucius Cornelius Balbus’ triumph takes us back to 19, the year when, as we have seen, political unrest in the form of the people’s unwillingness to fill the second consulship with a candidate other than the princeps himself led to a vacancy in that office. It was eventually filled through Augustus’ intervention from abroad, but his absence only exacerbated the people’s discontent and dismay. He did not return to Rome until October of that year. Agrippa, who spent part of the year in Gaul and then Spain, likely returned around the same time, perhaps even later. It was during their absence, on 27 March, that Lucius Cornelius Balbus celebrated what is to be regarded as the last senatorial triumph.27 There is no knowing whether it was intentionally timed to coincide with the absence of the princeps and his heir designate. It was presumably decreed by the senate, and Augustus may have felt no need to intervene from afar. Moreover, Balbus triumphed for a victory in Africa, a province of the senate and people that had produced another triumphator in 21.28 Balbus used the spoils of war to fund the construction of his theater, undertaking the kind of manubial building that Augustus encouraged especially in the Triumviral 25  Suetonius asserts that Claudius declined triumphal honors because he felt it was beneath the prestige of the office of princeps (Claud. 17.1). 26  It is noteworthy that one of the defining moments of Caesar’s dictatorship was his failure to rise to receive a delegation of senators bringing a decree detailing additional honors for him. This show of arrogance gave added impetus to the conspiracy that resulted in his assassination: Suet. Iul. 78.1; Dio Cass. 44.8.2–4; cf. Plut. Caes. 60.4–8; App. B Civ. 2.107. 27  The date is recorded in the Fasti (Inscr. Ital. 13.1, p. 87); cf. Plin. NH 5.36, who points out that Balbus was the first foreigner granted a triumph. 28  L. Sempronius Atratinus, suff. 34 (Inscr. Ital. 13.1, p. 87); see Syme (1986) 29, 41, 329.

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period and early in the Principate. After Balbus, however, such manubial building was also restricted to members of the imperial family.29 The spectators on 27 March 19 would hardly have realized that they were witnessing the last senatorial triumph, but signals that a change was in the offing had already appeared and more were to come. Augustus’ own refusal of a triumph perhaps in 25 was an indication that the princeps himself would no longer accept this distinction. In 19, the year of Balbus’ celebration, Augustus seems again to have declined a triumph, as discussed above. Agrippa, too, was decreed one that he refused. He had done this before in 37. In 14, he was again voted a triumph and he again declined (Dio Cass. 54.24.7). According to Dio, it was at this point that Augustus invented the ornamenta triumphalia as a substitute for the triumph proper. Because these refusals ultimately lead in our historical tradition to the institution of ornamenta triumphalia, they must be considered in the present discussion. The first award of a triumph to Agrippa, in 37, was the result of a significant achievement after he had become only the second Roman to cross the Rhine to conduct a war. He declined the honor, we are told, because his celebration of a triumph might have embarrassed Octavian who was struggling in his own campaign against Sextus Pompeius.30 In 19, Augustus, as we have noted, encouraged the senate to decree a triumph for Agrippa that he ultimately declined; he also failed to send to the senate the customary dispatch detailing his accomplishments (Dio Cass. 54.11.6). Dio attributes both acts to Agrippa’s “moderation.”31 He may indeed be correct in his interpretation, but since Agrippa’s second refusal occurred during the same year that Balbus celebrated a triumph in the absence of the princeps and his lieutenant, contemporaries might have viewed the matter differently. In his discussion of Agrippa’s character in this context, Dio goes on to say that many others in the Augustan Principate celebrated triumphs for what were essentially police actions, such as suppressing brigandage or calming factional strife (54.12.1–2). He does not mention Balbus by name, but it is tempting to make the connection. Moreover, the fact that

29  Dio claims that Augustus encouraged triumphators’ practice of recording their exploits on monuments as late as 17. This is a surprise, since by then he seems to have begun the process of restricting triumphs to members of the imperial family (54.18); perhaps Dio means an inscription on the base of a statue. 30  Dio Cass. 48.49.4; Reinhold 1933, 29. For the larger historical context of Agrippa’s first refusal of a triumph, see Sumi 2005, 199–207. 31  Dio Cass. 54.11.6 (ἐµετρίαζεν).

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Augustus was responsible for encouraging the senate to pass the decree in the first place might indicate a larger political strategy at work.32 It is hard to believe that Agrippa’s refusal would have caught Augustus by surprise. Dio’s emphasis on Agrippa’s failure to send dispatches to the senate on the occasion of his victories might be an acknowledgment of a change in the relationship between the imperial court’s inner circle and the senate. The senate, Dio implies, might be involved in the conferral of these honors, but now they can be refused. Moreover, the honorand himself, Agrippa in this case, was hardly beholden to the senate at all; there was a higher authority in play.33 The existence of this higher authority became clearer after Agrippa’s final refusal of a triumph in 14; according to Dio, it led directly to the establishment of ornamenta triumphalia34 as a substitute for the triumph proper in the case of members of the senatorial aristocracy.35 Although this may have been the ultimate purpose, the first award of these triumphal honors was made two years after Agrippa’s final refusal, and not to a member of the senatorial aristocracy, but rather to the eldest of Augustus’ stepsons. This conferral of the honor on Tiberius occurred only after the senate had decreed a triumph for him.36 It is the first attested instance of Augustus refusing a triumph for someone other than himself and as such it sent the clearest signal yet that, although the senate retained the privilege of decreeing triumphs, the princeps would now insist on the right to decline them. When Agrippa had last been awarded a triumph, he had refused it on his own terms—his prerogative as a veritable co-regent, who enjoyed proconsular power and perhaps even maius imperium along with 32  Reinhold 1933, 93, ascribes Agrippa’s refusal to his “usual self-effacement,” interpreting it as consistent with his entire career, which saw him content to remain in Augustus’ shadow. Reinhold goes on to argue that Agrippa’s refusals of triumphs also resulted in the “disappearance of the figure of the victorious general, and with it the dangers consequent upon the allegiance of the prime causes of the numerous civil wars in the last century of the Republic and, in consequence, of the decline of the Republic.” He thus sees Agrippa’s refusals as part of a larger political strategy. 33  The practice of circumventing the senate and sending dispatches directly to the princeps may have become more common later in Augustus’ reign, since Tiberius felt the need to reprimand senators for doing this (Suet. Tib. 32.1); cf. Talbert 1984a, 425–30. 34  Precisely what the ornamenta triumphalia comprised is not clear from our source tradition; for discussion, see Boyce 1942, 131–34. 35  Dio Cass. 54.24.8, making it clear that this conclusion is his opinion (ὥς γε καì ἐγὼ κρίνω). 36  Dio Cass. 54.31.4; cf. Suet. Tib. 9.2, leaving no doubt that he views Augustus’ conferral of ornamenta triumphalia on Tiberius on this occasion as an innovation (novo nec antea cuiquam tributo genere honoris).

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tribunician power. Now, however, Augustus deemed it necessary to speak on Tiberius’ behalf, because his stepson was commanding legions as his legate. After Agrippa’s death Augustus stood alone as supreme commander, and he made the new hierarchy clear by refusing the triumph granted to Tiberius. RE-USE OF THE OVATIO Another of the military honors newly exploited by Augustus in this period, the ovatio, is something of a puzzle, as is its relationship to triumphal honors and the triumph proper. First attested in 503 during the earliest days of the Republic,37 it is generally known in our source tradition as the “lesser triumph” (triumphus minor) because it was frequently awarded to a returning general whose achievements the senate deemed unworthy of a triumph proper.38 Sources of the imperial period, even when discussing the Republican version of the ovatio, distinguish it from the triumph proper in a number of details: the victor wore a myrtle crown instead of laurel, and he processed into the city on foot, accompanied by the peaceful flute instead of the martial trumpet.39 The latter details indicate that the ovatio came to be associated with a “bloodless” victory (victoria incruenta)—a victory won without force of arms. Indeed, Octavian and Antonius each celebrated an ovatio in 40 in honor of the peace agreement they had struck at Brundisium that heralded a turning-point in their relationship. These ovationes were modeled in part, it seems, on Caesar’s ovatio in January 44, when he returned from celebrating the Feriae Latinae on the Alban Mount and the people greeted him as king (Suet. Iul. 79.1–2). On this occasion, too, there seems to have been no war to celebrate, only the peace that Caesar’s victories in the civil wars had brought.40 In addition, Caesar rode into the city on horseback, perhaps changing the nature of the ovatio from a pedestrian ceremony to an equestrian one.41 It was also awarded for victories over enemies deemed unworthy, such as in slave wars. Thus Octavian celebrated an  Inscr. Ital. 13.1, p. 65.  For the ovatio as a compromise measure (medius honos), see e.g., Livy 39.29.6; cf. Plin. HN 15.19; Versnel 1970, 165–69. 39  Dion. Hal. Ant. Rom. 5.47.2–4; Plin. HN 15.125; cf. 15.19; Gell. 5.6.20–23; Plut. Marc. 22. 40  Even the entry in the Fasti cites no specific victory (Inscr. Ital. 13.1, p. 87; cf. Weinstock 1971, 326). 41  Weinstock 1971, 326–31. 37 38

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ovatio for his victory over Sextus Pompeius, appropriately describing it as a war against pirates.42 Among other honors after this victory, he was allowed to wear the laurel wreath on all occasions and to ride into the city on horseback (Dio Cass. 49.15.1). Two observations should be made about the ovatio. First, although it was the lesser triumph and those who celebrated it were held to a lower standard than triumphatores (insofar as they had to settle for an ovatio, having requested a triumph), it was in fact a much rarer occurrence during the Republic than the triumph proper, because it only really existed as an alternative to its more prestigious counterpart. Second, Caesar’s ovatio in January 44 departed from the three previous ovationes attested—in 132, 99, and 71, all celebrating victories in slave wars43—and launched a brief revival of the ceremony; Antonius and Octavian (twice) celebrated ovationes in the following eight years. Moreover, there is a possibility that Augustus was later decreed an ovatio for his recovery of the standards from Parthia. If so, this would accord with the tradition that an ovatio should celebrate a bloodless victory.44 When for the first time in his Principate Augustus awarded an ovatio to Drusus for his campaigns in Germany, he seems to have departed from this tradition. Drusus, after all, prevailed over a worthy foe; his victory was far from bloodless and included unprecedented accomplishments. Perhaps Augustus now envisioned the ovatio as an intermediate distinction between triumphal honors and the triumph proper, but one restricted to members of the imperial family. When Drusus returned from his campaigns in Germany in 11, he was accorded several honors, including the rank of proconsul, even though he was still completing his year as praetor. He was hailed imperator by his troops, but Augustus withheld this title, showing his supremacy as the holder of the auspices. Even so, Drusus received triumphal honors and was allowed to ride into the city on horseback, an apparent allusion to the ovatio. In this instance, the conferral of triumphal honors and the ovatio went hand-in-hand. If the two awards were made in conjunction, 42  Mon. Anc. 25.1; he also states that he captured 30,000 slaves in this campaign and returned them to their owners, making it sound as though he had been fighting a slave war. 43  132: Broughton, MRR 1.498; 99: MRR 2.2; 71: MRR 2.123. 44  Indeed, in his discussion of this event, Dio includes Augustus’ claim that he recovered without a struggle (ἀκονιτί—lit. “dustless”; cf. Gell. NA 5.6.21) what had been lost in battle (54.8.2). Moreover, he rode into the city on horseback (54.8.3), a ceremony that sounds very much like an ovatio. The main objection to this interpretation is that Augustus himself claims to have celebrated only two ovationes (Mon. Anc. 4.1). For discussion, see Boyce 1942, 136–37.

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then it is possible that Augustus envisioned the ovatio as an opportunity for members of the imperial family who had won triumphal honors to display them in public; otherwise, no public procession is attested solely for those awarded triumphal honors.45 The weakness in this argument, however, is that the two distinctions seem not to have been conferred simultaneously on Tiberius.46 Without doubt, he was the first recipient of triumphal honors in 12, and it is probable that he received a second such award the following year.47 However, he was not awarded an ovatio until 9, the year of Drusus’ death; in all likelihood he celebrated it on 16 January.48 Dio adds the detail that Tiberius provided a banquet for the people in conjunction with his ovatio, entertaining some on the Capitolium and others elsewhere throughout the city, while Livia and Julia likewise entertained the women. The first triumph in Augustus’ new system was awarded to Drusus, but he died before he could celebrate it.49 Plans were apparently already in place, including arrangements for the Feriae Latinae to be repeated so that he could celebrate his triumph in conjunction with this festival (Dio Cass. 55.2.5). The first imperial triumph actually to be celebrated was that of Tiberius on 1 January 7 for his victory in Dalmatia (Dio Cass. 55.8.2). It took place on the first day of his consulship after he had presided over a meeting of the senate, no doubt with Augustus sitting on the consuls’ tribunal flanked by the two senior magistrates. After this triumph, Tiberius entertained members of the senate at a banquet on the Capitolium, while Livia entertained the women elsewhere in the city. If Dio is correct in these details, the guests at Tiberius’ triumphal banquet were different from those he invited after his ovatio—the entire populace at the latter, but only the senate at the former.

45  For the presence in triumphal processions of legati Augusti who had earned triumphal honors, see further below. 46  Boyce (1942, 135) argues for this, although the sources do not explicitly state that he received triumphal honors and an ovatio simultaneously. 47  Dio Cass. 54.34.3. Some scholars (e.g., Seager 1972, 27) date Tiberius’ first ovatio to 11 on the basis of Dio’s statement that he received the same honors as Drusus (i.e., triumphal honors and an ovatio). In that case, Tiberius would have had four triumphal celebrations in his entire career (two ovationes and two triumphs), but Velleius clearly puts the total at three and he is unlikely to be wrong on this score. For discussion, see Woodman 1977, 109–10. 48  Vell. Pat. 2.96.3; Suet. Tib. 9.2; Dio Cass. 55.2.4. For the date, see EJ 45, with Taylor 1937, 186. 49  His funeral, which Seneca describes as being very much like a triumph (funus triumpho simillimum), may have been planned as a substitute (Dial. 6.3.2).

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ORNAMENTA TRIUMPHALIA FOR THE SENATORIAL ARISTOCRACY While Augustus made it clear in the years from 14 to 7 that ovationes and triumphs would be restricted to members of his own household, it is significant that he did reserve a share of ornamenta triumphalia for members of the senatorial aristocracy. In 11, eight years after Balbus had celebrated the last senatorial triumph and at the end of the year when Drusus was awarded triumphal honors for the first time, the consular Lucius Cornelius Piso (cos. 15) was granted the same award for suppressing a rebellion in Thrace (Tac. Ann. 6.10.3; Dio Cass. 54.34.7). The appearance of his name on this initial shortlist showed that there was room for ex-consuls in Augustus’ court—for the moment at least being honored on a par with the two most prominent members of the imperial family.50 Whatever significance we may wish to attach to Agrippa’s final refusal of a triumph in 14 and his failure to send dispatches to the senate, there is no mistaking Augustus’ demonstration three years later that members of the senatorial aristocracy were to be eligible for military honors. At this point, it may not have been clear whether the triumph itself was beyond their reach, since none had been celebrated in several years. In fact, as noted above, the events of the next few years would unequivocally establish triumphal honors as the most that members of the senatorial aristocracy could aspire to. Lucius Cornelius Piso was a worthy recipient of this first honor. He was the scion of a noble family whose roots ran deep in Republican history. His father of the same name—a victim of Cicero’s scathing rhetoric—had held the consulship in 58 and gave his daughter in marriage to Caesar. Piso père was instrumental in publicizing Caesar’s will after his death and conducting his body into the Forum for his funeral (App. B Civ. 2.143). The younger Piso had a distinguished career under the Principate. A plausible reconstruction has him holding a quaestorship in 23 and praetorship in 18 before his consulship recorded in 15. He was pontifex and rose to be praefectus urbi around the age of sixty.51 Just as important, the younger Piso’s willing participation in the new hierarchy of military honors showed that the senatorial aristocracy recognized the superiority of the princeps and the central role played by 50  As Syme (1986, 334) recognized in discussing the award of ornamenta triumphalia first to Tiberius and then to Piso: “It was convenient that the new award could so soon be extended to a consular legate of high birth.” 51  For his family and career, see Syme 1986, 329–45.

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the imperial family in securing Rome’s prosperity. As legatus Augusti for Lycia/Pamphylia, Piso had achieved a notable victory in Thrace, having been instructed by the emperor to transfer his troops there in response to a serious rebellion. The involvement of consulars in such vital tasks only became more pronounced after Augustus’ return to Rome in 13, as they increasingly served as his legates (Syme 1986, 334). Piso was one of the first to hold such a position, and in this capacity he represented a new beginning in imperial administration under Augustus. It is significant that after settling various provinces and returning to Rome in 13, Augustus governed only through his legates, who constituted an extension of imperial authority in the provinces. From this point onward, their success or failure redounded on the prestige and authority of the princeps. At the same time, Piso’s acceptance of triumphal honors was a manifestation of an imperial virtue—the concordia between senate and princeps that underpinned the new political culture of the Principate.52 Augustus, it seems, used ornamenta triumphalia specifically as a means of honoring these consular legates. A cursory glance at a list of those who received this distinction in the Augustan Principate confirms the general picture.53 A curious remark in Velleius’ account of one of these awards might indicate how important they became in the careers of consulars. According to him, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus (cos. 6 c.e.; orn. triumph. 8 c.e.) should have celebrated a triumph if only he had been commanding his legions under his own auspices rather than under those of Tiberius.54 Velleius here implies that Lepidus’ achievements were up to the standard of a triumph during the Republican period, but now under this new dispensation of military honors he had to settle for ornamenta triumphalia instead. The political reality of the Principate might have put the triumph proper out of reach of members of the senatorial aristocracy. Even so, grand accomplishments on the battlefield, such as Lepidus’ victory, were still possible for them; more to the point, these accomplishments were still deserving of the gloria that their famous 52  This new concordia is iconographically represented on the north and south panels of the Ara Pacis (commissioned to celebrate Augustus’ return to Rome in 13 but not dedicated until 9), which depicts processions of the senate and imperial family. 53  For a complete list from Augustus to Hadrian, see Gordon 1952, appendix II, 312–30. Later emperors began to depart from this general rule. The first attested non-consular to earn triumphal honors was Hosidius Geta in 43 c.e. (Dio Cass. 60.20.4; Gordon no. 33) under, it should be noted, an emperor (Claudius) who was unconventional in the awarding of military honors (Gordon 1952, 310; cf. Eck 1990). 54  Vell. Pat. 2.115.3: et ob ea, quae si propriis gessisset auspiciis triumphare debuerat, ornamentis triumphalibus consentiente cum iudicio principum voluntate senatus <donatus> est. On Lepidus’ career, see Syme 1955.

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ancestors had won. Velleius’ careful recording of triumphal honors can be taken as evidence of the importance of this honor for members of the senatorial aristocracy under the Principate. A further question is how those consulars who had merited ornamenta triumphalia were honored publicly. To address it, we should revisit the opening of this article and the scene in which Tiberius’ return to Rome in 9 c.e. culminates with his presentation to the people in the Saepta Julia, with Augustus and Tiberius himself sitting in curule chairs flanked by the consuls. A triumph was supposed to follow; but when news of the disaster in the Teutoberg Forest reached Rome, Tiberius postponed it until a more suitable time (12 c.e.). In the event, this proved to be no ordinary triumph, since it was celebrated when Augustus was so close to death and after Tiberius had been clearly marked out as successor; it became in effect a ceremony of succession. This may be inferred from the manner in which Augustus altered the ritual by having Tiberius kneel down at his feet before Tiberius ascended the Clivus Capitolinus (Suet. Tib. 20). The symbolism of the gesture was two-fold: first, it again marked out Tiberius as heir-designate to Augustus; and second, it showed to whom Tiberius owed the honor of this triumph—who was the ultimate authority and granter of honors. Moreover, in this triumph, as became customary in this period, Tiberius’ chariot was accompanied by his legates, who had merited the ornamenta triumphalia (Suet. Tib. 20) and were all wearing purple-bordered togas;55 among them was Lepidus, the consul of 6 c.e. Thus the dramatization of this occasion involved not only the emperor and his heir but also the emperor and his wider court. The appearance of legati Augusti who had earned triumphal honors parading in Tiberius’ triumph would have been a ceremonial demonstration of the subordinate political status of these ex-consuls in relation to the princeps and members of his family. In this sense, these ex-consuls were clearly in an outer ring of the imperial court, and the limit imposed upon their access to the emperor’s favor was unmistakable. The ceremony showed their place in an ideal monarchical order. It is reasonable to assume that Tiberius’ first triumph in 7 would have been another opportunity for consulars who had merited the ornamenta triumphalia to parade with a member of the imperial family. A further ceremony that similarly marked the end of war, the closing of the doors of the Temple of Janus, also likely occurred in these years. Of the three attested closings of these doors during the Augustan Principate, scholars agree that the first two occurred in 28 (for the end of civil war), and in 55

 Inferred from Suet. Claud. 17.3, who describes Claudius’ British triumph.

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25 (for the end of the Cantabrian war). The third closing remains a matter of dispute. The senate indeed voted to close the doors of the Temple of Janus at the end of 11, a potentially striking juxtaposition to the first conferral of triumphal honors on a consular. After Dacian invaders crossed the Danube, however, Augustus was forced to dispatch Tiberius to drive them back (Dio Cass. 54.36.2) and the conditions of peace were now undermined. Nonetheless, the vote was a means for the senate to voice its approval of the new administrative structure, and in addition a manifest symbol of what the concordia between the princeps and senatorial aristocracy had effected. Any ceremony designed to mark this rare event of closing the doors could have served to recognize not only the princeps and his family, but also the role of the senatorial aristocracy in preserving the empire’s security. In any event, as Dio informs us, the doors of Janus remained open in 11 despite the decree of the senate. Instead, the third closing of the doors might have taken place in 7,56 which would have been an equally appropriate time to recognize the achievements of Tiberius after his first triumph as well as possibly the first awards of the ornamenta triumphalia. However we are supposed to imagine the place of recipients of triumphal honors in the celebration of a triumph, it is important to recognize that most such recipients would not actually have paraded in a triumph, since this ceremony became so rare in the imperial period. The first recipient, Lucius Calpurnius Piso, for instance, may well not have paraded in Tiberius’ triumph in 7, because he had no involvement in that campaign. There might have been other occasions at which a recipient of triumphal honors was allowed to appear in triumphal dress, such as the unveiling of his bronze statue that stood in the Forum Augustum (cf. Dio Cass. 55.10.3). Although we can only speculate on the elements of such a ceremony, it seems justifiable to imagine the presence of the emperor and perhaps other members of his court, especially if the recipient earned his honors under the command of one of these members. The new statue took its place among those of other distinguished commanders in a line that dated back to the very founding of Rome. In this way, Augustus could underscore the historical continuity of his regime, which fostered gloria among the aristocracy in much the same way as in the Republic. The presence of a Calpurnius Piso or an Aemilius Lepidus at these ceremonies would have provided a direct link between the recent achievements of the members of the imperial court and the glorious past of the Republic. 56

 For discussion, see Syme 1979.

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CONCLUSION This article has tried to identify the place of consuls and ex-consuls in Augustus’ court, especially as it developed after the political turmoil of the late 20s. He campaigned for his preferred candidates for the consulship, appeared at public occasions seated between the two holders of that office, and rewarded his successful legates, mostly ex-consuls, with triumphal honors. Some of the recipients of these honors processed in triumphs wearing their triumphal garb, and all received a bronze statue in the Forum Augustum. At these ceremonies, consuls and ex-consuls took their place in an ideal monarchical order, thereby easing the underlying tension between the new monarchy and the old Republic. Lucius Calpurnius Piso, specifically, by accepting triumphal honors in 11 acknowledged the concordia between senate and princeps that underpinned the political power of the Principate. He further demonstrated a truism of ceremony: particulars are transformed into universals, and an individual becomes the manifestation of a political virtue. Augustus’ ceremonies showed the status of individuals in relation to the emperor, their proximity to the center of power but also the limits of access to it. As such, the ceremonies were a dramatization of the new political culture of the Principate.57 Mount Holyoke College e-mail: [email protected]

BIBLIOGRAPHY Badian, Ernst. 1980–81. “Notes on the Laudatio of Agrippa.” CJ 76:97–109. ———. 1986. “The Young Betti and the Practice of History.” In Costituzione romana e crisi della repubblica, ed. Giuliano Crifò, 73–96. Naples: Edizioni scientifiche italiane. Beard, Mary. 2007. The Roman Triumph. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Bowman, A. K. 1996. “Provincial Administration and Taxation.” In CAH 2 10:344–70. Boyce, A. A. 1942. “The Origin of Ornamenta Triumphalia.” CP 37:130–41. Brunt, P. A. 1984. “The Role of the Senate in the Augustan Regime.” CQ 34:423–44. Eck, Werner. 1999. “Kaiserliche Imperatorenakklamation und ornamenta triumphalia.” ZPE 124:223–27.

57  I owe a debt of gratitude to the panel organizers and issue editors, Richard J. A. Talbert and David Potter, for saving me from errors and obfuscation.

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Eder, Walter. 1990. “Augustus and the Power of Tradition: The Augustan Principate as Binding Link between Republic and Empire.” In Between Republic and Empire: Interpretations of Augustus and his Principate, ed. K. A. Raaflaub and Mark Toher, 71–122. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Flower, Harriet. 2000. “The Tradition of the Spolia Opima: M. Claudius Marcellus and Augustus.” ClAnt 19:34–64. Frei-Stolba, Regula. 1967. Untersuchungen zu den Wahlen in der römischen Kaiserzeit. Zurich: Juris. Gordon, A. E. 1952. “Quintus Veranius Consul A.D. 49: A Study Based upon His Recently Identified Sepulchral Inscription.” University of California Publications in Classical Archaeology 2:231–352. Hickson, F. V. 1992. “Augustus Triumphator: Manipulation of the Triumphal Theme in the Political Program of Augustus.” Latomus 50:124–38. Jones, A. H. M. 1955. “The Elections under Augustus.” JRS 45:9–21. Kienast, Dieter. 1982. Augustus: Prinzeps und Monarch. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Koenen, Ludwig. 1970. “Die ‘laudatio funebris’ des Augustus für Agrippa auf einem neuen Papyrus.” ZPE 5:217–83. Millar, Fergus. 1966. “The Emperor, the Senate, and the Provinces.” JRS 56:156–66. Paterson, Jeremy. 2007. “Friends in High Places: the Creation of the Court of the Roman Emperor.” In The Court and Court Societies in Ancient Monarchies, ed. A. J. S. Spawforth, 121–56, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Raaflaub, K. A., and L. J. Samons. 1990. “Opposition to Augustus.” In Between Republic and Empire: Interpretations of Augustus and his Principate, ed. K. A. Raaflaub and Mark Toher, 417–54. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Reinhold, Meyer. 1933. Marcus Agrippa: A Biography. Geneva, N.Y.: W. H. Humphrey. Rich, J. W. 1996. “Augustus and the spolia opima.” Chiron 26:85–127. Richardson, J. S. 1996. The Romans in Spain. Oxford: Blackwell. Sattler, Peter. 1960. Augustus und der Senat. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Seager, Robin. 1972. Tiberius. London: Eyre Methuen. Sumi, G. S. 2005. Ceremony and Power: Performing Politics in Rome between Republic and Empire. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Syme, Ronald. 1939. The Roman Revolution. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 1955. “Marcus Lepidus, Capax Imperii.” JRS 45:22–33. ———. 1979. “Problems about Janus.” AJP 100:188–212. ———. 1986. The Augustan Aristocracy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Talbert, R. J. A. 1984a. The Senate of Imperial Rome. Princeton: Princeton University Press. ———. 1984b. “Augustus and the Senate.” G&R 31:55–63. Taylor, L. R. 1937. “Tiberius’ ‘Ovatio’ and the Ara Numinis Augusti.” AJP 58:185–93.

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Versnel, H. S. 1970. Triumphus: An Inquiry into the Origin, Development and Meaning of the Roman Triumph. Leiden: Brill. Wallace-Hadrill, Andrew. 1996. “The Imperial Court.” In CAH 2 10:283–308. Weinstock, Stefan. 1971. Divus Julius. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Woodman, A. J., ed. 1977. Velleius Paterculus. The Tiberian Narrative (2.94–131). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

VESPASIAN AND THE SOCIAL WORLD OF THE ROMAN COURT Karen Acton

 Abstract. This article considers the Roman imperial court under the rule of Vespasian. His senatorial career began in the courts of Claudius and Nero; as successor to the Julio-Claudians, he established himself at the center of the imperial court by manipulating its physical space, its degree of formality, and his own accessibility to senators and to the public. In particular, his interactions with the imperial freedman Phoebus before and after his accession provide insight into both this court and imperial courts in general, with particular reference to how status was determined extra-institutionally, and to how highly the imperial elite valued presence at, and absence from, court.

In December 69, after a year and a half of civil war and polit­ ical upheaval, the army of Vespasian captured Rome.1 With the previous emperor, Vitellius, dead, the senate declared Vespasian the new emperor and conferred on him all the rights and privileges of imperial rule (Tac. Hist. 4.3.1). The year 69 had been a brief, intense political and military crisis, but Vespasian and his supporters were able to reconcile competing political factions and restore peace in the empire. When he eventually entered the city in late 70, he assumed a well-established and familiar position at the center of the Roman world. He was not an innovator, and made no institutional changes to the Principate. Rather, he accepted the honors and rights that his predecessors had enjoyed, assumed control of an established imperial patrimonium, and even adopted the names Augustus and Caesar as imperial titles for himself and his family.2 Along with these titles and the rights of imperial power, Vespasian also adopted social practices of previous emperors. He, too, maintained  All dates are c.e.  Perception of the continuity of the Flavian regime with what had come before underlies the assessments of this period by Waters 1963 and Levick 1999; Wellesley 1975 begins and ends his account of 69 with the same language (a description of the consuls ascending the Capitoline), emphasizing that, despite the year’s eventful history, the institutions and traditions of the state remained intact. 1 2

American Journal of Philology 132 (2011) 103–124 © 2011 by The Johns Hopkins University Press

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a relationship with Rome’s elite, holding formal ritualized interactions with them in his daily salutationes 3 and mingling with them informally at social gatherings like dinner parties (cenationes).4 Also like his predecessors, Vespasian maintained an imperial household that extended into the state, effectively using the freedmen and slaves who oversaw his domestic affairs to govern the empire, thus blurring the distinction between the emperor’s private and public domains.5 In this way he assumed a position at the center of the set of practices and customs that made up the social organization of the Roman imperial court. This institution, with its forms of social engagement and rules of behavior, had been established by over a century of practice, and Vespasian, like his predecessors, used it to define and reinforce his new position at the pinnacle of Rome’s social order. Like other royal courts, the Roman imperial court was the physical and social center of the Roman world for its elite.6 It was centered on the emperor’s person, reinforcing his authority and protecting and extending his charismatic qualities through rigid rules of etiquette and daily rituals, which were sometimes very elaborate.7 These rituals were housed in the imperial palace, the palatium, which provided the physical space for such interactions.8 Members of the court—the social elite of senatorial and equestrian families, slave and freedmen members of the imperial household, other hangers-on like court astrologers or favorite entertainers—formed a vast network of relationships with one another and with the emperor through daily interaction within this physical space.9 The  OCD3 salutatio.  Paterson 2007, 127, 149; Winterling 2009, 46. 5  See Winterling 1999, 85–93; 2009, 79–102; Wallace-Hadrill 1996, 285–89, 298. 6  Studies of a royal court as a sociological phenomenon were initiated by Norbert Elias 1969 (English trans. 1983; rev. 2006), whose analysis of the origins and elite formations of the early modern court at Versailles established the validity of a systemic approach to the topic. 7  “Charismatic” power as discussed by Weber 1922, 140–43, forms the basis of Elias’ systematic approach (2006, 131–37). 8  Augustus, the first emperor, had resided on the Palatine Hill, which was gradually transformed into a complex of imperial buildings. Its status as the residence of emperors is reflected by the fact that palatium was already being used to mean “palace” in the first century. However, because of this transference, anywhere that the emperor was became a palatium: see RE Palatium, cols. 6–7; Paterson 2007, 128; Frézouls 1987, 452. The earliest usage is Ovid Met. 1.175–76: magna palatia caeli. Winterling 2009, 83, n. 21, thinks the term may have been in common use under Domitian. Plutarch describes the year 69 as a series of transfers of ownership of the imperial residence (Galba 1.5). 9  Elias 2006, 45–47, discusses the court of Versailles as the “vastly extended house and household” of the ruler. 3 4

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emperor was at the center of the network and played a dominant role in establishing its participants and their relationships with one another. His favor of one courtier over another was a significant consideration in the creation of social prestige, with which courtiers measured their success and their status against one another (Elias 2006, 109). As has been observed, the informal nature of the distribution of prestige at the court resulted in the creation of an extra-institutional system of social stratification, which ignored, or even defied, traditional notions of rank. Throughout the first century, certain aspects of the Roman imperial court remained static; emperors for the most part remained based in the city of Rome, adapting Republican forms of aristocratic display and rituals of patronage into the court’s formalized social rituals.10 Nonetheless, individual emperors had considerable latitude to experiment with different models of imperial rule, thereby redefining degrees of formality in the court, the forms and complexity of courtly ritual, and different styles of palace structures.11 Consequently, each emperor had considerable power to influence and direct the nature of court life during his rule.12 One way to understand how the Roman court operated, therefore, is to examine it under a single ruler, and to consider how the physical space of the court, the people who inhabited it, and the social networks that they created, were developed to support his claims to authority and to reinforce his position at the center of Roman society. Vespasian is a good candidate for a case-study of this nature, because he had participated in the courts of the Julio-Claudian emperors—his career has been said to “encapsulate assumptions about how court life worked” (WallaceHadrill 1996, 283)—so he understood how important it was to develop and maintain a relationship with his courtiers.13 The formal and informal rituals of court life remained largely unchanged, thus matching the general continuity of the political institutions of government already noted. In adopting these institutions and traditions, Vespasian also accepted 10  For studies of the rituals and personnel, see Friedländer 1921; Turcan 1987; WallaceHadrill 1996; Winterling 1999; 2009; Paterson 2007. 11  Paterson 2007, 155, arguing against Wallace-Hadrill 1996, 306. 12  Note that Paterson 2007 puts the emphasis on the courtiers’ role in giving meaning to these interactions; cf. Potter 2004, 60–64. The emphasis on individual rulers in the study of ancient courts is not solely applicable to the Roman empire; Spawforth 2007 approaches the court of Alexander as a social system that developed in response to his own conception of his own position. 13  The Flavian court has received some attention: Levick’s biography of Vespasian (1999) and Jones’ of Domitian (1992) feature discussions of these emperors’ courts from a prosopographical perspective; see also Mellor 2003.

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some of the tensions inherent in the court system, particularly those that arose from the discrepancy between traditional definitions of status and the social stratification of the court. Yet even while maintaining JulioClaudian practices, Vespasian was able to manipulate modes of courtly interaction to express the difference between his leadership and that of his predecessors. The greatest changes were in the tone of his life and the physical space in which his court rituals were enacted. These changes derive in part from his personality, but also from a desire to dissociate himself from recent emperors, especially Nero. THE NEW COURT ATMOSPHERE Descriptions of elite society under Vespasian emphasize the informality, casualness and openness of his interactions with his court, in comparison with Neronian luxury, excess and formality. Vespasian’s house was open to anyone who wished to see him, not only to senators; he would receive friends in his bedroom before rising for the day, and could be greeted on the street. The doors of his palace stood open, without a guard, and he attended meetings of the senate and dispensed justice in the Forum. He dined with senators and other guests every day, or else he dined at the houses of friends (Dio Cassius 66.10.5–6; Suetonius Vesp. 21). He adopted a joking, affable attitude in his interactions with his courtiers, which may have helped him exert his authority over them without incurring their resentment.14 Although he retained the formal rituals of court, including daily salutationes, these were conducted in a relaxed manner; his culture of openness and ease of access deemphasized distinctions of rank (Pliny HN 33.41). Even so, the effect of these practices was particularly appealing to members of the senatorial and equestrian elite, as they imposed relatively few social obligations upon them. At the same time Vespasian seems to have made it a priority to minimize the influence of freedman functionaries or imperial women, and to accept the advice of higherranking individuals with public careers.15 Pliny the Younger provides us with some idea of how the daily rituals of Vespasian’s court were experienced by his courtiers and magistrates. He says that his uncle, perhaps in his capacity as admiral of the fleet at Misenum (Syme 1969, 227), would visit Vespasian every day before dawn before attending to his official duties (Ep. 3.5.9). According to Suetonius, 14 15

 Suet. Vesp. 22; Laurence 1999, 197.  Winterling 2009, 92; Levick 1999, 181.

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Vespasian would meet with officials to hear reports on the business of the city in his bedroom, while he rose and dressed for the day; the daily salutatio occurred simultaneously (Vesp. 21). Vespasian therefore combined formal business of state with the rituals of the court, and Pliny the Elder was attending on him both in order to perform one of his official duties and to participate in the daily display of amicitia (Crook 1955, 28). An important feature of this daily ritual was its efficiency: Vespasian was hearing reports, preparing for the day, and greeting friends all at the same time. Vespasian’s efficiency and frugality would have marked a striking change for courtiers who had become accustomed to life in Nero’s court.16 The backdrop for its elaborate spectacles and rituals had been the Golden House, a sprawling palatial complex that integrated imperial properties on the Palatine, Esquiline, and Caelian hills, and included expansive, lavishly decorated public rooms and immense open spaces.17 The account of Nero’s reception and coronation of Tiridates as king of Armenia in 66 illustrates the theatricality and luxury of the political and social world of his court. Wearing triumphal dress, sitting in a sella curulis on the Rostra, and accompanied by the senate and the Praetorian Guard, Nero first met Tiridates accompanied by his own court, and then replaced Tiridates’ tiara with a diadem that symbolized his status as a vassal ruler.18 Throughout his reign, Nero experimented with the effect of luxury and spectacle on his relationships with his court and with the Roman people; from 64 onwards especially, he implemented court practices drawn from eastern traditions that positioned him as a Hellenistic, quasi-divine figure.19 This luxury and extravagance eventually generated criticism, both during his lifetime and after.20 Vespasian expressed the differences between his court and that of his predecessors most immediately and most strikingly by relocating it: Dio tells us that he did not spend much time on the Palatine, but preferred to live in the Gardens of Sallust (66.10.4). In this way, he was explicitly setting himself apart from previous emperors, by rejecting the deeply ingrained connection between the Palatine and imperial power 16  Kragelund 2000, 511, notes that the contrast between Nero’s excess and the parsimony of Galba’s court was “shocking,” and proved unpopular. 17  Wallace-Hadrill 1996, 287; Winterling 2009, 83. 18  Suet. Ner. 13; Cass. Dio 63.1–6; for an analysis of the episode, Winterling 2009, 9–12. 19  Charlesworth 1950, 71; Hiesinger 1975 notes a parallel development in Nero’s portraiture. 20  Wallace-Hadrill 1996, 293, refers to Tac. Ann. 16.5; see also Kragelund 2000, 494–95, and Griffin 1976, 312.

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which the Julio-Claudians had cultivated. In December 69, as the Flavian armies were approaching the city, Vitellius had left the palace and attempted to renounce his position as emperor (Tac. Hist. 3.65). When he could find no one in the Forum to accept the insignia of power, he deposited them at the Temple of Concord and attempted to leave—not to go back to the palace, but to his brother’s private house. His abdication was unpopular with the people and his soldiers, and when they saw where he was trying to go, they blocked his path. The only way open to him was the path back up to the Palatine. Still emperor, Vitellius returned there. This episode shows how the Palatine and the imperial complexes on it were already perceived as associated with imperial power; in fact, residence in the palace defined Vitellius’ status as emperor, despite his own best efforts. In removing himself, his household, and the imperial court from the Palatine, Vespasian was flying in the face of tradition. The Gardens of Sallust, like the Palatine structures and many other properties around the city, were part of the imperial patrimonium and so had come into his possession when he had been proclaimed emperor.21 Residence here demonstrated his status as a successor to the Julio-Claudians in that he was exercising ownership over imperial properties in the city. By avoiding the large dining-halls and reception spaces in which Nero had emphasized his imperial power and the social distance that he imagined between himself and his courtiers, Vespasian could develop a casual and open atmosphere. For courtiers who, like himself, had participated regularly in the courts of previous emperors, this change would have been meaningful and immediately obvious. Moreover, it would have been reinforced regularly as they entered this new imperial space for their daily interaction with the new emperor. IMPERIAL RESIDENCES Vespasian’s residence in the Gardens of Sallust does not amount to a complete withdrawal from the Palatine, however. Although Nero’s Golden House seems to have been converted to public use very early in Vespasian’s reign, there are signs that the palaces constructed on the hilltop 21  Frézouls 1987, 460; Millar 1977, 23. The Gardens had most likely entered the imperial patrimonium through Nero: CIL XV 7270a with Hartswick 2004, 100, and 155, n. 85. Nero had resided in these Gardens, at least for a short time (Tac. Ann. 13.47), cementing their status as imperial property, although they do not seem to have been his primary residence at any point.

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continued as an imperial residence even while Vespasian’s household and court were based elsewhere. At some point in the 70s, Berenice, the sister of Herod Agrippa, the king of Judaea, came to Rome and resumed her affair with Vespasian’s elder son, Titus. Dio says that she took up residence with him “in the palace,” where they lived as if they were married (ἐν τῷ παλατίῳ, 66.15.3–4).22 Suetonius, whose overall impression of Titus’ conduct as emperor is positive, describes a contrast between his later respectability and openness and the debauched manner of his life before his accession; during his father’s reign, he was suspected of extravagance and self-indulgence (luxuria), and was said to have caroused with the most lavish of his friends until the middle of the night (comissationes cum profusissimo quoque familiarium). In addition to his royal consort, the foreign princess Berenice, he was also associated with male prostitutes and eunuchs (exoletorum et spadonum greges), which gave him a reputation for lust (libido; Suet. Tit. 7). Berenice’s residence with Titus “in the palace” could be a reference to Vespasian’s household, which would have been called palatium whether or not it was on the Palatine. However, the evidence of Titus’ lifestyle during his father’s reign indicates rather that he may have kept a separate household, with Berenice as its mistress. Krause suggests that Titus resided in imperial properties on the Esquiline, in the house later called the domus Titi.23 Vespasian’s younger son, Domitian, may also have kept a separate household in imperial properties at certain points during his father’s reign. Tacitus concludes Book 3 of the Histories by describing Domitian returning to the family’s property in the Quirinal after the death of Vitellius (3.86), but begins Book 4 with the claim that he took up the imperial residence (sedes) and assumed the name of Caesar (4.2.1). Krause (1995, 464) suggests that Domitian resided on the Palatine, in the so-called domus Tiberiana, which shows signs of construction under Vespasian. His stay in the old imperial palaces may have been brief: according to Suetonius (Dom. 2.1), when Vespasian returned to the city in 70 he compelled Domitian to live with him in order to keep him in check and to emphasize Titus’ superiority over his brother. Whether this 22  Berenice’s arrival is usually dated to 75, as in Crook 1951, 167–69, and Braund 1984, 121; Jordan 1974, 209–11, however, would date it as early as 71. 23  Krause 1995, 463. Pliny the Elder refers to seeing the famous Laocoon statue group in the house of the emperor Titus (in Titi imperatoris domo, HN 36.37); Krause argues that Titus took up residence in this house upon his return to the city in 71, and remained there after his father’s death.

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was a permanent arrangement is unclear, but it suggests that the social autonomy of a separate household was meaningful in the context of dynastic politics, and that the restrictions placed on Domitian contrasted with Titus’ independence. This evidence presents the possibility that Vespasian’s court did not provide the only opportunities for Rome’s elite to interact with the imperial family, and that Titus’ household, at least, offered an alternate venue. Even so, this should not be seen as a rival court, threatening the stability of Vespasian’s power.24 Rather, it was an extension of his household that helped to mark Titus’ status as his father’s colleague and successor (cf. Suet. Tit. 6.1), and even Berenice participated in Vespasian’s consilium, despite her unpopularity.25 In addition, Titus’ household expanded the range of social environments offered in the new Flavian court society, as his comissationes and other activities recalled Nero’s lifestyle,26 even while other members of the elite were enjoying the moderation and simplicity to be found at the Gardens of Sallust. These different court environments complemented one another, binding different elements of Rome’s elite to the imperial family. This system of imperial households indicates an astute awareness of physical space, as well as a willingness to manipulate it in the creation of a new social world for elite interaction. Vespasian’s residence in the Gardens of Sallust located imperial court society in an entirely new realm, away from the complexes on the Palatine and their associations with imperial tradition. This move invited comparisons between the ease of interaction and moderate lifestyle at Vespasian’s court on the one hand, and the formality and luxury of life under his predecessors on the other. Yet the fact that Vespasian’s sons—his clear successors—maintained a presence in the imperial properties on the Palatine and Esquiline meant that there was still a sense of continuity: the tone of the court may have changed, but the nature of imperial power remained fundamentally the same. In addition, the households of Vespasian’s sons offered different social milieus, extending the range of behaviors and activities through which members of Rome’s elite could interact with the imperial family, appealing to a broader group, and smoothing the transition from the social system of the late Julio-Claudian court to that of the new regime. 24  Elias 1983, 86–87, describes how the death of Louis XIV resulted in the formation of social circles beyond the royal court, or the creation of several small courts, which accompanied a decentralization of royal power. 25  Quint. Inst. 4.1.19; for her place in the consilium, see Crook 1951, 169–70; YoungWidmaier 2002. 26  Suet. Tit. 7 (alium Neronem).

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THE CAUTIONARY TALE OF PHOEBUS The physical space of the court is important, as it gave meaning to the social relationships that both formed and were reinforced by the activities there.27 These relationships, both among members of the court and between themselves and the emperor, were crucial for the ongoing stability of Rome in the 70s, as well as for the development of a social hierarchy among the elite and other courtiers. The way this network functioned under Vespasian, and the manner in which these relationships could be formed and maintained, can be explored through a single illuminating set of episodes: Vespasian’s encounters with an imperial freedman named Phoebus (PIR2 P 391). The story of Phoebus exists in several versions.28 At some point when Vespasian was a member of Nero’s court—perhaps during Nero’s tour of Greece, or perhaps in Rome—he committed a courtly faux-pas. Tacitus says that he closed his eyes and fell asleep when Nero was performing; Suetonius suggests that he might have fallen asleep, or perhaps he got up and left too often during Nero’s performances; Dio says that Vespasian looked sullen. Whatever the offense, Vespasian was confronted and rebuked by an imperial freedman, Phoebus, who ordered him to “go to hell” (according to Suetonius and Dio). This incident perhaps posed a serious threat to Vespasian’s position in Nero’s court and even to his personal safety. Tacitus says that he needed the intervention of friends in the aftermath of this incident, and Suetonius says that he was banned from attendance on the emperor both at public gatherings (salutationes) and in more private interactions (contubernium). Vespasian consequently feared for his life. Later, when fate intervened and he became emperor, Phoebus approached him and apologized. Both Suetonius and Dio Cassius remark on Vespasian’s forbearance in forgiving Phoebus and responding only in words that recalled Phoebus’ original command: “go to hell.” Phoebus’ two encounters with Vespasian provide an opportunity to explore the dynamics of the Roman court. It was a closed society, to which individuals either did, or did not, belong. Those who did were engaged in a competition for prestige, which could be determined by a number 27  Gagé 1971, 197, is critical of the existence of a royal court in Rome, because courtiers did not reside in the emperor’s palace, as was the case in such early modern court contexts as Versailles. This argument is dismissed by Paterson 2007, 127, however. 28  Suet. Vesp. 4.4, 14.1; Tac. Ann. 16.5; Dio Cass. 66.11.2. Braithwaite 1927, 30, understands Suetonius’ two accounts as describing two different incidents; Weynand (RE T. Flavius Vespasianus, col. 2629) argues that all four accounts describe a single incident; Gascou 1984, 325, attributes the variation in detail to the authors’ sources.

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of factors such as wealth, birth, military achievements, wit, beauty, and legal status (cf. Elias 2006, 109). In Phoebus’ case, his status as a freedman holding a position in the imperial household gave him access to the court and also served as a great determinant of his prestige there; indeed, the anecdote of his encounter with Vespasian at Nero’s court reveals that he held sufficient personal prestige to confront and insult a senator. There could be no clearer demonstration that the emperor’s favor, and the ability to access his person easily, translated into court status in a way that defied and even transcended constitutional definitions (Winterling 2009, 98–99). Social stratification was a source of tension for imperial courtiers precisely because rank and prestige were often determined extra­institutionally. Phoebus’ position in Nero’s household—according to Suetonius (Vesp. 14. 1), ab admissione, controlling access to the emperor’s person29—was part of a system of services performed by freedmen to facilitate the court and its rituals.30 In this capacity Phoebus gained daily access to the emperor and the imperial family, a privilege which he and many other slaves and freedmen were able to translate into personal authority. In this way, the social realities of the imperial court sometimes challenged distinctions of rank and status, with men like Phoebus exercising power over others of theoretically higher rank such as the senator Vespasian. This “subversion of social structures” (Paterson 2007, 142) worked within a culture where traditional social divisions were closely, even obsessively, marked. Scholarship on the imperial court has tended to focus on the constitutional and legal categories to which individual courtiers belonged— senators, equestrians, imperial freedmen, and others—in isolation.31 To be sure, in some respects it can be argued that “in no sense were freedmen in competition with members of the elite” (Wallace-Hadrill 1996, 302). Many magistracies, offices, and honors were not available to individuals of servile status, while social constraints prevented senators and equestrians from taking the influential positions held by imperial freedmen. Even so, the realities of court life meant that alliances were formed through legal divisions, not along them. In particular, the story of Phoebus and Vespasian  See Weaver 1972, 7, 253–54.  Cf. Elias 2006, 50–51, and Appendix II. 31  Wallace-Hadrill 1996 and Turcan 1987 divide their discussions into sections according to status, as do Levick 1999, 171–83, and Jones 1992, 33–71. There are also bibliographies for individual groups: for freedmen, Boulvert 1970; 1974; Weaver 1972; for equestrians, Brunt 1983. Wallace-Hadrill 1996, 284, discusses this bibliography. 29 30

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shows that the daily interactions between freedmen functionaries and senatorial courtiers allowed individuals from both groups to measure their successes and failures in the social world of the court against one another, not exclusively against those of their own legal status. While Phoebus and Vespasian may not have been competing against one another for specific honors or rewards, they were nonetheless competing for social power derived from access to the emperor and influence with him, and this led them to test the boundaries of their power against one another. INEQUALITIES OF RANK AND STATUS AT COURT The complexities of prestige at the court lurk behind references in the Discourses of Epictetus, a freedman who experienced life there under the late Julio-Claudians and the Flavians.32 Throughout the work, he makes references to freedmen or slaves whose access to the emperor gave them prestige despite their legal status and the menial tasks they performed. He describes the absurdity of a slave who is considered wise, and is sought after as a friend, because of his position in charge of Caesar’s chamberpot; or of the cobbler, sold off by Epaphroditus (imperial freedman and Epictetus’ former master) as incompetent, who then somehow entered Caesar’s household in the same capacity and suddenly became influential as a result (1.19.17–22). Epaphroditus himself he characterizes as seduced by the court and the concerns of the courtiers (1.26.11–12). So, to Epictetus, Epaphroditus’ desire to ingratiate himself with the cobbler who had once been his own incompetent slave encapsulates the inanity of the court, and exemplifies the folly of valuing something at far from its true worth (τὰ προαιρετικά, 1.19.23). As a senator, Vespasian had learned how important it was to form alliances with freedmen if he wanted to succeed in public life. In the early 50s, the power struggle in the palace had led to a lull in his career, when Pallas and Agrippina outmaneuvered Narcissus, with whom Vespasian had cultivated a relationship of patronage and support.33 He may have resented the influence that slaves and freedmen exerted on imperial politics; his preference as emperor for senatorial and equestrian advisors over freedmen has been seen as a reaction to this situation in the courts of Claudius and Nero, and an attempt to restore senators to the center 32  Starr 1949, 20, discusses the significance of Epictetus’ career at the Flavian court; see also Millar 1965, 141–48. 33  Suet. Vesp. 4. 1; Nicols 1978, 21.

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of the court. By the same token, the casual daily routine of life under Vespasian’s rule would have been a welcome change for senators accustomed to extended, highly ritualized displays of the emperor’s superiority and power (Levick 1999, 179). Despite the instability of imperial politics in the first century, modern scholars have emphasized the continuity of the imperial system, especially in terms of a stable corps of freedmen personnel whose careers survived multiple emperors and whose experience counterbalanced the government’s susceptibility to the personality and whims of a sole ruler.34 Imperial slaves and freedmen like Phoebus remained part of the imperial patrimonium, and so kept their positions in the new emperor’s household. In principle, with the accession of a new emperor these individuals could have been most confident about the security of their positions and prestige, since their place in the court was based on their talents and experience. However, the episode of Phoebus reminds us, as it must have reminded contemporaries, that in practice the imperial court was not a stable social world for anyone. Phoebus’ continued place in it depended on Vespasian’s clemency, which he received—but whether his career continued under the Flavians is not clear. The famous example of a freedman who maintained his position in the imperial household over the course of several emperors’ reigns, and indeed from one dynasty to the next, is the father of Claudius Etruscus. This man, whose name is unrecorded, is known because of his son’s patronage of Statius and Martial, who provide enough information about him for a reconstruction of his career to be attempted.35 Born under Augustus, he had been freed early in his career, probably by Tiberius; he then remained in imperial service under subsequent emperors, receiving particular honors from Vespasian,36 until he was exiled by Domitian in the early 80s. His long career and constant presence in the households of the emperors he served illustrates the potential for stability and continuity in the imperial administration and in the court. But his career also illustrates the potential for meteoric rise and catastrophic fall inherent in the system of favor and friendship that held the court together—even for freedmen. Statius praises Claudius Etruscus’ father for his ability to 34  This is the approach that underlies Crook 1955, Wallace-Hadrill 1996, and Weaver 1972; Garnsey and Saller 1987, 25, speak of the imperial freedmen as the “permanent support staff of the administrative system.” 35  Stat. Silv. 1.5.65; 3.3; Martial 6.83; 7.10; see RE Claudius (31) 2670–72. For Claudius Etruscus, see PIR2 C 860; RE Claudius (143) 2719–20. Weaver 1965, 145–54; 1972, 284–94. 36  Including permission to participate in the Jewish triumph of 71 despite his status as a freedman, and admission to the equestrian order (Stat. Silv. 3.3.138–45; Weaver 1965, 149).

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navigate the vicissitudes of imperial favor and the instability of imperial politics, both during the civil war and before, in the household of Nero: this freedman “solemnly bore the often-changed yoke of leaders without harm and his ship was successful on every sea” (Silv. 3.3.83–84). Even so, despite his experience and talents, the clear implication here is that his position was uncertain in these difficult times; his good fortune and his sense of obligation ensured his continued presence in the court, but it did not guarantee it. For certain courtiers, the end of the Julio-Claudian period had proved very dangerous. Galba, for example, had answered the demand for scapegoats by attacking and executing some of Nero’s favorites: freedmen, gladiators, actors, and other members of the minores.37 At a time when tempers were running high, Galba found it easiest to deflect blame onto individuals of low status who had found wealth or prominence at Nero’s court. However, he was reluctant to pursue the punishment of individuals of high status, despite public calls for their execution. He protected Tigillinus, Nero’s praetorian prefect, from public execution, and every emperor of 68 and 69 was compelled to spare Calvia Crispinilla, the notorious courtier described as Nero’s magistra libidinum.38 Galba’s harshness towards Nero’s freedmen is recognized in Tacitus’ version of his death: after Otho’s revolt, Galba’s followers found his head placed next to the burial-spot of a Neronian freedman, Patrobius, whom he had executed (Hist. 1.49). Therefore, despite the general continuity of freedmen personnel in the imperial household throughout the first century, it is clear that under certain circumstances—especially when court politics was in turmoil following a transfer of power—they could be among the most vulnerable members of the court, and emperors like Galba could use them as easy targets for public vengeance. The careers of Phoebus and Claudius Etruscus’ father both suggest that even freedmen, whose place in the social world of the court was based on administrative functions, still depended on their personal relationships with the reigning emperor for the continuity and stability of their careers. Equally, these relationships could translate imperial favor into social prestige, in the same way that was possible for senatorial or equestrian courtiers. The court of Vespasian provides another example of a freed slave 37  Plutarch names Helius, Polyclitus, Petinus and Petrobius (Galb. 17.2); Dio adds Narcissus and Lucusta the sorceress (64.3.4). Kragelund 1987 would add Aegialus and Vatinius, a jester, based on inferences in Tac. Dial. 11.2. The gladiator Spiculus could also be considered in this context (Plut. Galb. 8.5). 38  Tac. Hist. 1.72–73; Kragelund 1998, 159.

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who exemplifies the complexities of careers at that level there: Caenis (PIR 2 A 888), a freedwoman of the emperor Claudius’ mother Antonia, with whom Vespasian had carried on a long-term affair that began after the death of his wife sometime in the 50s. Once emperor, Vespasian continued his relationship with Caenis. The nature of their relationship is explicit in the sources: Suetonius says that the couple lived together and she was almost a wife to the emperor (paene iustae uxoris loco, Vesp. 3), while Dio describes her as his concubine (παλλακή, 66. 14. 1). Caenis’ relationship with Vespasian translated into immense social and political influence. She became very wealthy during his reign, accepting bribes in exchange for using her influence in the allocation of governorships, procuratorships, generalships, and priesthoods, and to procure favorable rulings in public matters (Dio Cass. 66.14.3). She acted as an agent of the emperor’s gratia, a role frequently played by imperial wives (Saller 1982, 69). Her relationship with Vespasian challenged traditions of social stratification, as she took the place of the emperor’s wife at the center of the imperial family and of court society: Domitian received criticism for his arrogance when he welcomed her back to Rome and held out his hand to her rather than receive the kiss she offered.39 Before Vespasian’s accession, Caenis had served in the households of members of the Julio-Claudian family. She had been Antonia’s a manu, and had helped her to write the secret letters that exposed Sejanus’ ambitions to Tiberius (Dio Cass. 66.14.2); her talents (in particular her memory) had made her especially valuable to her mistress. Furthermore, she was clearly accustomed to life at the highest level of imperial society through her place in Antonia’s household, either as an observer of her mistress’ interactions with fellow family members or by interacting with them herself. These experiences first gave Caenis access to the closed society of the court, and they made her an invaluable companion for Vespasian, both before his reign and during it. Her unique position at his court depended as much on her social (and sexual) relationship with him as it did on her administrative talents and experience. So while Phoebus’ potential failure to establish a friendship with the new emperor Vespasian illustrates how freedmen faced the possibility of disgrace and failure, we see that by contrast Caenis’ personal relationship 39  Suet. Dom. 12.3. The kiss would have been a greeting between equals (Paterson 2007, 147–48). Offering one’s hand to be kissed was an assertion of superiority; thus Gaius had done this to Cassius Chaerea in a deliberate attempt to demean him (Suet. Calig. 56.2), while Nero refused to kiss members of the senate when he left or returned to Rome (Suet. Ner. 37.3).

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with Vespasian helped her to translate her administrative talents into vast prestige and social superiority. At the same time, the father of Claudius Etruscus exemplifies the continuity of personnel and administration that characterizes the early empire; but this continuity and this freedman’s long career were based on his success in maintaining the favor of a succession of emperors. ABSENCE FROM COURT AS A VIRTUE In one of the versions of the Phoebus episode, Vespasian’s offense was so great that he was punished with banishment from Nero’s court (Suet. Vesp. 4.4). This detail reveals a particular aspect of court society in the later first century: the changeable meaning of absence from it. Emperors controlled the distribution of titles, positions, and honors through which members of the senatorial elite derived prestige and measured rank.40 In consequence, forced exclusion from the emperor’s presence was an extra-legal way of punishing courtiers who had offended him. Such exclusion was a serious threat because it effectively ended a senator’s career, cutting him off from potential future offices, and publicly undermining his claims to elite status.41 Even so, in the later first century, we begin to see members of the senatorial and equestrian elite developing a rhetoric of withdrawal from public life, in which absence from the court allowed them to engage in pursuits that both marked and asserted their status: literary and intellectual activities. In this way, they were challenging the social hierarchies produced by the court and the distribution of imperial favor, and making a competing claim to absence as part of a system of social ranking. Vespasian’s encounter with Phoebus, according to Suetonius, resulted in total banishment: he was forbidden to attend imperial salutationes and banned from personal attendance in the emperor’s contubernium. He withdrew to a small, remote town and lived in hiding in fear of his life. His experience recalls the many individuals who were banished from the courts of Julio-Claudian emperors (Crook 1955, 27, n. 6). In particular, it invited comparison with Thrasea Paetus, whom Nero had punished for his disrespect with exclusion from the formal and informal rituals of the court: so in 63, when the senate as a group set out to Antium to  See Sumi (this volume).  Rogers 1959, 227; Winterling 2009, 100; cf. Elias 2006, 70, who argues that the best assertion and documentation of rank in a court society were appropriate appearance and participation there. 40 41

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congratulate Poppaea on the birth of her daughter, Nero had forbidden him to attend (Tac. Ann. 15.23). Yet three years later, when Nero finally orchestrated Thrasea’s trial and death, we learn that his crimes had been his absence from the senate when it was voting on honors for the imperial family, his unwillingness to participate in the Juvenalia when Nero had wanted him to, and the bad example that he and other senators set by spending too much time on the embellishment of their pleasure-grounds (Tac. Ann. 16.21, 27). While Nero may have employed exclusion as a form of punishment, and tolerated Thrasea’s absence when it was on his own terms, he nonetheless came to feel that his authority and his control over the court were challenged by Thrasea’s voluntary withdrawal from it. In particular, Tacitus’ references to Thrasea’s preoccupation with his gardens (amoenitas hortorum) recalls the connections drawn by other authors of the later first and early second century between otium as a life of “learned leisure” and the rustic villa as a secluded, peaceful, rural environment in which otium could be best enjoyed (Myers 2005, 104). For Pliny and Statius, villa life, with its luxurious homes, peaceful gardens, and opportunities to engage in literary and philosophical pursuits, was the explicit antithesis to Rome and participation in public life, and represented the safety and security of disengagement from the court (Woodman 1983, 242–43). Epictetus tells the story of a man who faced the choice between a private life and a public one. Evidently the man was returning to Italy from exile, and stopped in at Nicopolis, where he swore to Epictetus that he would live the rest of his life in peace and quiet (ἡσυχία and ἀταραξία) and enjoy what was left of it. But the philosopher doubted him, and told him that as soon as he caught sight of Rome he would forget his resolutions; moreover, he would seek entry to the emperor’s court and be glad if it should be offered to him. Indeed, Epictetus tells us, when this man returned to the city and received letters from Caesar, he forgot his intentions and is still competing for advantage at court, pursuing a public career in his capacity as prefect of the grain supply.42 The story vividly highlights the nature of the choice between the court and public life, with its potential for financial and political rewards, and withdrawal to a private life of quiet and reflection. The choice is not between a life of activity and inactivity, but rather between immediate, tangible rewards and the more personal rewards that come from reflection and philosophy. In this case, the wealth and power that access to the emperor offered

42

 Disc. 1.10.1–6; Millar 1965, 144.

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were enticing enough to pull the man away from the fantasy of a peaceful retirement. This discussion of absence, in which Epictetus speaks of retirement from public affairs as a more rewarding form of activity and Statius, Pliny and Tacitus depict it romantically as the source of safety and peace, represents an attempt to create a new definition of aristocratic status and a system of establishing and displaying rank that was independent of the emperor and his court. The private estates of Statius’ patrons, many of whom had permanently withdrawn from public life, are a recurring motif in the Silvae, where estates and their features provide an opportunity to explore the superiority and refinement of their owners.43 While prestige used to be earned through public action—like military accomplishments or engagement in politics—it could now be claimed through the ownership and display of immense wealth, and participation in activities that showed the time and inclination to engage in poetic or philosophical pursuits. This definition of aristocratic identity minimized the importance of imperial favor, and thereby created a system of stratification that competed with the one prevailing at the court. Statius explores this new definition of aristocracy in Silvae 4.6, which honors his patron Novius Vindex (PIR 2 N 194) and takes the form of an extended ecphrasis of a small marble statuette of Hercules carved by Lysippus.44 This object is one of many pieces of sculpture in Vindex’s collection; his time, we learn, is spent studying and appreciating Greek masterpieces, when he is not composing or performing poetry (Silv. 4.6.30–31). In this way, Statius establishes the virtue, wealth, and refinement of his patron. But the poem focuses on the aristocratic claims of the statuette: its first owner had been Alexander, who used to keep it next to him at dinner parties and would take it on his military campaigns (59–61). Its next owner had been Hannibal (whom the statue hated), who also took it into battle and on the march; the statue is specifically present at the destruction of Saguntum, Hercules’ own city (75–76; 82–85). After Hannibal’s death, the statuette became the property of a series of famous and noble Roman families, including Sulla, with whom it attended banquets (86–88). But the statuette’s condition has now changed: it is no longer in palaces (non aula . . . nec te regius ambit honos), but in  Myers 2005, 103. Silvae that describe villas: 1.2, 1.3, 1.5, 2.2, 2.3, 3.1.  For studies of this poem, see Friedländer 1921, 61–64; Cancik-Lindemaier 1971; Bright 1980, 43–45; Hardie 1983, 130–31; Vessey 1986, 2792–98; Coleman 1988, 73–176; Newlands 2002, 73–87; Chinn 2005. I am grateful to Ann Kuttner for bringing some aspects of this poem to my attention. 43 44

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Vindex’s collection, where its owner’s faultless mind and old-fashioned virtue can view it and appreciate it (90–93). Statius calls the statuette’s new situation a happy rest (laeta quies), where it will be free from war, surrounded by music, garlands, and fillets, and it will hear of Hercules’ exciting past while safe from its dangers (96–109). Statius’ description of the statuette’s history amounts to an account of a particularly long and eventful public career: the object went on campaign, participated in politics, and had been present at some of the most pivotal moments in the history of the Republic. Yet now, in Novius Vindex’s possession and ensconced within his house, its public career is explicitly over. It will never again participate in war or politics; like its new owner, it will devote its time to poetry and the arts. This change in the statuette’s circumstances is presented as entirely positive (it is even what its creator, Lysippus, would have wanted), because now, permanently retired from public life, in a private collection where it can be viewed only by its owner and his friends, its innate superiority can be best appreciated. Otium and private life had acquired a particularly evocative meaning by the later first century, at a time when participation in the imperial court had become necessary for public success. Statius, Pliny, Tacitus, and Epictetus all depict the choice between a public career and retirement as inextricably linked to a range of other dichotomies: political/literary, urban/rural, service to the emperor/freedom, risk/safety. But from the perspective of the court, the most interesting aspect of this discussion is its presentation of these dichotomies as choices at a time when emperors were employing forced exclusion from their presence as a punishment. Courtiers were developing an ideology of otium as a state of safety, refuge, and personal fulfillment that asserted aristocratic status in a setting both physically and socially removed from the emperor and from court society. Both the court and courtiers were claiming ownership of absence, and Tacitus’ account of the trial of Thrasea Paetus indicates that these competing claims were creating tension under Nero. When Vespasian became emperor and established a new tone for both the formal rituals and the informal social interactions of his court, this competition over freedom and withdrawal had already come to the surface. Perhaps his decision to reside in the Gardens of Sallust—away from the traditional political centers of the Palatine and the Forum— was an attempt to appropriate the senatorial ideology of withdrawal and to appeal to his senatorial and equestrian courtiers; he himself was withdrawing from the hyper-formal and over-luxurious court of his predecessors, and creating a more relaxed, more comfortable environment

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for his own court. But in no way did he abandon the control that court culture allowed him to exercise over his courtiers’ careers, nor the control he might exercise over individual senators through his emphasis on the public, imperial definitions of status and rank. His adherence to JulioClaudian traditions in this regard is exemplified by the banishment and death of Helvidius Priscus.45 CONCLUSION: WHAT VESPASIAN OWED TO PHOEBUS The episode of Phoebus and Vespasian demonstrates one further aspect of the court of the Flavian emperor. The many versions of this story found in Tacitus, Suetonius, and Dio (preserved from their own sources)46 suggest that it had been told and retold, embellished, repeated, emphasized, and reenacted to many audiences during Vespasian’s reign. Imperial courts were centered on the person and family of the ruler; his presence determined the physical space of the court, and his favor played a large part in determining rank and hierarchical order in its unstable and extra-institutional social world. It was therefore a society bound to the present: each courtier’s current relationship with the emperor, the emperor’s current favorite, the emperor’s current location. Yet the story of Vespasian’s encounter with Phoebus was important because it helped to define the relationship between the current court and the court of the past; it displayed the contrasts between the social world that Vespasian was creating and the one which he, and all other courtiers at the time, had experienced under Nero. Vespasian, once a participant in Neronian decadence and modes of courtly engagement, could use stories like this one to reposition himself and the Flavian present against the Neronian past. University of Michigan, Ann Arbor e-mail: [email protected]

45  PIR 2 H 59; son-in-law of Thrasea Paetus, praetor in 70 (Tac. Hist. 4.53), and Vespasian’s vociferous critic from the outset (Suet. Vesp. 15; Dio Cass. 66.12.1). Suetonius asserts that Vespasian did not order his death. 46  Gascou 1984, 325–26.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Boulvert, Gérard. 1970. Esclaves et affranchis impériaux sous le Haut-Empire romain: rôle politique et administratif. Naples: Jovene. ———. 1974. Domestique et fonctionnaire sous le Haut-Empire romain: la condition de l’affranchi et de l’esclave du prince. Paris: Belles Lettres. Braithwaite, A. W. 1927. C. Suetoni Tranquilli Divus Vespasianus. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Braund, D. C. 1984. “Berenice in Rome.” Historia 33.1:120–23. Bright, D. F. 1980. Elaborate Disarray: The Nature of Statius’ Silvae. Meisenheim: Hain. Brunt, Peter. 1983. “Princeps and Equites.” JRS 73:42–75. Cancik-Lindemaier, Hildegard. 1971. “Ein Mahl vor Hercules. Ein Versuch zu Statius, Silve iv 6: Hercules Epitrapezios.” Der altsprachliche Unterricht 14.3:43–65. Charlesworth, M. P. 1950. “Nero: Some Aspects.” JRS 40:69–76. Chinn, C. M. 2005. “Statius Silv. 4.6 and the Epigrammatic Origins of Ekphrasis.” CJ 100:247–63. Coleman, K. M. 1988. Silvae IV. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Crook, John. 1951. “Titus and Berenice.” AJP 72:162–75. ———. 1955. Consilium Principis: Imperial Councils and Counsellors from Augustus to Diocletian. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Elias, Norbert. 1969. Die höfische Gesellschaft: Untersuchungen zur Soziologie des Königtums und der höfischen Aristokratie, mit einer Einleitung: Soziologie und Geschichtswissenschaft. Darmstadt: Luchterhand. ———. 1983. The Court Society. Trans. Edmund Jephcott. Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 2006. The Court Society. Trans. Edmund Jephcott (with rev.). Dublin: University College Dublin Press. Frézouls, Edmond. 1987. “Les Julio-Claudiens et le Palatin.” Le Système Palatial en Orient, en Grèce et à Rome: Actes du Colloque de Strasbourg 19–22 juin 1985, ed. Edmond Lévy, 445–62. Leiden: Brill. Friedländer, Ludwig. 1921. Darstellung aus der Sittengeschichte Roms in der Zeit von Augustus bis zum Ausgang der Antonine, 9th–10th rev., ed. Georg Wissowa. Leipzig: Hirzel. Gagé, Jean. 1971. Les classes sociales dans l’empire romain. 2d ed. Paris: Payot. Garnsey, Peter, and Richard Saller. 1987. The Roman Empire: Economy, Society and Culture. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Gascou, Jean. 1984. Suétone historien. Rome: École française de Rome. Griffin, M. T. 1976. Seneca: A Philosopher in Politics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hardie, Alex. 1983. Statius and the Silvae: Poets, Patrons and Epideixis in the Graeco-Roman World. Liverpool: Cairns. Hartswick, K. J. 2004. Gardens of Sallust: A Changing Landscape. Austin: University of Texas Press.

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Hiesinger, U. W. 1975. “The Portraits of Nero.” AJA 79:113–24. Jones, B. W. 1992. The Emperor Domitian. London: Routledge. Jordan, Ruth. 1974. Berenice. London: Constable. Kragelund, Patrick. 1987. “Vatinius, Nero and Curiatius Maternus.” CQ n.s. 37:197–202. ———. 1998. “Galba’s ‘Pietas,’ Nero’s Victims and the Mausoleum of Augustus.” Historia 47:152–73. ———. 2000. “Nero’s Luxuria, in Tacitus and in the Octavia.” CQ n.s. 50:494–515. Krause, C. C. 1995. “Wo residierten die Flavier?” Arculiana: recueil d’hommages offerts à Hans Bögli, ed. Franz Koenig and Serge Rebetez, 459–88. Avenches: L.A.O.T.T. Laurence, Ray, and Jeremy Paterson. 1999. “Power and Laughter: Imperial Dicta.” PBSR 67:183–98. Levick, Barbara. 1999. Vespasian. London: Routledge. Mellor, Ronald. 2003. “The New Aristocracy of Power.” Flavian Rome: Culture, Image, Text, ed. A. J. Boyle and W. J. Dominik, 69–102. Leiden: Brill. Millar, Fergus. 1965. “Epictetus and the Imperial Court.” JRS 55:141–48. ———. 1977. The Emperor in the Roman World. London: Duckworth. Myers, K. S. 2005. “Docta Otia: Garden Ownership and Configurations of Leisure in Statius and Pliny the Younger.” Arethusa 38:103–29. Newlands, C. E. 2002. Statius’ Silvae and the Poetics of Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Nicols, John. 1978. Vespasian and the Partes Flavianae. Stuttgart: Steiner. Paterson, Jeremy. 2007. “Friends in High Places: The Creation of the Court of the Roman Emperor.” The Court and Court Society in Ancient Monarchies, ed. A. J. S. Spawforth, 121–56. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Potter, D. S. 2004. The Roman Empire at Bay. London: Routledge. Rogers, R. S. 1959. “The Emperor’s Displeasure—Amicitiam Renuntiare.” TAPA 90:224–37. Saller, R. P. 1982. Personal Patronage under the Early Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Spawforth, A. J. S. 2007. “The Court of Alexander the Great between Europe and Asia.” In The Court and Court Society in Ancient Monarchies, ed. A. J. S. Spawforth, 82–120. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Starr, C. G. 1949. “Epictetus and the Tyrant.” CP 44:120–29. Syme, Ronald. 1969. “Pliny the Procurator.” HSCP 73:201–36. Turcan, Robert. 1987. Vivre à la cour des Césars: d’Auguste à Dioclétien (Ier–IIIe siècles ap. J.-C.). Paris: Belles Lettres. Vessey, D. W. T. 1986. “Transience Preserved. Style and Theme in Statius’ Silvae.” ANRW II 32.5:2754–802. Wallace-Hadrill, Andrew. 1996. “The Imperial Court.” In CAH 2 10:283–308. Waters, K. H. 1963. “The Second Dynasty of Rome.” Phoenix 17:198–218. Weaver, P. R. C. 1965. “The Father of Claudius Etruscus: Statius Silvae 3.3.” CQ n.s. 15:145–54.

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———. 1972. Familia Caesaris: A Social Study of the Emperor’s Freedmen and Slaves. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Weber, Max. 1922. Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft: Grundriss der Verstehenden Soziologie. 2 vols. Tübingen: Mohr. Wellesley, Kenneth. 1975. The Long Year A.D. 69. London: Elek. Winterling, Aloys. 1999. Aula Caesaris: Studien zur Institutionalisierung des römischen Kaisarhofes in der Zeit von Augustus bis Commodus 31 v. Chr.–192 n. Chr. Munich: Oldenbourg. ———. 2009. Politics and Society in Imperial Rome. London: Blackwell. Woodman, A. J. 1983. Velleius Paterculus: The Caesarian and Augustan Narrative (2.41–93). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Young-Widmaier, M. R. 2002. “Quintilian’s Legal Representation of Julia Bere­ nice.” Historia 51.1:124–29.

MEASURES OF DIFFERENCE: THE FOURTH-CENTURY TRANSFORMATION OF THE ROMAN IMPERIAL COURT Rowland Smith

 Abstract. Compared to its first-to-third century antecedents, the Roman imperial court of the fourth century exhibits markedly distinctive features; certain differences may be judged cosmetic, but others suggest a transformative shift in the court as a social and administrative institution. This discussion focuses on: the applicability to the Late Roman case of an influential generalizing theory of court formation and society, and the partial anticipation of modern “court studies” discourse by Gibbon; the altered social composition and expanded size of the court’s personnel, the structural complexity of its bureaucratic apparatus, and their combined transformative effects; the role of purposeful reforms and innovations as drivers of long-term change; Ammianus’ perceptions of the transformed court.

I. PICTURING THE LATE ROMAN COURT: MODERN “COURT STUDIES” AND GIBBON’S DECLINE AND FALL To Edward Gibbon’s eye, the administrative system that Constantine bequeathed to his sons could “illustrate the secret and internal causes of [a great empire’s] rapid decay”: a noxious compound of rapaciousness and prodigality at the top was rotting it from the center.1 On an influential modern view, the distinctive structure of Late Roman imperial government testifies rather to resilience and adaptability in the wake of crisis. On this view, “the Roman empire was forced to become a new empire” (Brown 2003, 54) in response to acutely testing decades in the mid-third century, and it met the need with fair success: the top-down, centralized administration and enlarged bureaucratic apparatus of the fourth-century Roman state discloses the imperial system not in a phase of “decay,” but rather at its “apogee,” inasmuch as the state was able to

 Gibbon 1994, 1.602; cf. 1.645. All dates are c.e.

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“make itself present” in the minds of its subjects more forcefully than ever it previously had.2 Not all modern specialists would concur with the diagnosis on quite those terms,3 but on any view a new order of imperial rule emerged with the Tetrarchy, and the governmental structures and practices of the Constantinian and Theodosian periods differ markedly from those of the Augustan or Antonine ages. In what follows we reflect on a specific component of the Late Roman governmental system in this connexion: the imperial court. For our purposes, the prime measure of the fourth-century court’s distinctiveness will be data that elucidate the manner and degree in which it had come to differ from the court as it had functioned in the early and high empire. But a second, less period-specific, comparandum is also implicitly in mind and requires a word at the outset: the “court society” as modelled by specialists in “court studies.” Interest in “court studies” has been quickening lately among historians of ancient monarchic systems in general, stimulated partly by a particular methodological turn in the study of the royal courts of “early modern” Europe. In recent decades, specialists in that period have given close critical attention to a model of court formation and court society first adumbrated by the sociologist Norbert Elias (1983). His model was drawn wholly from the case of Bourbon Versailles, but with an implicit claim for its “transferability” to others; ancient historians, in turn, have wished to test the cogency of the “Eliasque” approach in premodern contexts.4 In the case of Rome, Aloys Winterling—significantly, a ­“modern-turned-ancient” historian who had earlier written on the court of Cologne (1986)—has produced a major monograph (1999) on the court of the early and high empire, and a notable “comparativist” essay on the theorising of the court in neo-Weberian terms (2004). For our purposes, there is no need to dilate on the critique of Elias or on post-Eliasque theorising of the court. It will suffice to observe that he was a Weber-inspired sociologist, not a specialist historian of the Bourbons, and that in postulating his Versailles-based model of a “court society” he had a long-term social transformation in mind—the passage from feudal to “absolutist” monarchy, and on through Revolution to the professional bourgeois society of the nineteenth century. He represented his “court society” as a transitional phase in the process, the product of a top-down initiative by which an aspiring absolute monarch sought to “domesticate”  Brown 1997, 24; cf. 2003, 56–58.  MacMullen 1988, Liebeschuetz 2001, and Ward-Perkins 2005 all re-assert “decline”; discussion in Cameron 2002. 4  See, for example, Spawforth 2007, 1–16. 2 3

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an obstreperous hereditary military aristocracy, corralling it at Versailles and diverting its energies into the pursuit of rank so as to maximize his own power. Elias’ argument for the court’s domesticating function on this score has been much criticized as misleading even in relation to Versailles,5 and certainly neither it nor the “feudal to bourgeois” teleology underpinning it could survive translation to a Late Roman setting without substantial qualification. The traditional aristocracy of the fourth century did not comprise a feudal warrior elite, and an emperor such as Valentinian—who is reliably reported to have had an inexperienced hunt attendant summarily beaten to death for a trivial error, and to have kept a pair of ferocious bears close by the entrance to his bedroom6—looks a figure more in need of “domestication” than an Eliasque promoter of a “domesticating” court. Still, Elias’ model should be judged in the round in the spirit in which it was offered: not as an expertly informed historical argument, but rather as a sociological paradigm that could interest historians. Whether a single comprehensive model of the court applicable to all periods and particular cases could ever be profitably constructed might be doubted. But whatever its shortcomings, Elias’ interpretation of the court as a complex configuration of power and social relationships has served to remind historians of antiquity, as of other periods, of a fundamental point which till lately had received scant attention in modern scholarship: in the words of a subtle critic of Elias’ model, “courts are the most general arrangement of power in pre-modern society, and deserve to be analysed in this wider perspective” (Duindam 2003, 302). That said, it does not require elaborate modelling to discuss the Late Roman court in a wider frame, and we prefer to proceed here from a minimal theoretical base. We will construe an ancient royal court as a distinctively configured field in which two categories of human activity—domestic service to a ruler, and government of his territories—intersect and mix. Moreover, this field is one in which the form of the domestic service implies a dynastic mentality that also tends to privilege the ruler’s family; in addition, such privileging of ruler and dynasty is typically linked to a notion of religious sanctity that finds expression in ceremonial forms. Altogether, a mature “court society,” let us say, arises when a royal court’s formal workings and ranking principles become normalized and come to resonate forcefully beyond the court itself, thereby shaping not just the personal aspirations 5  See esp. Duindam 1995, 81–95, 137–48, 174–91; 2003, 7–13, 203–17, 310–11, 318–20; cf. Duindam 2004. 6  Amm. Marc. 29.3.3; 29.3.9.

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and cultural outlook of its ruler, attendants, and officials, but also the mentality of a wider elite in a broader social domain. While the theorising slant of recent “court studies” may be innovatory, the guiding supposition that scrutiny of “the court” can disclose much more than the vagaries of high politics and elite cultural taste is far from new.7 Gibbon long ago intuited that reflection on the Roman imperial court can illuminate systemic features of the empire’s governmental and social structures and guiding ideology, as well as continuities and shifts in the pattern over time. Observations on the court’s workings and style at various periods were deftly woven into the narrative of Decline and Fall with that end in mind: they represent the court as evolving from relative simplicity and modesty in the Augustan age to “Eastern”-influenced complexity in a Byzantine “absolute monarchy.”8 What Gibbon offered was a picture of the court, not a worked-out model of it—and one tailored, of course, to chime with an image of general “decline” that many would nowadays reject entirely. So, too, modern analysts of absolutism may find his conception of “absolute monarchy” oversimplifying;9 and the “orientalising” contrast he drew between manly Roman vigor and effeminate Byzantine sterility reads quaintly now. But the picture has features that still deserve to be pondered: it was drawn from deep learning, and it is incisive on points that remain central for our understanding of the topic. Gibbon’s discussion of the court was predicated on two basic suppositions: first, that the Roman imperial state, though always at bottom a type of “absolute monarchy,” was a distinctively colored one, because in this case monarchy had supplanted a centuries-old Republic predicated squarely on monarchy’s intolerability and controlled by an elite class which defined itself by that tradition; second, that the long-term stability and prosperity of the imperial state required the complicity and willing participation of that civil elite, and hence an ideology promot-

7  Nor is expansive anatomizing description of the court’s “life and manners” by cultural historians any novelty, of course: Friedländer’s classic Darstellungen aus der Sitten­geschichte Roms, as first published in 1862, devoted a substantial chapter to the court’s personnel, habitués, and ceremonial activities (Eng. trans. 1907, vol. 1:30–97). 8  For examples up to ca. 400, see Gibbon 1994, 1.66, 1.93 (Augustus); 1.110, 1.120 (Commodus); 1.166–67 (Elagabalus); 1.192 (Maximin Thrax); 1.388–89 (Diocletian); 1.603–5, 1.645–46 (Constantine); 2.120, 2.196 (Honorius); 2.237–39 (Arcadius). 9  For modern historians’ understanding of “absolutism,” see for example Duindam 2003, 10–11; Beik 1987, 3–30; Brown 1992, 8–13. The term itself is post-Gibbonian: Gibbon speaks, rather, of “absolute monarchy” or “despotism.”

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ing a “pleasing illusion” of moderate rule by elite consensus.10 Gibbon acutely sensed that “appearance” was not superficial in this connexion, but rather an essential lubricating component of elite political “reality,” and that the court came to function as the “theatre” in which a particular ideology of monarchy was articulated and advertised to an elite at large. An early allusion in Decline and Fall to “the pompous courts” of the Hellenistic age, imbued with the “the luxury of the East” and “imitated, at an humble distance, by the higher ranks of their subjects,” anticipates a model which Rome’s rulers and elites will first eschew, then progressively embrace; and throughout the process, Gibbon wished to stress, “the face of the court corresponded with the forms of the administration.”11 The “oriental” court-style of Diocletian and Constantine receives particular attention as the point of maturation of a new ideological mask which constitutes a necessary replacement for, and the perfected antithesis of, the Augustan veiling of monarchy in “the form of a commonwealth.” A notable passage on the Diocletianic court postulates purposeful reform in this connexion, and merits selective quotation (1.388–89): The pride, or rather the policy, of Diocletian engaged that artful prince to introduce the stately magnificence of the court of Persia. He ventured to assume the diadem, an ornament detested by the Romans as the odious ensign of royalty. . . . The access to [his] sacred person was every day rendered more difficult by the institution of new forms and ceremonies. The avenues of the palace were strictly guarded by the various schools, as they began to be called, of domestic officers. The interior apartments were entrusted to the jealous vigilance of the eunuchs; the increase of whose numbers and influence was the most infallible symptom of the progress of despotism. . . . Nor is it easy to conceive that, in substituting the manners of Persia to those of Rome, he [Diocletian] was seriously actuated by so mean a principle as that of vanity. He flattered himself that an ostentation of splendor and luxury would subdue the imagination of the multitude . . . and that habits of submission would insensibly be productive of sentiments of veneration. Like the modesty affected by Augustus, the state maintained by Diocletian was a theatrical representation. . . . It was the aim of the one to disguise, and the object of the other to display, the unbounded power which the emperors possessed over the Roman world.

The fruit of this “policy” is reviewed in a pivotal chapter in Decline and Fall, which suspends the narrative to survey “the complicated system 10 11

 Gibbon 1994, 1.93–94, 1.96.  Gibbon 1994, 1.66, 1.93.

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introduced by Diocletian, improved by Constantine, and completed by his immediate successors.”12 In Gibbon’s view, the foundation of Constantinople had allowed the new court style to flourish freely in an aptly eastern setting (1.603–4): The simplicity of Roman manners was [now] insensibly corrupted by the stately affectation of the courts of Asia. The distinctions of personal merit and influence, so conspicuous in a republic, so feeble and obscure under a monarchy, were abolished by the despotism of the emperors; who substituted in their room a severe subordination of rank and office, from the titled slaves, who were seated on the steps of the throne, to the meanest instruments of arbitrary power. This multitude of abject dependants was interested in the support of the actual government, from the dread of a revolution, which might at once confound their hopes and intercept the reward of their services. In this divine hierarchy (for such it is frequently styled) every rank was marked with the most scrupulous exactness, and its dignity was displayed in a variety of trifling and solemn ceremonies, which it was a study to learn and a sacrilege to neglect. . . . By a philosophic observer, the system of the Roman government might have been mistaken for a splendid theatre, filled with players of every character and degree, who repeated the language, and imitated the passions, of their original model.

Gibbon’s assumptions that a “Persian” court style had been imported, and that the general effect of the “policy” on the body politic was enfeebling, are both disputable. But in the former case he was not indulging in vacuous moralizing: he was drawing on statements in the fourth-century sources, and interpreting them with a particular model, the Sassanid court, in mind.13 Moreover, it is clear even from the brief excerpts quoted here that he was alert to evidence of growth in the sheer size and hierarchical complexity of the court, and that he assumed an intimate correlation between those material realities and the ideological shift—perfected, he thought, in the Constantinian age—to an overtly “absolutist” ethos in 12  Gibbon 1994, 1.602. The interruption of the narrative at chap. XVII, he proceeds to say (603), “will be censured only by those [. . .] insensible to the importance of laws and manners, while they pursue, with eager curiosity, the transient intrigues of a court, or the accidental event of a battle.” His observations on the court in chap. XVII (e.g., at 1.604–6, 1.609, 1.619, 1.625–30) attend not to its “transient intrigues,” but its structures and ceremonial (both, in his view, highly illuminating of “laws and manners”). 13  See Gibbon 1994, 1.215, 1.228–29 (on Sassanid court style), and further below. He has “comparativist” touches elsewhere, too, that prefigure the style of modern “court studies”: parallels with the courts of the Safavids (1.104–5) and the Hanoverians (1.94), or “the general history” of India and China (1.685, n. 7).

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its workings. On these counts, he early recognized the Theodosian Code and the Notitia Dignitatum as supplying evidence of cardinal importance in any discussion of the Late Roman court,14 and anticipated modern representations of Constantine’s regime as one which in key respects embraced and built on policies initiated by Diocletian. In what follows, we amplify particularly on the implications of these aspects of Gibbon’s picture of the court, with a pair of questions in mind. First (section II), the degree of change at issue: in its functioning by the mid to late fourth century, had the court changed so deeply that there is justification to construe it as (in effect) a new phenomenon in Roman society and government—and if so, in what respects? Can some specific changes be identified as fundamentally transformative? Second (section III), how far should the changes at issue be attributed to purposeful action by any individual agent consciously promoting them? After consideration of these questions, we shall close by touching briefly upon a related one (section IV): in what terms were changes that may seem transformative to a modern eye perceived and registered as such by contemporary observers? On this score, we shall take Ammianus as a case in point. II. A TRANSFORMED COURT? MEASURES OF DIFFERENCE Caveats must attend any argument that the imperial court of the late fourth century did indeed differ so very greatly from the court as it had existed under the Antonine and (pre-Tetrarchic) third-century emperors as to constitute, in the round, something radically new. One evident problem relates to an imbalance in the primary source material. The very abundance and variety of literary and documentary evidence relating to the late court,15 as against the exiguous data available for its third-century counterpart, make comparison and generalization hazardous. To take only a few prime cases as emblematic: the Theodosian Code is a quite fundamental source for the workings of the court from Constantine to Theodosius II—but it only collects laws that date from

14  Gibbon explicitly remarks (1.602–603) on the importance of the Code, “from which, as well as from the Notitia of the east and west, we derive the most copious and authentic information on the state of the empire,” and he frequently cites items from the Code and the Notitia throughout his ensuing account of the Constantinian system (1.603–42). Note also his astute recourse to the Code in relation to Diocletian’s reforms (1.390, n. 103). 15  Smith 2007, 168–71.

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313 onwards.16 In oratory, epistolography and poetry there is the same contrast: a plethora of illuminating material from the fourth century— Greek and Latin, pagan and Christian—a trickle from the third. Within the fourth century, too, there are comparable disparities in the evidence: for instance, the extant narrative of Ammianus—Gibbon’s “accurate and faithful guide”17—only relates events from 353 onwards; the loss of the first thirteen books has deprived us of whatever he may have said about the courts of the Tetrarchs and Constantine, never mind those of, say, Marcus Aurelius or Aurelian. Even as the evidence stands, moreover, one must allow for significant continuities. Take the sacralising representation of imperial power that suffused the late court’s language and ceremonial: the image of a godlike ruler, majestically remote, imperturbable and irresistible, so vividly encapsulated in Ammianus’ account of Constantius’ adventus at Rome in 357 (16.10.8–10), or in the confession of the “speaking” obelisk erected ca. 390 in the Hippodrome at Constantinople (ILS 821): Reluctant to obey in former days, I have been commanded (now) to obey the Lords serene . . . for everything yields to Theodosius and his everlasting line; (hence) I am conquered and mastered and raised up into the high sky. . . .

The pervasiveness of this style in late imperial discourse must signify something. Gibbon linked it to an importation of Persian court style in Diocletian’s day; for him, it marked the late court’s shift to an ostentatious absolutism—the polar opposite, he proposed, of “the modesty affected by Augustus” (first quotation above). But the contrast is surely overdrawn: the late style was only amplifying on an ideological strand that runs back through the imperial publicity of the third century to the early Principate.18 The court poetry of Statius on Domitian, or indeed of Ovid on Augustus, can be no less hyperbolic than Claudian on Theodosius and Honorius;19 and if Theodosius chose to raise an Egyptian obelisk 16  It should be stressed that the argument of this chapter turns principally on what can be inferred from “hard” data pertaining to the court that are preserved within the Code. For economy of space, it is not quoted or directly cited in what follows, but the majority of the many references to Jones 1964 refer to passages directly dependent upon data from the Code that are accessibly cited or quoted in Jones’ endnotes. 17  Gibbon 1994, 1.1073. 18  See, for example, Alföldi 1970, 211, on the representation (in coinage of the 270s) of Aurelian as deus et dominus natus; cf. Suet. Dom. 13. 19  For example, Stat. Silv. 1.1.5–6, 32–45, 99–107; 4.2.5–17; Ov. Fast. 5.551–68; Tr. 5.2.45–55; Claud. II Cons. Hon. 171–73. See further Acton, chap. 5, above.

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in his capital to advertise his majesty, that, too, was a conceit with clear Augustan and Domitianic precedents.20 Anyway, the “absolutist” imagery of power in Late Roman court publicity is an ideological projection that begs to be deconstructed. In Themistius’ panegyrics the emperor is “Law Incarnate,” and the language of the Theodosian Code promotes an impression of law-making as now entirely an autocrat’s prerogative, edicts about everything streaming down from on high in a one-way, top-down traffic. But as Fergus Millar has lately stressed, the editorial conventions of the codifiers conceal a much more complex pattern of communication in which imperial laws may simply repeat, in the ruler’s name, the gist of proposals made by letter by some interested party—a civil or military official, a bishop, a local bigwig—and channeled to the emperor through the court’s secretariat.21 Is that so very different at bottom from the familiar pattern of petition and imperial rescript in the early and high empire? An argument for the late court’s substantial distinctiveness, then, should perhaps not rely on its “absolutist” ceremonial and ideology for central proofs. But there are other measures of difference. Change decidedly trumps continuity—and the Diocletianic age is indeed a hinge in three interrelated and fundamental features of the late court: its social composition, size, and structural complexity. Social Composition Until the early third century, the pool from which elite court officials and advisors was drawn remained predominantly the traditional Roman senatorial and top equestrian aristocracy. As clarissimi, the upper-level courtiers of the late fourth century, too, were all still nominally members of the senatorial order, but by then, a striking growth in the order’s size had transformed its social composition. Over the third century, the traditional senatorial class had been progressively sidelined in military and civil administration. The process was already well under way by Diocletian’s day, and his reforms of the late third century did more than accommodate it; in fact they decisively confirmed and further intensified the senatorial elite’s marginalization as administrators in the provinces and at court.22  Roullet 1972, 43–45.  Millar 2007, 7–8, 207–24. 22  For the background and details of the reforms, see Potter 2004, 229–32, 258; Jones 1964, 42–49. 20 21

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Over the following century, the traditional senatorial elite would be marginalized even within the senatorial order. The non-aristocratic administrative elite that Diocletian’s reforms created could still aspire to membership of the senatorial order as a status-marker, and over time appointments to it from this source greatly expanded its numerical size.23 At the start of the fourth century, the order still totalled only about 600, as it had under Augustus; at the end of it, on a fair guess, the figure was nearer 4,000. By 380 c.e., at any rate, there were about 2,000 new “senators” in the east alone, enrolled in a Constantinopolitan senate that had only been formally created four decades earlier, and only in 357 raised to parity of dignity with Rome’s.24 The total figure for the Roman senatorial order ca. 380 is less clear, but it was probably not much smaller. A good proportion of those enrolled as members of the Roman order were likewise by now “new men” with no familial link to Rome’s traditional aristocracy, and no personal connexion with the city. For those among them who looked for advancement in imperial service, Rome itself now lacked appeal as a base. It was becoming a political backwater, rarely even visited by the itinerant western emperors: the ruler and his court were usually far away, either at Milan or outside Italy, at new “capitals” such as Trier or Sirmium. Unless they took themselves north, then, Rome’s traditional senatorial aristocrats no longer had a court to attend. By the close of the fourth century, on these figures, there were perhaps seven times as many members of the “senatorial order” as there had been at the start of it, but the proportion of traditional Roman aristocrats in the mix was drastically reduced. The great majority of the order now hailed from the empire’s upper-level urban gentry25 and owed their status to honorary personal grants, or to the creation of the new Constantinopolitan senate, or to other developments traceable to the Constantinian era. Particularly telling, for our purposes, was the practice routinized in the 370s by which senatorial status came to be conferred automatically on numerous categories of military and civilian officials holding fixed-term posts in the expanding bureaucracy of the court, on

 Figures are drawn from Jones 1964, 527; Heather 1998, 184–204.  On the new senate’s formal creation and subsequent development by Constantius II, see Jones 1964, 132–33; for Constantine’s own fostering of a “proto-senate” in the new capital and his likely intentions for it, Potter 2004, 289–90. 25  Especially in the case of the Constantinopolitan senate: on its social composition, see Jones 1964, 133, 550–51, with Heather 1998, 187–88 (a reminder of the limits within which social mobility occurred). 23 24

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either appointment or retirement.26 Over time, this practice effected a transformation of the courtly aristocracy from one of birth to one of office: whereas once a senatorial pedigree had served as a measure of a man’s fitness to serve as a high-level court official, senatorial status was now commonly the consequence of appointment to such service. Most posts, moreover, were tenable for a few years only: the court was thus a tap that poured out a steady annual stream of newly made “servicesenators,” greatly inflating the size of the order overall but, by the same token, significantly deflating its status-value. By the late fourth century the prestige attaching to membership of the order as such had sharply declined, and a three-band internal ranking system came into use (during the early 370s) to designate one’s relative status as a mere clarissimus as opposed to an upper-level spectabilis or a stellar illustris. An hereditary principle still obtained, but it was significantly restricted (the ranks of spectabilis and illustris were not inheritable),27 and what we have said of the members of the fourth-century senatorial order as a whole is true also of the small minority among them who held court offices: very few now hailed from the traditional Roman aristocracy. In short, in the social composition of its elite “senatorial” officials, the late court differed radically from that of the earlier empire. Size The sheer human size of the late court is also telling, and here, too, Diocletian’s reforms are a hinge. The doubling of the number of the empire’s provinces to around one hundred, grouped into a dozen newly created “dioceses,” fuelled a boom in the number of its administrative offices; and over the fourth century, the banding of dioceses within territorial praetorian prefectures would create still more offices.28 In the mid third century, it has been estimated, there had been around three-hundred salaried senior civil servants to administer the empire, working with the clerical assistance of (at most) 10,000 slaves and freedmen of the imperial  On the origin of this practice under Constantine, see Jones 1964, 105–6, 526–27, with Potter 2004, 386–91. For its subsequent development, Jones 1964, 143–44 (Valentinian), 161–62 (Theodosius). 27  For all these developments, see Jones 1964, 142–43, 378–79, 528–29. 28  Smith 2007, 179–80, outlines the reform and its effects; for details, and the subsequent (post-Constantinian) creation of territorial praetorian prefectures, see Jones 1964, 42–49, 101, 370–71. 26

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household.29 Estimates of the total size of the bureaucracy in the mid to late fourth century, by contrast, put it at around 35,000, of whom perhaps as many as 6,000 held “upper-level” posts that presupposed senatorial status or automatically conferred it (Heather 1998, 189). The increase is very striking: three to four times as many posts overall, and at the upper level perhaps up to twenty times as many. Admittedly, the officials and clerical staff of the palace bureaucracy only account for a fraction of the total, but a significant one: according to Peter Heather (above), in the Eastern sector of the empire around 400 c.e. they numbered at least 2,500.30 To that figure must be added the ministry heads and the elite officials and comites of the consistory, the corps of officer cadets, the seven crack regiments of the imperial guard, and the domestic staffs of the ruler and his family (chamberlains, stewards, cooks, barbers and the like): all told, the comitatus of a late fourth-century emperor must have totalled about 6,000. And these figures, remember, relate to the East alone; if one factored in the Western emperor—for most of the century, of course, there were at least two co-rulers, and a court for each—the number might be doubled for the empire overall. Structural Complexity To function at all, a human collectivity on this scale requires an elaborate organization that can only be noted in passing here with random examples. The mention just made of the late court’s main domestic and administrative departments hardly begins to convey its structural complexity.31 Intricate rules for promotion developed and formally designated sub-units proliferated, such as the “Sacred Wardrobe” (scrinium sacrae vestis), the palace “Lamplighters” (lampadarii), the “commissars” (mensores) responsible for supplying and billeting the court on its journeys away from the palace, and the scrinium dispositionum, probably a unit dedicated to the timetabling of the ruler’s daily business.32 The late court’s  MacMullen 1988, 144, 264.  Heather collated the number of staff recorded at various points in Cod. Theod. as servicing the consistory council and principal departmental ministries (officia): 520 notarii (381 c.e.); 130 in the secretariats of the magistri memoriae, epistularum, and libellorum (470 c.e.); 224 in the sacrae largitionales; 600 “supernumeraries” (399 c.e.); 500 in the res privata (399 c.e.); almost 1,200 in the multi-tasking, roving corps of agentes in rebus (430 c.e.). Jones 1964, 367, reckons 3,000 in the Guard, and an overall total above 6,000. 31  For an outline of the principal divisions, see Smith 2007, 197–202; for the bureaucratic structures in detail, Jones 1964, 562–86; RAC Hofbeamter (Noethlichs). 32  Jones 1964, 567, 582, 578. 29 30

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own self-management—not to mention effective imperial government— now depended on a highly departmentalized bureaucracy overseen by an inner elite of top ministers. Its sheer human size, and the sheer quantity and range of business, menial or administrative, that it had to deal with, bred complexity and acute rank-consciousness within the service. Take the arrangements for the ranking of its upper-level officials and “companions”: by the early 370s, legal expertise had devised a ranking system applicable to almost all the military and civilian administrative offices in question, fixing the relative order of precedence of each.33 The titles of some of the officials and departments in question, and some structural basics, could indeed be traced back to the early empire. The structural complexity of the late court’s bureaucratic apparatus, however, marks a radical change. It was intimately bound up with the fourth-century expansion of the court’s personnel, and inconceivable without it: the two grew in tandem in the wake of Diocletian’s administrative reforms, and on a prodigious scale. Taken in combination with the changes in its social composition, the court’s structural complexity and size indicate a deep transformation of the institution over the fourth century. As it existed by 400, it can aptly be said to represent something new: in particular, its workings had fostered and institutionalized a new imperial aristocracy, the bulk of whose members now consisted of the court’s own “senatorial” functionaries and ministerial elite. III. A WILLED TRANSFORMATION? PURPOSEFUL INNOVATION AND THE “NEW” COURT We pass to our second question. Versailles’ great memoirist, the duc de Saint-Simon, delivered a mordant verdict on the court of Louis XIV that implicitly likened it to an enclosure designed for the breaking-in of horses by an expert trainer: “It was yet another stratagem [manège] of [his] policy of despotism. One comes to see how it served to split up and humble and distract even the grandest [of his subjects].”34 Elias (1983) picked up on this insider’s judgement. He interpreted the “new” court  Jones 1964, 142–44, 528–34.  “La cour fut un autre manège de la politique du despotisme. On vient de voir celle qui divisa, qui humilia, qui confondit les plus grands” (Saint-Simon 1983, 5.521). Note that manège in this usage and context has a suggestive equestrian undertone: it can variously connote an expert trainer’s trick, an enclosure for the breaking-in and training of horses, and a dressage event at which the riders circle and mingle in a “carrousel” display (a courtentertainment popular in Louis’ day). 33 34

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that Louis XIV formally inaugurated at Versailles in 1682 as an institution devised to subvert the influence of a landed, hereditary nobility in whom the king saw a residual threat to his personal “absolutism.” Gathered together in courtly service in one confined locale, these grandees could be collectively “domesticated,” not least by the distraction of competition for newly devised offices and marks of rank. Could anything comparable be argued for the “new” Late Roman court? Baldly put, the question looks naïve. There is certainly no ancient counterpart to Saint-Simon to be cited in this connexion: no extant fourth-century text ascribes a general reform of the court to an individual agent’s political calculation in the fashion that Saint-Simon did with Louis. And the “domestication” theory as Elias formulated it certainly will not fit.35 In the Late Roman context, it lacks a crucial purchase: traditional senatorial aristocrats had been effectively marginalized as military and civilian administrators even before Diocletian’s day and posed no collective threat to him or to later fourth-century emperors. In any case, our earlier remarks on the late court’s growth in size and complexity suggest a gradual process of development in a long timeframe: the idea that an institution as complex as the court of the late fourth century was coolly planned out in any detail by a single ruler or ruling clique is deeply implausible. But that does not preclude a measure of purposeful action in the mix; and if “domestication” of the traditional senatorial class was not the purpose, there were other background issues that could have been perceived as problematic by particular rulers, and which can be tied to particular actions attested for them. Here we can pick out two especially: in the late third century, a pressing need to re-establish imperial authority and military obedience after a mid-century “crisis” of unity; and in the wake of Diocletian’s administrative reforms, the need to integrate into the broader civilian society of the empire the new, “nonaristocratic,” professional military and civilian administrative elite that they had generated. Purposeful Initiatives under Diocletian? It would have required considerable prescience for Diocletian to appreciate the second of these needs, but he cannot have failed to comprehend the first. A case can be made for him (which Gibbon nicely made) as a 35  Its aptness even in relation to Versailles is now widely denied: see Duindam 2003, 8–10, for a compact overview, with assessment at 9, n. 10, of other recent works; see also above, n. 5.

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conscious reformer of court-ritual, a shrewd “soldier-emperor” of Balkan stock who realized the need to enhance the mystique of the imperial office in the eyes of his subjects, the soldiers especially, and who therefore deliberately intensified the “absolutist” symbolism of military authority and divine charisma in court ceremonial. No primary source explicitly attests as much, of course. However, late fourth-century writers do attach to Diocletian’s reign the introduction of two distinctive elements of court ceremonial in their own time: the so-called Adoration of the Purple, and the ruler’s bejewelled costume-display.36 Moreover, Ammianus calls the former “a foreign custom of [foreign] royalty” (externo et regio more), implying a ritual imported from the Persian court. The factual reliability of his report has been contested; on one view, the Adoration arose rather from a blend of earlier Roman and Hellenistic courtly rituals, and was already a feature of court ceremonial before Diocletian came to power.37 But it is not proven for certain that Ammianus erred in making Diocletian the innovator, and an alternative view remains a fair possibility— that the Adoration did in fact borrow elements from a Persian ritual of prostration before the ruler. It is suggestive, at least, that Diocletian had personally experienced that ritual from the honorand’s viewpoint; in 287 one Sassanian king prostrated himself at his feet, and in 298 the family and elite court household of another were captured and presented to him en masse.38 On our earlier argument, however, the fundamental measure of the late court’s distinctiveness is not the sacralising ideology of monarchic absolutism projected in its ceremonial; the crux, rather, is its social composition, structural complexity, and swelling bureaucratic apparatus. These aspects relate more evidently to the second perceptible “need” we have postulated in the background: the political and social integration of the professional elite that had eclipsed the traditional aristocracy in upperlevel military and civil administration. Insofar as Diocletian’s reforms had the effect of further entrenching and expanding this new caste, they may have done more to accentuate this need than to address it; perhaps it was only perceived as problematic after some decades had elapsed. The solution, anyway, would require a measure of social engineering, a reconfiguration of the imperial elite within a structure that modified traditional categories of social status, even if the traditional names and titles associated with them were retained.  Aur. Vict. Caes. 39.2; Eutr. 9.26; Amm. Marc. 15.5.18 (quoted below, n. 58).  Alföldi 1970, 6–25, 45–73; but note Stern 1954; Matthews 1989, 244–45. 38  Pan. Lat. 10 (2) 10.6, with Potter 2004, 292–93. 36 37

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The late court as we have described it would certainly be an emblem of such a reconfiguration, but it was potentially an engine that could drive it, too. By pulling three key groups into close proximity and interaction— the non-aristocratic military elite, the new non-aristocratic professional breed of civil administrator, and members of the traditional aristocracy— the court could promote a rapprochement of sorts between the new and the old: between the ethos of a reformist Tetrarch, as it were, and the ethos of traditional civic society (Matthews 1989, 249). Its high council (the consistory) and its upper-level “senatorial” domestic and bureaucratic offices drew from a wide social range: generals of mostly Germanic extraction; a plentiful stream from the provincial urban elites, promoted from lower posts in the palace ministries or from regional administrative postings or from service as officer cadets; traditional aristocrats adapting to the new game as elite officials or advisors; professors of rhetoric on the make; occasional spectacular arrivistes such as Flavius Philippus, supposedly a sausage-seller’s son; and, before the century ended, even the eunuch praepositi of the imperial household.39 The court could integrate them all in its new “aristocracy of service,” assigning them intricately graded titles in a comprehensive ranking order, and offices in ministries whose trappings and bureaucracy-speak evoked the ethos of army discipline and esprit de corps.40 Some aspects of this style may strike moderns as quaintly comic: civilian court-officials wore military-style uniforms and embroidered badges of rank, joined fictive “regiments” in “the camp,” and received their salaries as “rations”; retirees from middle-grade posts were “chief centurions.” But the late court was no Ruritanian joke. The effective everyday governance of the empire depended critically on the coherence of its elite classes around the “absolutist” ruler in a spirit of shared service as top soldiers, advisors, executive administrators, and brokers of patronage; and in the fourth century, the court was the principal field in which the elite’s component elements could be reconfigured and rendered a cohesive and amenable class in an “aristocracy of service.” Purposeful Initiatives under Constantine? In our view, then, the issue of purposeful action in relation to the “new” late court turns chiefly on how far particular rulers sensed its potential utility as an instrument to integrate the new and traditional elites and  Jones 1964, 127–28 (Philippus), 566–70, 1419–20 (eunuchs of senatorial rank).  See Jones 1964, 566, for the vocabulary; MacMullen 1990, 95–102, better conveys the ethos. 39 40

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attempted to exploit it to that end. Needless to say, no ancient literary source ascribes such a purpose to any fourth-century emperor, and the late court’s distinctive complexity—to repeat—cannot plausibly be traced to an individual initiative taken at a particular point in time. That said, it is tempting to attach particular significance to developments in the long reign of Constantine, particularly his years as sole emperor after Licinius’ elimination in 324. The court was a field in which the long-term social effects of Diocletian’s reforms, as they were absorbed and built upon, were vividly distilled and readily perceptible, and Constantine was certainly an innovator elsewhere. In one sense, his inauguration of Constantinople in 330, and the nurturing there of what became formally recognized three years after his death as a new Constantinopolitan senatorial order (see above), can symbolize the culmination of a long process running back a century and more: the gradual sidelining of the traditional Roman aristocratic class. But the creation of a new imperial capital and palace in the East was also (as Gibbon saw)41 an opportunity for him to innovate in matters pertaining to the court. Louis XIV’s inauguration in 1682 of the new Versailles-based court could clearly offer a parallel of sorts. In Constantine’s case, however, the undercutting of an over-powerful traditional aristocracy cannot plausibly be postulated as his guiding aim; already thoroughly marginalized by his day, and emphatically un-martial, the traditional aristocracy of Rome posed no threat. On the contrary, there are signs that Constantine was minded to offer traditional aristocrats a chance to re-enter imperial service on new terms. Paul Veyne has likened his situation and purposes in this connexion not to those of Louis XIV at Versailles, but rather to those of Napoleon Bonaparte in postRevolutionary France. A “new administrative nobility” (Veyne claims) had emerged over the half-century preceding Constantine’s reign, thoroughly supplanting the traditional aristocracy as a “ruling caste”: The [elite] political personnel of Constantine’s time was as different, from every standpoint (including its literary culture), from that of the [Antonine] Empire as the political personnel of nineteenth century France was from that of pre-Revolutionary times. . . . Constantine meant to heap favors on this new caste, like Napoleon creating barons and counts and making them wealthy. But secondly, Constantine wished also to be reconciled with the Senate in the strict [traditional] sense, like Napoleon trying to reconcile the nobility of the ancien régime and to take them into his service.42

41 42

 Gibbon 1994, 1.602.  Veyne 1990, 449, n. 210.

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The particular comparandum that Veyne clearly had in mind here was Napoleon’s care in selecting the inner elite that made up his reformed Council of State (the pinnacle of his central bureaucracy, analogous to the consistory of the late imperial court), and the elite Prefects appointed from Paris to administer the nation’s regional “departments” (the civilian governors of the Diocletianic provinces and dioceses, as it were). In both cases, Napoleon cannily recruited from a wide pool and aimed to encourage a sense of esprit de corps within bodies of mixed social composition. Former Jacobins and ex-generals of the revolutionary armies were blended with quondam officials of the ancien régime and scions of the “old” aristocracy in a style that cast them all as a new soldierly nobility united in their service of the emperor. Like the Late Roman elite court-officials mentioned above, Napoleonic Prefects wore elaborate quasi-military ceremonial uniforms; all took the title “count” or “baron” on appointment, and were required to possess a heraldic coat of arms or to acquire one.43 If it was indeed a central aim of Constantine to achieve a rapprochement with the traditional senatorial elite and to reintegrate it with the “new administrative nobility” in the emperor’s service, the policy would certainly have had repercussions for the composition and management of his court, and it is reasonable to look for signs of purposeful modification and structural “tweaking” by him in this regard. It would be easy to claim too much for him. The blending of the old and the new elites in a new “aristocracy of service” was a gradual process still developing well after his reign, and not always running smoothly. The transformed “aristocracy” of Late Roman court society only crystallized in the wake of Valentinian’s law of 372 (mentioned above), which established a clear and more or less comprehensive order of precedence for all members of the court’s consistory and the senatorial order, ranking them according to what offices in the imperial service they either held or had previously held.44 Differences between East and West must also be allowed for. At Constantinople, the process was perhaps made easier by the senate’s close

43  For a measured view of the rehabilitation of the “old” nobility, see Sutherland 1985, 366–68, 384–90. 44  It should not be imagined that Valentinian’s purpose here was to conciliate the traditional senatorial class. Rather, as is well known, it was to favor and “integrate” his Pannonian military associates, and as such it was objectionable to traditional senators: see Matthews 1975, 32–55, esp. 39–40. Under Gratian, his successor, this policy was repudiated, and the process of reconciliation between the traditional aristocracy and the imperial court that Constantine had initiated resumed and quickened: Matthews 1975, 64–77, 86–87.

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proximity to the court—a senate, moreover, whose membership from its inception was made up mainly of non-traditional aristocrats. Geography separated the Roman senate from the court, and it remained relatively more “aristocratic” in complexion, even by the end of the century.45 But initiatives securely datable to Constantine’s reign were significant drivers of the process and do suggest a measure of purposeful reform.46 First, a reconciliatory gesture and invitation, as it were, to a sidelined class: Constantine opened up again to traditional senatorial aristocrats a good proportion of the civilian administrative posts that Diocletian had reserved exclusively for his equestrian professionals. In addition, the status conferred by tenure of such posts was upgraded to raise to senatorial rank any appointee who did not already possess it, thus saving the dignity of traditional aristocrats who might otherwise have hesitated to serve in positions that since Diocletian’s day had come to be associated with non-senatorial functionaries.47 On this score, we can trace back to a Constantinian initiative the beginnings of a practice noted earlier as transformative: the bestowal of senatorial status on men appointed to upper-ranking posts in the civilian administration. Like Napoleon creating his Prefects counts on appointment, so, too, by this practice Roman emperors put a defining status-marker of traditional aristocrats to innovative use. While extending senatorial status in practice to a wider social pool, they signalled that the ruling authority still valued and respected aristocratic status-values, and that aristocrats could serve again with honor—and profit—in the civilian (but only the civilian) branch of the administration. For ambitious aristocrats, there was an obvious implication: the court was the heart of the administration, and the place where the highest honors and the richest profits could be sought. Construed within this context, a further initiative ascribed to Constantine seems especially telling: his creation of a new status-order, the comitiva—an Order of Comites, or Imperial “Companions.” Here again, we can see a traditional term picked up on and applied in a novel context. Comes had long been used to designate an intimate court-associate of the emperor,48 but the formal creation of the new order, its division from the outset into three sub-orders of rank, the size of its membership, and the procedure by which the title comes was officially conferred by a codicil  Jones 1964, 550–51, 554–56.  We leave out of account some significant innovations in the bureaucratic structure which may be Constantinian but are possibly of earlier origin: see Jones 1964, 103. 47  Jones 1964, 106–7. 48  On comites in the early and high empire, see Eck 2000, 206–7. 45 46

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issued at court—all that represents major Constantinian innovation.49 As a new, third order of nobility overlapping with the old senatorial and equestrian orders, the comitiva became a status-category to which members of both those older orders (and men who were members of neither) could aspire. Constantine bestowed the title not only on advisors or officials at court, but also on senior imperial officials serving outside it: members of the order who actually served at court were distinguished as comites “within the palace,” or “within the consistory.”50 It could also be conferred as a purely honorary title to private individuals, and in fact over time the swelling number of comites of the lower-ranking sub-orders would diminish the prestige of the title. But for the inner court-elite enrolled as members of the consistory (the counterpart, in Veyne’s comparison, to Napoleon’s Council of State), the rank of a “first-order” comes intra consistorium was a badge of signal distinction. For any ambitious outsider who aspired to join their company, the very existence of the comitiva advertised the practical importance of access, either directly or through a court-based intermediary, to the patronage of the inner elite, the men whom Ammianus called the court’s celsae potestates or “powers on high” (14.1.10; cf. 28.6.9). Inasmuch as the rank of comes was conferred for what the emperor viewed as useful service, Constantine’s new “Order of Companions” illuminates a basic choice that Rome’s traditional senatorial aristocrats now came to face. It was one to which a leading member of their order in the late fourth century, Quintus Aurelius Symmachus, would often allude in his letters (Matthews 1975, 9–12): either stay at home and live as a dignified senatorial bigwig in a “museum-piece” city, or else adapt, set out for the court, and compete there for high office and preferment with men for whom senatorial status was not a birthright, but a status to be won through tenure of an office in the imperial service. A friend of Symmachus, the poet Ausonius, offers a striking example of the latter breed, and of the court’s capacity to transform the political and social horizons of a man of merely “respectable” upper-class origin.51 A Gaul 49  See Jones 1964, 104–5, 526–28, with Scharf 1994. The innovation of the comitiva has a parallel of sorts in Constantine’s revival (Jones 1964, 106) of another venerable title (“patrician”) bestowed for life by the emperor as a personal honor, an elite status-category second only to the consulate. But the fact that the title was bestowed very sparingly (see Jones 1964, 1225, n. 28: only two patricians are attested for Constantine’s reign, and only six for the entire fourth century) renders this revival much less significant in practice than the comitiva as an “engine” of reconfiguration. 50  Jones 1964, 105–6 (new “third order”), 526 (comites intra consistorium). 51  Matthews 1975, 51–55, 69–72, 81–84.

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and the son of a doctor, Ausonius had worked comfortably for decades as a professor of rhetoric at Bordeaux before his reputation for eloquence won him a post at the court of Valentinian as tutor to his son, the future emperor Gratian. Once there, he struck up influential friendships, became a “first-order” comes by tenure of a senior legal office,52 and, after Gratian’s accession, rose to join the “powers on high” as Praetorian Prefect and finally consul ordinarius.53 It was at Valentinian’s court at Trier that Ausonius and Symmachus formed their friendship. Symmachus had travelled there from Rome in 368/69 as a delegate from the senate, to offer formal congratulations to the emperor on the fifth anniversary of his accession. Already, by then, he had held a regional provincial governorship in southern Italy, one of the posts that Constantine’s measures had reopened to traditional senators; and for his service in the emperor’s company at Trier he was created a “third-order” comes by Valentinian. Later, in the reign of Gratian, Ausonius’ influence could have ensured a high office at the imperial court for Symmachus, if he had wanted it. In the event, he never sought one, preferring to cultivate a shining senatorial career based mainly at Rome.54 But he always took care to maintain contacts by letter with influential men at court, and their support made him an influential broker of court patronage; in 391, in the reign of Theodosius I, it would secure for him, too, the ultimate honor of a consulship.55 Taken together, the careers of these two friends can serve to illuminate a broader trend: “the real story of the fourth century,” it has been said, “[is] the rise of the senatorial bureaucrat and the adaptation of the old aristocracy to new conditions.”56 If that is so, then purposeful reforms of Constantine relating to the court deserve a place in the story. IV. PERCEPTIONS OF CHANGE: AMMIANUS ON THE FOURTH-CENTURY COURT This discussion has focused on the fourth-century imperial court as a human collectivity: in particular, its composition, size, and structural  Quaestor Sacri Palatii, a post most likely created by Constantine: Jones 1964, 143.  The supreme honor available to any imperial subject, whether soldier or civilian: Jones 1964, 532–33. 54  On his public career, see Sogno 2006; Matthews 1975, 12–17 (overview); 32–33 (Trier). 55  Matthews 1975, 68–69 (broker of patronage), 229–31 (consul); Sogno 2006, 21–25 (court contacts after Trier). 56  Heather 1998, 209; cf. 197. 52 53

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configuration. Within these three closely related fields, we have identified developments over the course of the century that in our view must indeed be counted transformative in their combined effect: by the late fourth century, we have argued, the court had gradually mutated into a structure whose scale, complexity, and social composition made for something radically “new” in Roman government. A structural change unfolding incrementally across a century is more easily measured, of course, at a distance than close-up, and scarcely any of the hard evidence for the numbers and hierarchic ordering of the court personnel from which we have been arguing is drawn from fourth-century literary sources; the bulk of it has been quarried by modern scholars—notably, Hugo Jones— from the mass of legal data preserved by the fifth-century compilers of the Theodosian Code. Still, one would expect some sense of the change to have registered with thoughtful observers by the late fourth century, and a full account of the Late Roman court’s distinctiveness would need to attend closely to the terms in which its contemporaries subjectively perceived and judged the matter. That question, however, is tangential to the particular issue we have aimed to elucidate—namely, objectively measurable change in the composition, size and structure of the court’s personnel; it is not a question which we aim or need to amplify much upon here. In closing, we shall merely revert to a point that we touched upon earlier, to suggest the terms in which one well-placed late fourthcentury writer registered the change. Ammianus was writing his history as a retired military officer in the 380s. He visited Rome in these years, and observed the grand style of its senatorial elite close up and surely also the spectacular pomp attending the emperor Theodosius’ state visit to Rome in 389. He was writing, too, with personal experience of the court: in the 350s, as a young man, he had served as a protector—an officer cadet—at the court of Constantius II.57 The books of his history in which he treated Diocletian and Constantine are lost, but occasional backward glances in the later books hint that he did view the court he knew as one that had changed distinctively since pre-Tetrarchic times. As noted above, he represented its ritual as having been restyled by Diocletian on the lines of Persian despotism: “[he] was the first [Roman emperor] to introduce the ritual adoration of the ruler, in the foreign custom of [foreign] kings—whereas always previously, we have read, emperors had been saluted in the fashion accorded to judicial

57  At Rome: Amm. Marc. 14.6, 28.4, with Matthews 1989, 9–12, 414–16. As protector: Amm. Marc. 14.9.1, 15.5.22, with Matthews 1989, 76–77.

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magistrates.”58 Constantine, for his part, “was the first, as clear evidence proves, to open up the gullets of his proximi”—that is to say, he fostered among his court-elite an appetite for riches which would surge (so Ammianus continues) to corruptive levels of criminal greed in the reign of his son Constantius, both within and beyond the court (16.8.12). Ammianus’ verdict in this case was plainly critical, and at first sight the comment on Diocletian might be taken similarly. But that is to read Ammianus through the eyes of Gibbon (quoted above), for whom the Adoration epitomized slavish degradation and humiliation. Ammianus did not see things that way at all: he reports the Diocletianic innovation as simply a point of historical interest, not the origin of some future ill that would surge to corrupt the state. By his day, it was normal practice for appointees to imperial posts, if their investiture occurred at court, to kiss the purple robe (Jones 1964, 337); Ammianus himself will have done so on enrolment as an officer cadet. He does not mention his own case, but his description of an Adoration performed in 355 by the general Ursicinus, which he had eye-witnessed, makes it clear that the ritual was a privilege and badge of dignity in the general’s eyes; Ammianus reports it squarely in that spirit, as a demonstration to the court elite that the emperor held Ursicinus in high regard. Having been under a cloud at court, Ursicinus was called to the consistory-chamber by the Master of Admissions, “which is the more honorable kind of summons,” and on entering it he was offered the purple to kiss “more graciously than on any previous occasion” (15.5.18). It was likewise no discredit to his hero Julian, as Ammianus saw it, that he had been prepared to be “adored” as emperor (21.9.8). In the eyes of Ammianus and his contemporary readers, in short, a ceremony, which had originated (so they believed) less than a century earlier with a Diocletianic borrowing from Persian despots, had become “traditional.” As it seemed to them, the performance of the Adoration gave no cause for shame; it was an occasion, rather, that a Roman could contemplate with pride.59

58  15.5.18: “Diocletianus enim Augustus omnium primus, externo et regio more instituit adorari, cum semper antea ad similitudinem iudicum salutatos principes legerimus,” with Matthews 1989, 244–47. Cf. Gibbon 1994, 1.388, where Ammianus’ sentence (though not cited ad loc) was surely the model for Gibbon’s own statement that “from the time of Augustus to that of Diocletian, the Roman princes [. . .] were saluted only with the same respect that was usually paid to senators and magistrates.” 59  Gibbon’s partial recognition of this point is relegated to an understated footnote: “It appears by the Panegyrists that the Romans were soon reconciled to the name and ceremony of adoration” (1.389, n. 102).

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The spirit in which Ammianus discussed the Adoration is a striking testimony to what Peter Brown has called the power of the fourth-century state to “induce particular habits of mind and behavior.”60 An ideology articulated in the court’s structures and ceremonial flowed outwards and downwards from the center to impinge forcefully on the mentality of a broader elite across the empire—the mark of a mature “court society,” in the sense we earlier ascribed to that term. The court-centred state’s capacity to shape the presuppositions and values of its subjects was nicely put in a remark of Geoffrey de Ste Croix: “A central difference between Ammianus’ thought-world and our own is that men of the fourth century simply could not imagine the possibility of fundamental change in social arrangements.”61 Of Ammianus, at least, that is essentially true. It is not that his representation of the court and its habitués is uncritical. He deplores the greed and excessive ostentation of Constantius’ court, and treats Julian’s subsequent purging of the Constantinopolitan palace’s domestic staff as a badly needed clear-out (albeit one, he remarks, that unjustly swept away an honest few along with the corrupt majority).62 Or take his accounts of sinister informers and eunuch “snakes” manoeuvring at court around closeted, suspicion-prone rulers; they can conjure a terrifying picture.63 But as rulers saw things, of course, a measure of fear in one’s subjects—or more politely, awed obedience in the face of godlike power—was part of the court’s whole point. Ammianus took the instilling of awe at court for granted, as entirely right and necessary. Constantius’ majestic remoteness was a mark in his favor, and it was one of Ammianus’ muted criticisms of Julian that his friendly style and love of popularity occasionally detracted from the dignity of the imperial office.64 Ammianus wrote a court-centred history in which he criticized what he saw as excesses and crimes perpetrated within the court, but his criticisms did not touch the structures that sustained it, still less the sacralising ideology that glorified the monarchic power at its apex; this was an ideology that he had thoroughly absorbed and did not think to  Brown 1997, 24; cf. 1992, 17.  Reported in Parker 2001, 467. Strictly speaking, Ammianus was not incapable of imagining a contemporary society in which there was no established monarch and no stable hierarchic ordering of the aristocracy; near the end of his history he sketched the world of the Huns in just those terms (31.2–12). But he imagined it a world devoid of all morality and religion, in which no civilized existence would be possible. 62  16.8.12; 22.4.1–10. 63  See, for example, 15.3.4; 18.4.4; 21.16.8–9; 26.10.1–2; 26.10.12–13; 29.1.18–20, with Smith 2007, 227. 64  16.10.10–12; 21.16.1 (Constantius); 22.7.3; 25.4.18 (Julian). 60 61

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question.65 On that score, at least, he had something in common with two lesser contemporary historians, Aurelius Victor and Eutropius. Both of them had prospered at court, rising from service as clerks in branches of the palace-secretariat to upper-level posts which conferred senatorial status;66 each of them composed an abbreviated survey of Roman history imbued with the bureaucrat’s ethos. Ammianus’ achievement as a historian is of another order entirely, but if his own career at court had taken a different turn, the young officer cadet Ammianus might quite easily have remained there to become a senior notary or departmental head within its complex bureaucratic apparatus. University of Newcastle e-mail: [email protected]

BIBLIOGRAPHY Alföldi, Andreas. 1970. Die monarchische Repräsentation im römischen Kaiser­reiche. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. [Rpt. of 1934–1935] Beik, William. 1985. Absolutism and Society in 17th Century France: State Power and Provincial Aristocracy in Languedoc. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bird, H. W. 1993. Eutropius: Breviarium. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. ———. 1994. Sextus Aurelius Victor: De Caesaribus. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Brown, Peter. 1992. Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. ———. 1997. “The World of Late Antiquity Revisited: A Report.” Symb. Osl. 72:5–32. ———. 2003. The Rise of Western Christendom: Triumph and Diversity, A.D. 200–1000. 2d ed. Oxford: Blackwell. Burgess, R. W. 2001. “Eutropius V.C. Magister Memoriae?” CP 96:76–81. Butz, Reinhard, Jan Hirschbiegel, and Dietmar Willoweit, eds. 2004. Hof und Theorie. Annäherungen an ein historisches Phänomen. Cologne: Böhlau. Cameron, Averil. 2002. “The ‘Long’ Late Antiquity: A Late 20th Century Model.” In Classics in Progress: Essays on Ancient Greece and Rome, ed. T. P. Wiseman, 165–92. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Duindam, Jeroen. 1995. Myths of Power: Norbert Elias and the Early Modern European Court. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. ———. 2003. Vienna and Versailles: The Courts of Europe’s Dynastic Rivals, 1550–1780. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.  MacMullen 1990, 69–70, notes also traces of “bureaucratese” in his style.  On the career of Victor, see Bird 1994, vii–xi; of Eutropius, see Bird 1993, vii–xvii, with Burgess 2001. 65 66

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———. 2004. “Norbert Elias and the History of the Court.” In Butz, Hirschbiegel, and Willoweit 2004, 87–100. Eck, Werner. 2000. “The Emperor and His Advisers.” In CAH 2 11:195–213. Elias, Norbert. 1983. The Court Society. Oxford: Blackwell. Friedländer, Ludwig. 1862. Darstellungen aus der Sittengeschichte Roms in der Zeit von August bis zum Ausgang der Antonine. Leipzig: Hirzel. ———. 1907. Roman Life and Manners under the Early Empire [=Darstellungen, 7th ed., 1901]. Trans. L. A. Magnus. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Gibbon, Edward. 1994. The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, ed. David Womersley. 3 vols. London: Allen Lane. [Cited by chapter and page number; original publication 1776–1788.] Heather, Peter. 1998. “Senators and Senates.” In CAH 2 13:184–210. Jones, A. H. M. 1964. The Later Roman Empire 284–602: A Social, Economic and Administrative Survey. Oxford: Blackwell. Liebeschuetz, J. H. W. G. 2001. Decline and Fall of the Roman City. Oxford: Oxford University Press. MacMullen, Ramsay. 1988. Corruption and the Decline of Rome. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press. ———. 1990. Changes in the Roman Empire: Essays in the Ordinary. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press. Matthews, John. 1975. Western Aristocracies and Imperial Court AD 364–425. Oxford: Oxford University Press. ———. 1989. The Roman Empire of Ammianus. London: Duckworth. Millar, Fergus. 2007. A Greek Roman Empire: Power and Belief under Theodosius II (408–450). Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Parker, Robert. 2001. “Geoffrey Ernest Maurice de Ste. Croix, 1910–2000.” Proc. Brit. Acad. 111:447–78. Potter, D. S. 2004. The Roman Empire at Bay, AD 180–395. London: Routledge. Roullet, Anne. 1972. The Egyptian and Egyptianizing Monuments of Imperial Rome. Leiden: Brill. Saint-Simon, Louis de Rouvroy. 1983–1988. Mémoires complets et authentiques, ed. Yves Coirault. 8 vols. (Collection Bibliothèque de la Pléiade.) Paris: Gallimard. Scharf, Raif. 1994. Comites und Comitiva Primi Ordinis. Stuttgart: Steiner. Smith, R. B. E. 2007. “The Imperial Court of the Late Roman Empire, c. AD 300–c. AD 450.” In Spawforth 2007, 157–232. Sogno, Cristiana. 2006. Q. Aurelius Symmachus: A Political Biography. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Spawforth, A. J. S., ed. 2007. The Court and Court Society in Ancient Monarchies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Stern, Henri. 1954. “Remarks on the Adoration under Diocletian.” JWI 17:184–89. Sutherland, Donald. 1985. France 1789–1815: Revolution and Counter-Revolution. London: Collins/Fontana.

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Veyne, Paul. 1990. Bread and Circuses: Historical Sociology and Political Pluralism. Trans. Brian Pearce. London: Allen Lane. Ward-Perkins, Bryan. 2005. The Fall of Rome: And the End of Civilization. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Winterling, Aloys. 1986. Der Hof der Kurfürsten von Köln 1688–1794. Eine Fallstudie zur Bedeutung “absolutistischer” Hofhaltung. Bonn: Röhrscheid. ———. 1999. Aula Caesaris: Studien zur Institutionalisierung des römischen Kaiserhofes in der Zeit von Augustus bis Commodus. Munich: Oldenbourg. ———. 2004: “‘Hof’: Versuch einer idealtypischen Bestimmung anhand der mittelalterlichen und frühneuzeitlichen Geschichte.” In Butz, Hirschbiegel, and Willoweit 2004, 77–90.

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 Harriet I. Flower. Roman Republics. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2010. xv + 204 pp. Cloth, $29.95. Flower’s book offers a new interpretation of Republican history based on rejecting the traditional notion of a single Roman Republic. Flower’s alternative periodization speaks of several republics (six to be exact), with several transitional periods. This thesis puts emphasis on cleavage rather than on (excessive) continuity implied, according to Flower, in the customary notion of “a single, monolithic republic” (17). Part 1, “Framework,” presents the case for regarding the Roman history during the time in question as a history of several republics that differed from each other in crucial aspects, rather than being different versions, and stages of development, of a single political system. Periodization is, notoriously, at once indispensable and highly problematic. Among other things, it is “intrinsically and inevitably anachronistic . . . The Romans in antiquity did not think of their lives in terms of the phases and divisions that modern historians use. Too often, however, a chronological scheme seems to take on a life of its own. . . . By contrast, my study sets out to construct a periodisation that is based entirely on hindsight and that is explicitly characterized as such” (6). Thus the suggested list of republics and transitional periods does not purport to reflect Roman contemporary (or later) self-perception. Rather, it is meant to serve as a useful analytical tool for a modern historian—more useful than the “orthodox” notion of a single Republic, which, in Flower’s view, tends to obscure the fundamental and radical changes that took place within this timeframe (including within each of the traditional sub-categories of Early, Middle, and Late Republic). The analytical advantages that such an approach promises are considerable. However, they come at a price. The Romans’ own historical consciousness is important in analysing Roman society. There certainly seems to have been a strong and widespread feeling that the Republic—the “Roman people henceforward free, annual magistrates, the power of laws stronger than of men” (Liv. 2.1), “liberty and consulate” (Tac. Ann. 1.1), the “old res publica” of the Principate—was a distinct system of government that emerged with the expulsion of Tarquinius, underwent various changes and modifications while retaining its essential continuity, reached its apogee during what modern historians call the Middle Republic, deteriorated during what they call the Late Republic, collapsed during the civil wars of the 40s and was finally replaced by what, at any rate with hindsight, was clearly perceived as a new and fundamentally different political dispensation under Augustus. These feelings and perceptions were historical facts in their own right, American Journal of Philology 132 (2011) 153–168 © 2011 by The Johns Hopkins University Press

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and people might sometimes be prepared to act upon them. Those who called upon Brutus in the last months of Caesar’s dictatorship to follow the example of his putative ancestor, the legendary founder of the Republic, evidently saw the contemporary Roman Republic as a continuation, in some essential sense, of the one established by the first consul (although there is no reason to assume that they were ignorant of the fact that its political character had changed hugely since 509), rather than regarding their times as already post-Republican (according to Flower’s reconstruction). They expected Brutus the praetor of 44 to share their historical outlook and political sentiments (closely interconnected) and to act accordingly. Of course, a political system can be regarded as both “new,” in some important respect, and a continuation, in a larger sense, of an older one. The semi-official designation of five republics in France is certainly compatible with the notion of the continuous existence of the French Republic since the Third one. At the outset of the Fourth Republic, immediately after the liberation of Paris, De Gaulle rejected a suggestion that he should “proclaim the Republic,” in the style of French revolutions, on the grounds that the Republic had continued to exist, legitimately, during the Vichy “transitional period.” In Britain, on the other hand, it would have been inconceivable to label the political system emerging from any of the numerous changes since the Glorious Revolution (whose accumulative effect has indisputably been to transform the system of government beyond recognition) as a “fifth constitutional monarchy” or some such thing. This reflects the greater emphasis on tradition and continuity in British political culture; that the Roman one was similar in this respect tells us something important about Roman society. None of this means that a different perspective, consciously divorced from Roman perceptions and stressing change rather than continuity—such as the one suggested in this learned and highly readable book—cannot prove useful in analyzing Roman history. But it is more likely to be useful as a challenge to the traditional chronology than successful in providing a widely accepted alternative to it. The suggested periodization is set out on page 33 and in the appendix (173–76): a pre-Republican transitional period from 509 to 494; a proto-Republic before the first written law code (494 to 451/50); Republic 1 (“an experiment, including the consular tribunes,” 450 to 367/66); Republic 2 (“the emergence of a republic shared by patricians and plebeians,” 366 to 300); then follow the three “republics of the nobiles” (300 to 180; 180 to 139; 139 to 88) and a transitional period of civil wars (88 to 81). Republic 6, that of Sulla (“modified . . . in 70”), is the last Republic according to this scheme; it is followed by five post-Republican periods: the first triumvirate, a transitional period from 52 to 49, the dictatorship of Caesar, the second triumvirate, and the years between the end of the second triumvirate (33) and the establishment of the Augustan Principate in 27. Chapter 3 of part 1 deals with the “early republics” of the fifth and the fourth centuries; part 2, “Change,” examines the second century and the beginning of the first one, till

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Sulla’s dictatorship; part 3, “Aftermath,” strongly insists, in chapter 8, that Sulla’s reforms produced a “New Republic,” “present[ing] a radical departure” from past political practices (120), and examines the series of post-Republican transitional periods that followed its failure. Chapter 9 then sets out the “Implications” of this alternative periodization for a number of important and controversial issues of Roman history. The appendix presents “An Assortment of Timelines.” Some elements of this periodization are likely to be more readily accepted as highlighting significant transformations and rupture points, others are likely to prove more controversial; in either case, a potentially useful debate on an important and often neglected issue of continuity and discontinuity in Republican politics is stimulated. It is clear that each of the traditional sub-divisions of Republican history covers significantly disparate political dispensations. The Early Republic after the opening of the magistracies to plebeians in mid-fourth century (or of the priesthoods, in 300—Flower’s suggestion for a starting point for the “three republics of nobiles” lasting till 88) was very different from the Early Republic in which power had been monopolized by patricians, although it still had to wait, in the traditional periodization, for the Hortensian Law before turning into the Middle Republic. Similarly, the last decades of the (Late) Republic, “the age of Cicero,” certainly seem different, in crucial ways, from the Late Republic of the Gracchi—and not just with hindsight: Cicero shows, in his De republica, keen awareness of the fact that he is living in a very different political world than that of the interlocutors in the dialogue set in the aftermath of the tribunate of Tiberius Gracchus. The most dramatic and significant rupture point between these two periods was, undoubtedly, Sulla’s dictatorship and reforms, preceded by the civil wars of the 80s. Flower is surely right to highlight the crucial importance of this break in continuity. Sulla’s republic was indeed “new” in a very real sense. But was it a “completely new republic” (120)? Flower argues that it was. “The use of the same names for magistrates and for other political functions should not obscure the degree of innovation (as it has not for the political settlement of Augustus)” (120). Tacitus’ eadem magistratuum vocabula (Ann. 1.3) readily comes to mind. But were the changes quite radical enough to justify this (implied) analogy? We cannot really be sure that Sulla made a “decision to abolish the censorship” (123). To suggest that, in Sulla’s republic, “lex was to replace mos maiorum” (129), because of the importance of the permanent courts and Sulla’s detailed legislation in various fields, seems to go too far. However, the main question, clearly, is the power of the Senate, and its character as an institution. Flower points out that Sulla’s Senate was a radically changed one: it was much wider, and most junior senators could not expect to reach higher office; many would not be “elected to anything,” but instead “spent their life as jurors.” A wide gap was thus, she argues, created between the mass of pedarii and semi-pedarii and those who held the highest offices. This inner circle of the elite was liberated from much of the senatorial elite’s traditional dependence on wider public opinion by

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Sullla’s muzzling of the tribunes and the contiones; this inner circle, rather than the Senate as a whole, was meant to be the real seat of power in Sulla’s New Republic (121–28). However, for all the undoubted importance of hierarchy within the Senate, decisions still had to be made by a majority, on a one-senator/one-vote basis. That “future recruits were now to be drawn automatically . . . from ex-quaestors” was indeed an innovation, but hardly one proving that Sulla’s reform in this field was “a startling and complete departure from any republican precedent,” since, as Flower herself points out, “most senators had always been former magistrates.” Moreover, the arrangement under which the (more democratic) tribal assembly elected twenty (instead of twelve) quaestors each year, and these joined the Senate automatically, can actually be seen as strengthening the popular element in the system, by giving the People greater direct influence on the composition of the Senate (cf. Cic. Leg. 3. 27: “Ex iis autem qui magistratum ceperunt quod senatus efficitur, populare <est> sane neminem in summum locum nisi per populum venire, sublata cooptatione censoria”; Cicero balances this “vitium” by a provision enhancing the standing of senatorial decrees). Such an arrangement makes political sense only on the assumption that Sulla wanted to strengthen his powerful Senate by conferring greater popular legitimacy on it. The greater number of jurors required for the law-courts certainly helps explain the need for a wider Senate and the increase in the number of quaestors, but this need could have been met by reducing the numbers of iudices in each quaestio, if Sulla had aimed at minimizing the People’s power in every sense. He evidently feared “seditious” tribunes and their pernicious influence on the people rather than popular assemblies as such, at any rate in their electoral capacity (but note that higher magistrates, unlike tribunes, were not required to obtain senatorial authorization for their bills). In his attitude to popular elections, at least, Sulla was a rather traditional Republican politician. But if ambitious politicians still needed to compete for the people’s votes, nothing could prevent some of them from seeking popularity by initiating popular bills, including on the restoration of the tribunate. The legislative power of the people could not, ultimately, be neutralized without curtailing their electoral power—as was finally proved in 70, when much of Sulla’s constitution was repealed by that year’s consuls. The potentially disruptive power of electoral politics was brought home to Sulla already before his retirement, when, to his dismay, he “saw Pompey going off through the Forum with a throng” after “making Lepidus consul, against Sulla’s wishes, by canvassing for him and making the people zealously support him through their goodwill towards himself” (Plut. Pomp. 15). The scene is unmistakably Republican and traditional (in both the aristocratic and popular aspects of traditional Republican politics). It is sometimes useful to put emphasis on discontinuity, as Flower does, but continuity should also be given its due. Alexander Yakobson Hebrew University of Jerusalem e-mail: [email protected]

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John F. Miller. Apollo, Augustus, and the Poets. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009. xii + 408 pp. 10 black-and-white ills. Cloth, $110. In 2003, Konstantinos Zachos published an article in the Journal of Roman Archaeology on an elaborate tropaeum in the hills north of the Actian promontory, built to celebrate Octavian’s naval victory at the Battle of Actium. Octavian also significantly enlarged and renovated the old Akarnanian Temple to Apollo Actius overlooking the Actian bay, and he built an entire “Victory City” (Nikopolis) which was formed from the forced merging (synoecism) of several long-standing communities. Zachos writes this about the patron of the victory monument: “The complex of structures was both a symbol of Octavian’s victory and power and also a monument of political and religious propaganda” (65). I suspect that his article has surely, at least in part, inspired recent re-examinations of the impact of the Battle of Actium on the notion of Roman governance, imperial identity in the lifetime of the princeps, and the Roman pantheon in general. Before Zachos’ study, Robert Gurval in his study, Actium and Augustus (Ann Arbor, 2002), took the position that the importance of Actium had been overplayed in the scholarship of recent decades, and he attempted to dissociate from Actium the Augustan projects at Rome, preferring instead to empower the poets, particularly Virgil, as a significant source of Actian propaganda. How does one square the events leading up to 31, the events of 31 proper, the concerted efforts of Augustus throughout his career to bring greater glory to Apollo, and the literary results in the poetry of the so-called Augustan age? John Miller’s volume on Apolline poetics, which has recently received meritorious recognition as the 2010 recipient of the Charles J. Goodwin award, addresses this and many other important questions: when did Octavian begin to cultivate an association to the god Apollo?; why Apollo?; and in what way does the poetry of the age reflect that association? As the title promises, Miller presents extensive and useful analyses of the degree to which the poets “test the limits of Apollo as a signifier of Augustus in Augustan poetry” (299), giving us a detailed account of the intersections between Aeneas, Apollo, and Augustus in the Aeneid and between other poets, Augustus, and Apollo in their various works. The book does more than that: Miller provides us with background on the relationship between Octavian and Apollo, topographical and symbolic analysis of the Apolline monuments in Rome, and reexamination of the aims and achievements of the ludi saeculares in 17 b.c.e. How Apollo came to matter to the Romans is an important theological as well as political question. Apollo existed in the Roman pantheon primarily as a healer “of no particular prominence” (M. Beard, J. North, and S. Price. Roman Religion. Volume 1: A History [Cambridge 1998] 199). Over the course of his work, Miller demonstrates the degree to which Octavian promoted Apollo to the important role of victor at Actium, protector of Rome, and even harbinger of the new epoch. In the process Miller reminds us (especially in chap. 1) that during the triumviral period several individuals associated themselves and their ­families

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with various deities, particularly on coins, to promote power and to promise renewal (18–30). Mark Antony’s Dionysus or Sol, Sextus Pompey’s Neptune, or Brutus’ Apollo, could just as easily have enjoyed prominence on the Palatine at Rome. Yet it was Octavian who emerged from the civil wars as winner, and therefore his Apollo—possibly his favored deity as early as 42 b.c.e.—took the place of honor near the emperor’s palace. Miller is more willing than Gurval to see connections between Apollo Palatinus and Apollo Actius (191 and chap. 4, in general), although he is cautious about summoning up triumviral coins or the famous “Banquet of the Twelve Gods” (dodekatheos) reported by Suetonius (Aug. 70) as evidence that Octavian was trying in the late 40’s and early 30’s b.c.e. to pair himself with Phoebus as his patron god (19). Miller tries to find the golden mean, suggesting that although Octavian did honor Apollo, both at Actium and in Rome, nevertheless “these dedications themselves do not necessarily add up to a carefully orchestrated or unified attempt to attribute the battle’s success primarily to Apollo. . . . In so far as the young Caesar honored Apollo in connection with Actium in several ways . . . , he can be said to have originated the idea of Apolline support of his military victory over Antony and Cleopatra” (57). Beyond this concern about the derivations of Actian propaganda, Miller truly delivers in his intertextual and interpretive analyses of a variety of Augustan literary works. In chapter 2, “Apollo at Actium,” he shows how two anonymous Greek elegies offer nuanced evidence of the reception of Octavian’s victory (AP 9.553 and P.Lond. 256 R [b]). The latter elegy, Miller argues, was likely inspired by Virgil’s ecphrastic Actium scene on the shield, since it envisions Apollo fighting in the battle for Octavian. This leads to a textual analysis of the battle scene on Aeneas’ shield (Aen. 8.671–713) that is filled with many well-researched points, but ends with the insight that: “in Virgil’s ecphrastic narrative of Actium and its aftermath, Apollo is the chief divinity, perhaps implying a reordering of the Roman pantheon” (75). This idea comes up again when Miller discusses the ludi saeculares (chap. 5) and, specifically, Horace’s Carmen Saeculare which displays in its lyrics, as well as in the likely choreography of the fifty-four youths who sing the lyrics, that Apollo and Diana are placed above all the other gods in the pantheon, and where “the chorus voice their ‘certain hope’ that Jupiter and all the deities agree in the bounteous favor of the new era that Apollo and Diana are conferring upon Rome” (296–97). Then, in chapter 7 on Apollo’s appearances in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, to provide balance to the idea that poets mostly conceived of Roman Apollo as Augustus’ new version of Capitoline Jupiter, Miller points to Ovid’s placement of Apollo (Phoebe domestice) with Vesta and the Trojan penates (Met. 15.861–70), with the result that “Apollo is counted among the Emperor’s household gods” (370)—good old sardonic Ovid. Miller ingeniously crafts all these arguments with many coils of analysis, extensive engagement with the relevant scholarship, and masterful intertextual display. Miller gives attention to Apolline references in the elegiac poets, as well as in Horace’s other lyric poems, offering insight in particular to Propertius 2.31, 3.1,

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and 4.6, to Tibullus 2.5, to Horace Odes 1.2, 1.21, 1.31, 3.4, and 4.6, and to passages from the second book of Ovid’s Ars (chaps. 1, 2, 4, 5, and 6, not respectively). He finds differing uses of Apollo among the different authors, as each allowed the two key aspects of Phoebus (poetic and victorious) to filter through his personal poetic agenda. Sometimes Apollo is just a poet’s patron. This is significant since Miller clearly hopes that future scholars will back away from reading every poetic reference to Apollo as eulogistic sycophancy to the princeps. But perhaps the pièce de résistance in this lengthy study is Miller’s chapterlong examination (chap. 3, “Apollo and the Legend of Aeneas”) of “how Virgil markedly expands Apollo’s place in the legend of Aeneas” (11). This is an ambitious undertaking, and the chapter weighs in with ninety pages of interpretive work on passages from every book in the epic except Book 5. This is a must read for anyone who is writing on the intersections between myth, power, and religion: “for all that the two proleptic Apolline moments on the shield contribute to the Augustan mythology, they also radiate out, as it were, through the legendary narrative that constitutes the bulk of the Aeneid” (95). Miller’s penchant for profound allusive and intertextual vision is on display in this chapter as he showcases the Apollonian, Callimachean, and (especially) Homeric backgrounds to Virgil’s literary masterpiece. Miller’s analysis of Apollo’s role in the fall of Troy is particularly good (111–15). He points out here, among other things, that Apollo is “conspicuously absent” from the nightmarish and cinematic scene (visible to Aeneas alone) of gods destroying the city, and that Apollo is given prophetic and sentimental ties to Aeneas’ destiny (in Book 2) that preclude the famous reassurance speech of Jupiter to Venus (chronologically later in Book 1). His discussion of the Sibyl is not to be missed either (133–49), putting to rest any false assumptions that Sibyls were always associated with Apollo (134–35) and even bringing to our attention the degree to which Virgil “edited the topography of Cumae’s Greek acropolis to highlight Apollo” (136). The evidence mounts to the point that Miller’s observation, made only in the context of the Sibyl’s association to Apollo, could apply to Virgil’s undertaking in general, namely, that Apollo’s relationship to Aeneas can “be understood to dovetail with the Emperor’s own ideological designs” (134). Miller also goes to great lengths to explain some of the more puzzling aspects of the Aeneas-Apollo intercourse: the plague at Sicily (for what? misinterpreting a vague prophecy?), the disappointing nature of the Sibyl’s prophecy at Cumae, and the absence of Apollo’s healing touch when Aeneas is struck in Book 12. Apollo is a difficult god to like, as Ovid later made clear in his epic, and Virgil doesn’t always disagree with that assessment, but Miller finds ways to back out of any outright denial that Apollo is continuously depicted as Rome’s ally. If I were to lodge any minor complaint about the book, it would be my desire for a slightly different organization of the material. Analyses of the elegiac and lyric poems are a little more dispersed than I would have liked, but I respect Miller’s attempt to establish thematic connections rather than strict authorial categories. In any case, Miller’s volume is a significant contribution to

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the ­understanding of the role of Apollo in the Augustan age and of Augustan poetry, and will surely motivate future investigations into the roles of other gods in this and other epochs of the ancient world. Teresa R. Ramsby University of Massachusetts Amherst e-mail: [email protected]

REVIEW ARTICLE: KNOWLEDGE, IDEOLOGY, AND SKEPTICISM IN ANCIENT SLAVE STUDIES Niall Mckeown. The Invention of Ancient Slavery? Duckworth Classical Essays. London: Duckworth, 2007. 174 pp. Paper, $24. Ulrike Roth. Thinking Tools: Agricultural Slavery between Evidence and Models. BICS Supplement 92. London: Institute of Classical Studies, 2007. x + 171 pp. 10 figs. Paper, £28. Enrico Dal Lago and Constantina Katsari, eds. Slave Systems: Ancient and Modern. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008. xiv + 375 pp. Cloth, $99. Page duBois. Slavery: Antiquity and Its Legacy. Ancients and Moderns. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. xi + 154 pp. Paper, $24.95. This recent harvest of books on ancient slavery shows that, thirty years after Moses Finley’s Ancient Slavery and Modern Ideology, the central themes of that seminal study remain lively topics in classical studies. The nature of slavery and the long-term dynamics of ancient slave systems are still vigorously contested. Above all, these newer works reflect an abiding and shared sense of epistemological limits: even as our understanding of ancient slavery grows (and it does), the extent of our ignorance and the decisive role of our starting assumptions come into clearer focus. Niall McKeown’s The Invention of Ancient Slavery? most clearly exemplifies this tone of pervasive skepticism. Published in the Duckworth Classical Essays series, it is a short and insightful survey of the historiography of ancient slavery. Each of the book’s seven chapters is a case study of a historian or historical school. McKeown writes “in the shadow of the postmodern challenge” (8), and his project throughout is principally deconstructive. Chapter 1 begins by exposing the contemporary preoccupations which underwrote the view of slavery proposed by Tenney Frank, for instance, in his notorious 1916 account of “race mixture” in the Roman empire. The chapter juxtaposes more recent studies based on epigraphic evidence, especially Joshel’s important study on labor and identity. The virtue of

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the ­understanding of the role of Apollo in the Augustan age and of Augustan poetry, and will surely motivate future investigations into the roles of other gods in this and other epochs of the ancient world. Teresa R. Ramsby University of Massachusetts Amherst e-mail: [email protected]

REVIEW ARTICLE: KNOWLEDGE, IDEOLOGY, AND SKEPTICISM IN ANCIENT SLAVE STUDIES Niall Mckeown. The Invention of Ancient Slavery? Duckworth Classical Essays. London: Duckworth, 2007. 174 pp. Paper, $24. Ulrike Roth. Thinking Tools: Agricultural Slavery between Evidence and Models. BICS Supplement 92. London: Institute of Classical Studies, 2007. x + 171 pp. 10 figs. Paper, £28. Enrico Dal Lago and Constantina Katsari, eds. Slave Systems: Ancient and Modern. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008. xiv + 375 pp. Cloth, $99. Page duBois. Slavery: Antiquity and Its Legacy. Ancients and Moderns. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. xi + 154 pp. Paper, $24.95. This recent harvest of books on ancient slavery shows that, thirty years after Moses Finley’s Ancient Slavery and Modern Ideology, the central themes of that seminal study remain lively topics in classical studies. The nature of slavery and the long-term dynamics of ancient slave systems are still vigorously contested. Above all, these newer works reflect an abiding and shared sense of epistemological limits: even as our understanding of ancient slavery grows (and it does), the extent of our ignorance and the decisive role of our starting assumptions come into clearer focus. Niall McKeown’s The Invention of Ancient Slavery? most clearly exemplifies this tone of pervasive skepticism. Published in the Duckworth Classical Essays series, it is a short and insightful survey of the historiography of ancient slavery. Each of the book’s seven chapters is a case study of a historian or historical school. McKeown writes “in the shadow of the postmodern challenge” (8), and his project throughout is principally deconstructive. Chapter 1 begins by exposing the contemporary preoccupations which underwrote the view of slavery proposed by Tenney Frank, for instance, in his notorious 1916 account of “race mixture” in the Roman empire. The chapter juxtaposes more recent studies based on epigraphic evidence, especially Joshel’s important study on labor and identity. The virtue of

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The Invention of Ancient Slavery? is its constant skepticism, but consequently all arguments about ancient slavery are presented as the result of prior convictions: “The way we choose to interpret ancient slavery has much to do with the way we want to interpret it” (28–29). The second chapter considers the Mainz Academy’s Forschungen zur antiken Sklaverei and the French tradition of research centered in Besançon. McKeown describes the deep division between Anglophone scholars and their German counterparts, inspired not least by Finley’s blistering critique of Joseph Vogt. McKeown identifies the genesis of his own book in the surprise he experienced upon discovering that his “liberal Anglophone” outlook was simply the “reverse image” of the Mainz Academy’s broadly shared assumptions (31). McKeown is trying to unsettle the “lazy orthodoxies” (41) of the British/American tradition, but the problem with any basically empiricist model (such as the study of Kudlien which McKeown highlights) is precisely that it fails to overcome the blind spots of ancient and modern ideology alike. McKeown contrasts Kudlien’s study with the work of Garrido-Hory; she reaches more pessimistic conclusions about ancient slavery, so McKeown argues, not because the evidence demands it, but because she is prepared by her starting premises to find such conclusions. Chapter 3 examines Marxist approaches to ancient slavery. As McKeown notes, Marxism can mean many different things. Shtaerman and Trofimova, for instance, described the long-term history of slavery in rather orthodox terms of continuous class struggle. McKeown suggests that Shtaerman and Trofimova’s work is “perhaps the most sophisticated and wide-ranging argument ever produced on ancient slavery” (54–55), but this view will not be shared by all. Their work is by far the best of a large body of Soviet scholarship on ancient slavery, and it was produced under considerable analytical constraints, but McKeown’s chapter is a devastating critique. In the space of about sixteen inspired pages, McKeown manages to undermine the foundations of the orthodox Marxist metanarrative of ancient slavery. One wishes, however, for some consideration of the Italian neo-Marxist scholarship emanating from the Istituto Gramsci; this is easily the most important tradition not submitted to McKeown’s acute critical gaze. Keith Bradley, whose work is placed in its context as a polemic against the Mainz tradition, is the focus of chapter 4. Certainly Bradley stressed the negative aspects of the slave’s existence, as he himself freely admits, and this rhetoric belongs to a particular moment in the development of slave studies. But Bradley deserves more credit, for his method was not simply the Mainz Academy’s in pessimistic reverse. He sought, rather, to describe the structure of slavery as a system of social control and thus introduced a significant methodological advance in ancient slave studies. Chapter 5 then turns to the study of slaves in classical literature, in particular the work of William Fitzgerald and Kathleen McCarthy. This chapter is a highly effective survey of the formidable methodological challenges which face anyone who would use formal literary texts to understand ancient slavery. Chapter 6 considers “scientific” approaches to ancient slavery, especially the

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work of Walter Scheidel. The moral of this story is that even conclusions reached by social-scientific methods are sensitive to the starting assumptions. Of course, what is distinct about the work of Scheidel is that he is clear about this very point. His work has been so illuminating precisely because he has exposed the unspoken (and sometimes risible) assumptions which have lurked in the field. Scheidel’s parametric modeling not only states its own premises explicitly, it also outlines various interpretive possibilities and demands that any interpretation seek for internal coherence. For this reason, the social-scientific model is not simply one approach among others that we might choose according to taste; it is the approach which has done most to advance our understanding of ancient slavery. The last chapter is the only one devoted to Greek slavery. McKeown highlights the excellent work of Peter Hunt and the challenging, aporetic readings of Page duBois. McKeown shows that, although duBois chooses to emphasize certain texts, she exhibits the healthful skepticism which is characteristic among historians of Greek slavery. The Invention of Ancient Slavery? is a provocative and valuable book which achieves what it sets out to do. The author maintains a tone of genial skepticism throughout, and he studiously observes his neutrality. Despite being framed as a critical exploration of historical method, the book is also now the closest thing we have to an analytical survey of the historiography of ancient slavery. And it will make an excellent text for the classroom or seminar. McKeown was a supervisor for the doctoral thesis that has become Ulrike Roth’s important study, Thinking Tools: Agricultural Slavery between Evidence and Models. Roth shares McKeown’s sensitivity towards the limits of the evidence, but in her study, skepticism becomes the vehicle for a radically revisionist view of the Roman slave system. Her target is what might be called the “conquest model” of Roman slavery. In this account, the Roman slave system was created by the wars of conquest; millions of slaves flowed into Italy, where they were chained to work in all-male gangs in a transformative mode of plantation labor; gradually, natural reproduction accounted for a larger portion of the slave supply, and female slaves became correspondingly more important. Cato, Varro, and Columella are the star witnesses to this case. Through a reexamination of the principal sources, Roth presents a distinct and persuasive alternative. The whole matter turns on the question of female slaves in the late Republic. The traditional narrative holds that they were few. Roth starts by asking why slave women are obscured in the agricultural manuals. She believes that slave women were present on Roman estates but not engaged directly in cultivation. The focus of Cato and Varro on production has led them to filter out any information about female workers. She argues that, because slave fertility was valuable (an assumption rather than a demonstration), female slaves were employed in an occupation that was compatible with gestation and child care: textile labor. Chapter 2 considers Cato’s food rations to argue for a family-centric model of slave labor. This chapter is characteristic of Roth’s method, which is to work carefully with exiguous data, to bring comparative evidence to bear

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on intractable problems, and to outline plausible interpretations. Cato’s grain, wine, and olive allowances provided roughly 3,500 calories per day. This outlay would be a reasonable daily intake for a manual laborer, but Roth introduces a wrinkle. Cato, at De agricultura 143, describes the duties of the vilica. Among them: cibum tibi et familiae curet uti coctum habeat. Much hangs on this brief line. Roth takes it to mean that the vilica had charge of a daily common meal for the workers—in addition to the rations. Roth envisions a porridge or stew and adds 300 calories per person per day. The provisions start to look generous, which runs against Cato’s reputation. Roth then reminds us that the garden gave slaves possible access to other fruits and vegetables, while the Mediterranean landscape provided a variety of wild foods. Slaves may have maintained small animals or even garden plots in their peculium too. Roth uses these possibilities to outline a number of scenarios in which the grain rations are intended not for single males but for slave families. Roth is fully aware of the speculative nature of her case. While skeptics may not be convinced, her reconstruction is at least as rooted in the evidence as the alternative “conquest model.” Whether the “slave family” was as stable a nuclear group as it appears in Thinking Tools needs to be considered more fully, but this study lays the groundwork. Chapter 3 turns to archaeological evidence. There is a brief discussion of Settefinestre, and Roth notes that Carandini’s view of a gradual transition towards slave families is not determined by the material evidence itself. The heart of this chapter, though, concerns the archaeology of textile labor. Textile production was the second largest sector of the Roman economy, yet this vital occupation is neglected in broader analyses of Roman labor systems. Roth argues that the double-beamed loom already was replacing the warp-weighted loom during the late Republic. This technological diffusion would explain the rarity of loom weights, which are one of the only archaeological traces of weaving. Roth does convince that the absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, but a fuller inventory of spindle whorls, needles, and weights would be valuable. Roth also reminds us how much human energy was required for the process of spinning (she operates with a time ratio of 10:1 for spinning:weaving). This is particularly significant when we recall that Cato planned to have two looms on a new estate; just to keep these implements busy would have required a small squad of female spinners, and it is here that Roth locates the real importance of female labor on Roman villas. Chapter 4 reprises Rathbone’s well-known attempt to reconstruct the balance sheet of a slave-based villa, but Roth includes the potential revenues of textile production. Her price and productivity estimates are conjectural if plausible. But Rathbone’s numbers represented a simplified model for the express purpose of comparing the profitability of different labor schemes: free, slave, mixed. Roth uses these same figures to calculate the profitability of the estate as such. The profitability figures are only interesting, however, if the costs are calculated accurately, and no attempt is made to account for the capital required to make textiles—in land, livestock, and equipment. Thus, the profit figures she

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provides are only the value of the finished goods minus the amortization of the slaves, while in fact the cost of raw materials was probably the principal input of the finished textile, so that these calculations would need to be refigured before we could consider them completely persuasive. Nevertheless, Roth deserves credit for bringing attention to what was surely a major (and heretofore neglected) circuit of the villa economy. Chapter 5 is Roth’s pièce de résistance; it contains many useful and provocative insights, yet at the same time its details are most likely to engender doubt. Roth simulates the demography of a single Catonian villa. It is indeed worth trying to imagine the effect of natural reproduction at the level of estate management, but such an exercise will entail severe challenges. Roth’s strategy is to employ mortality schedules taken from a model life table (Roth claims to use Coale-Demeny West Level 0, which does not exist; she means West Level 1). This procedure can be useful for thinking about the micro-effects of mortality. But projecting fertility is a more complex beast, and Roth’s approach will not satisfy the demographers. She starts with an estate population of fifteen males and fifteen females, all at fifteen years of age, and tries to follow the effects of biological reproduction. At first, Roth assumes that all fifteen couples reproduce immediately, and she deploys the mortality schedule to imagine the population effects (127). This is not a defensible model of fertility. She later imports the rate of reproductive success derived from her analysis of Cato’s rations (each couple produced two children who survived to the age of five). The concluding charts (whose clarity could be improved) indicate that the slave population on the estate has gone from sixty to eighty in just twenty-five years: an annual growth rate of 1.16 percent. For comparison, the Egyptian census returns are consistent with an annual growth rate around 0.2 percent, and Saller’s simulations estimate fertility based on an annual growth rate of 0.0 percent. That Roth’s slave population experiences far more reproductive success, under worse mortality assumptions, is suspicious. The last pages of Thinking Tools, where Roth draws together her insights, are the best. Roth argues vigorously for a new model of the Roman villa: intensively polycultural, sex-balanced, and reproductively successful. Her suggestion that the best comparative model lies not in the power-house regions of New World plantation slavery, but rather in the peripheral zones like the Appalachians, is suggestive and deserves further exploration. Roth’s attempt to restore the female slave to the history of the Late Republic will entail a significant revision of our whole understanding of Roman slavery. If not all of the demonstrations are equally convincing, this brave book succeeds in destabilizing the traditional villa model and shifting the burden of proof back onto anyone who would defend it. While Roth’s book closes with a brief gesture towards comparative evidence, comparison is the central focus of Slave Systems: Ancient and Modern, edited by Enrico Dal Lago and Constantina Katsari. The eleven contributions, originating from a conference in Galway in 2004, form a valuable and coherent collection. The editors’ introductory chapter calls immediate attention to some structural

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distinctions between ancient and modern slavery—the dynamics of manumission, the role of race, the rise of abolitionist ideology, the scale of market exchange— that recur throughout the various contributions. They invoke Kolchin’s distinction between “soft” and “rigorous” comparison, and the book contains examples of both approaches. Orlando Patterson presents a quantitative analysis, based on the MurdockWhite sample, which aims to identify the factors which best account for the absence or presence of slavery in pre-modern societies. The presentation is explicit about the limits of such analyses. Patterson demonstrates that warfare and female participation in the labor force were essential preconditions, but the “critical variable” (57) proves to be the existence of polygyny. This finding is important, and it needs to be integrated into a model of Dark Age polygyny and its (partial) transformation in archaic Greece. Patterson’s concluding suggestion that the\tes were slaves is unlikely to convince specialists. Joseph Miller presents his distinctive model of “slaving” as an integrative platform for the history of world slavery. Miller’s model claims that a common pattern, by which social risers use slave labor to compete with established elites, is a fundamental aspect of all slave systems. Roman slavery should be a pivotal test case for his thesis, and the reader familiar with Roman slavery cannot help but feel his model will require adjustment. He claims (79) that in the Late Republic, Roman generals used the spoils of conquest to overthrow an ancien régime of landowning aristocrats: in the Roman context, the military elite was the land-owning elite. Moreover, he minimizes the role of male slaves in agricultural production, when this was the signal feature of Roman slavery, and one that lasted, by all accounts, for several centuries. Walter Scheidel’s chapter is characteristically illuminating. Like Finley, he offers a model for the emergence and endurance of large-scale slave systems. In Scheidel’s analysis the forces of supply and demand are mediated by institutional factors. First, Scheidel introduces Fenoaltea’s study of the incentive structure of slavery while offering some useful corrections. What emerges is the fact that Roman slave-owners were equipped with an unusually wide range of both positive and negative incentives that allowed them to deploy slave labor efficiently in a range of occupations. Secondly, Scheidel introduces Hanes’ work on the role of transaction costs in the labor market. Here Scheidel finds an important dynamic explaining the role of slavery in the creation of tightly controlled agricultural operations, especially in regions of the empire with thin labor markets. Through this interpretive prism, Scheidel is able to offer a model for the emergence of mass-scale slavery in the Late Republic, when the influx of capital, the commitments of the free citizenry, and the opening of export markets allowed Roman landowners to employ slave labor on an unprecedented scale. Elsewhere (Historia 59 [2010]: 206–38) I have urged caution on a few details (the price of slaves in the Late Republic; the substitutability of free and slave labor; theories of decline in the mid-to-late empire), but Scheidel’s model is the most sophisticated dynamic analysis of ancient slavery we now have.

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Tracey Rihll discusses the relationship between slavery and technological innovation. She makes a case against the idea that slavery retarded progress (though Schiavone, the most recent and subtle exponent of that view, is not cited). Because ancient slave employments often required positive incentives, slaves had motivation to find efficiencies, and slavery, moreover, may have been a vector of information transfer across space. Michael Zeuske’s contribution traces the comparative study of slavery back to the early efforts to understand the remarkable success of the Haitian revolution. Dal Lago and Katsari have collaborated on a chapter comparing ancient and modern models of slave management. They find paternalism a common theme. In a volume notable for its excellent presentation, this chapter is weakened by a number of small errors: e.g., Cato is placed in the first century b.c.e. and his work is cited as De Agricoltura; the secondary bibliography is insufficient (Paquette’s important work on slave drivers is missing); and Cato, Varro, and Columella are collapsed to represent a single “Roman” model. In the next chapter, Marquese and Joly offer an exemplary study of the reception of ancient texts in Portuguese America. The classical inheritance was sufficiently pliable, so they show, that it could be mobilized to support a reciprocal, paternalist ideology of slavery or, later, a rationalized, labor-oriented model. Two chapters follow in the section on “Exiting Slave Systems.” PétréGrenouilleau analyzes manumission, revolt, decline, and abolition as different ways in which slavery has been “exited.” The treatment is not deeply engaged with recent work. Engerman’s typology of emancipation schemes in the modern period is an interesting and reliable survey of how abolitionist politics pragmatically confronted a deep belief in property rights in different modern contexts. The book closes with a lightly revised version of Hodkinson’s superb 2003 treatment of helotage. Using archaeological evidence and comparative insights, he argues that patterns of residence and modes of extraction had great material effects on Spartiate-helot relations; he claims, moreover, that the Spartans fostered and exploited the stratification which developed within helot society. Slave Systems is an encouraging success. The modernists recruited for this project form an impressive roster, and it is hopeful to see this sort of engagement, although one does sense a disjuncture. Post Finley, no ancient historian of slavery has managed to command sustained attention from those outside the field, and in many ways the modernists are operating with an outmoded version of ancient slavery. Still, one may hope that this book spurs more comparative work. The next frontier will be a comparative analysis that includes not just ancient and modern but also medieval slaveries. Indeed, the omission of Islamic and late medieval slavery is a major impediment to understanding Roman slavery. The exceptionalism of Roman slavery becomes more apparent when the massive, market-oriented slave system of Rome is seen against the usual backdrop of female, domestic slavery that has been pervasive in world history. The comparative impulse is equally evident in Page duBois’ new treatment, Slavery: Antiquity and Its Legacy. The book belongs to Oxford University Press’ “Ancients and Modern Series,” designed explicitly for non-specialists. The five

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chapters of this short book move in roughly reverse chronological order, describing first the continuing presence of slavery in the contemporary world, then the rise of racialized slavery in the New World, before turning to ancient ideologies and practices and closing with modern depictions of ancient slavery in film. The non-specialist is likely to leave misinformed by some of the book’s claims. It must suffice to examine one substantive point in detail. One of duBois’ principal claims is that Aristotle’s natural slave theory is the core legacy of antiquity to the slave systems of the New World. The point is stated repeatedly (11, 19, 58, 60, 63, 65, 66, 70, 75, 108) and in vigorous terms: it was “enormously influential, not only in Greek and Roman antiquity, but through the middle ages, the Renaissance and in the period of discovery and colonization of Africa and the Americas, and provides the most enduring and explicit legacy of antiquity for the justification of modern slavery.” There is an element of truth in this, but the presentation might be improved in several ways. First, in the words of Garnsey (Ideas of Slavery from Aristotle to Augustine [Cambridge 1996] 13), “natural slave theory was not Aristotle’s and his alone,” and in fact Aristotle’s melding of traditional Greek ethnic prejudice with his teleological account of nature and human reason was idiosyncratic. Moreover, it is notoriously unclear whether the Politics was widely read in the Roman period, and the unexpected assertion that Aristotelian natural slave theory influenced the Roman Stoics and Roman law surely needs demonstration. Consider duBois’ claim that Aristotle’s views on natural slavery were “sustained in Roman practices and in Roman law” (75). Here is Aristotle (Politics 1255a1–2): “it is manifest therefore that . . . some are free men and others slaves by nature.” Here is classical Roman law (Florentinus, Dig. 1.5.4.pr): “slavery is an institution of the law of nations (ius gentium), whereby someone, against nature, is made subject to the ownership of another”; or (Ulpian, Dig. 50.17.32): “according to natural law all men are equal” (trans. Garnsey). DuBois cites the authority of Finley (63)—but Finley certainly did not emphasize Aristotle’s influence in the Roman or modern contexts. Here is what Finley argued: for modern defenders of slavery, “Aristotle offered no more than learned embroidery to the main argument, which rested on Scripture” (Ancient Slavery and Modern Ideology [New York 1980] 86). There are other ways this account of Aristotle’s legacy might be improved. The “racialization” of slavery is presented as a process whereby early modern Africans (66) were simply substituted for Aristotle’s barbarians, like new wine in old wineskins. This completely passes over the experience of medieval Islam, where Goldenberg and Lewis have argued that the “curse of Ham” was ominously given an explicitly racial dimension. DuBois says nothing of the controversial reception of Aristotelian natural slave theory, for instance among Spanish thinkers around the school of Salamanca. We can contrast Marquese and Joly’s exemplary reception analysis of classical texts by Portuguese Jesuits. A broad survey cannot contain such minute detail, but given the author’s capacious claims for influence, we miss concrete examples of Aristotle being used by a modern ideologue. On the methodological side, duBois explicitly hopes to illuminate the

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“subjectivity of the slave” (6). At the same time, the book is unsparing in its presentation of lurid vignettes of abuse. We are constantly reminded that slavery is an inherently brutal institution. This paradox is a longstanding tension in slave studies, but over the last few decades, as scholars have wrestled with the problem of describing the slave’s agency within a cruel system, the analysis has progressed beyond the qualitative description of the dehumanizing treatment experienced by slaves. The most successful efforts have been those that have tried to consider, in material, physical terms, the nature of the labor performed by slaves, the incentives used by masters to extract labor, and the zones of subjectivity which were created by the master’s need for labor. Without such a structural analysis, we are indeed left at the impasse described by McKeown, where prior preferences determine which aspects of the slave experience will be emphasized. There is very little focused discussion of labor in these pages, whereas the general reader might be genuinely interested to learn how specialists consider this most intractable problem of slave studies. These books together represent the state of the field in the study of ancient slavery. They mark the passage of the Anglophone tradition into a new phase, where systems modeling, quantitative analysis, and comparative history are standard operating procedure. There are, as these studies equally reveal, frontiers within the ancient world which are still relatively underexplored: classical and Hellenistic Greece beyond Athens, late antiquity, and even Islam. And if there is one joint lesson which these books offer, it is that epistemological humility is not incompatible with enterprising new attempts to understand an institution at once so central to ancient civilizations and yet so uncanny. Kyle Harper University of Oklahoma e-mail: [email protected]

BOOKS RECEIVED

 Abramson, Jeffrey. Minerva’s Owl: The Tradition of Western Political Thought. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2009. ix + 388 pp. Paper, $18.95. Alexiou, Evangelos. Der “Euagoras” des Isokrates: Ein Kommentar. Untersuchungen zur antiken Literatur und Geshichte. Vol. 101. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2010. xi + 238 pp. Cloth, E93.41. Azoulay, Vincent. Périclès: La démocratie athénienne à l’épreuve du grand homme. Nouvelles biographies historiques. Paris: Armand Colin, 2010. 277 pp. 8 blackand-white figs. Paper, E18. Baerman, Matthew, Greville G. Corbett, and Dunstan Brown, eds. Defective Paradigms: Missing Forms and What They Tell Us. Proceedings of the British Academy 163. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. xiv + 216 pp. Cloth, $75. Baier, Thomas. Geschichte der römischen Literatur. Munich: C.H. Beck, 2010. 128 pp. Paper, E8.95. Bakker, Egbert J., ed. A Companion to the Ancient Greek Language. Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World. Malden, Mass.: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010. xxxix + 657 pp. 12 black-and-white figs., 73 tables. Cloth, $199.95. Barchiesi, Alessandro, and Walter Scheidel, eds. The Oxford Handbook of Roman Studies. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. xvii + 947 pp. 52 black-and-white ills. Cloth, $150. Bloch, René, Simone Haeberli, and Rainer C. Schwinges, eds. Frembilder— Selbstbilder: Imaginationen des Judentums von der Antike bis in die Neuzeit. Eine Publikation der Interfakultären Forschungsstelle für Judaistik der Universität Bern. Basel: Schwabe, 2010. vii + 272 pp. 22 color figs. Paper, E40.50. Boon, Marcus. In Praise of Copying. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2010. vii + 285 pp. Cloth, $25.95. Bouvier, David, and Danielle van Mal-Maeder, eds. Tradition classique: dialogues avec l’Antiquité. Études de letters 285. Lausanne: Université de Lausanne, 2010. 294 pp. 11 black-and-white figs. Paper, price not stated. Breed, Brian W., Cynthia Damon, and Andreola Rossi. Citizens of Discord: Rome and Its Civil Wars. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. xiv + 333 pp. 11 blackand-white figs. Cloth, $85.

American Journal of Philology 132 (2011) 169–175 © 2011 by The Johns Hopkins University Press

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Burnett, Anne Pippin, trans. Pindar: Odes for Victorious Athletes. With intro. New Translations in Antiquity. Baltimore, Md.: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2010. viii + 191 pp. Paper, $20. Christopoulos, Menelaos, Efimia D. Karakantza, and Olga Levaniouk, eds. Light and Darkness in Ancient Greek Myth and Religion. Greek Studies: Interdisciplinary Approaches. Lanham, Md.: Lexington Books, 2010. xx  + 304 pp. 11 black-andwhite figs. Cloth, $85. Clauss, James J., and Martine Cuypers, eds. A Companion to Hellenistic Literature. Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World. Malden, Mass.: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010. xxv + 550 pp. 2 maps. Cloth, $199.95. Creese, David. The Monochord in Ancient Greek Harmonic Science. Cambridge Classical Studies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. xvi + 409 pp. 27 black-and-white figs., 5 tables. Cloth, $110. Darnton, Robert. Poetry and the Police: Communication Networks in EighteenthCentury Paris. Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2010. vii + 224 pp. 9 black-and-white figs. Cloth, $25.95. Davis, Gregson, ed. A Companion to Horace. Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World. Malden, Mass.: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010. xvii + 464 pp. 3 black-andwhite figs. Cloth, $199.95. Delignon, Bénédicte, and Yves Roman, eds. Le poète irrévérencieux: Modèles hellénistiques et réalités romaines. Actes de la table ronde et du colloque organisés les 17 octobre 2006 et 19 et 20 octobre 2007. CEROR 32. Paris: De Boccard, 2009. 433 pp. Paper, price not stated. Dobrov, Gregory W., ed. Brill’s Companion to the Study of Greek Comedy. Leiden: Brill, 2010. xv + 579 pp. 15 black-and-white figs. Cloth, $279. Douglas, Mary. Thinking in Circles: An Essay on Ring Composition. The Terry Lectures. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2007. xv + 169 pp. 15 blackand-white figs. Paper, $24. Dyck, Andrew R., ed. Cicero: Pro Sexto Roscio. Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. xv  + 242 pp. 2 maps. Cloth, $78; paper, $31.99. Farrell, Joseph, and Michael C. J. Putnam, eds. A Companion to Vergil’s Aeneid and Its Tradition. Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World. Malden, Mass.: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010. xvii  + 559 pp. 8 color plates, 31 black-and-white figs. Cloth, $199.95. Feldherr, Andrew. Playing Gods: Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the Politics of Fiction. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2010. xi + 377 pp. Cloth, $49.50. Foster, Daniel H. Wagner’s Ring Cycle and the Greeks. Cambridge Studies in Opera. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. xx + 377 pp. Cloth, $95.

books received

171

Fredriksen, Paula. Augustine and the Jews: A Christian Defense of Jews and Judaism. With a new postscript. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2010. xxiii + 503 pp. 1 black-and-white fig. Paper, $20. Fuhrer, Therese and Damien Nelis, eds. Acting with Words: Communication, Rhetorical Performance and Performative Acts in Latin Literature. Bibliothek der klassischen Altertumswissenschaften 125. Heidelberg: Winter, 2010. vi + 257 pp. Cloth, E44. Gabriel, Richard A. Phillip II of Macedonia: Greater than Alexander. Washington, D.C.: Potomac Books, 2010. xiv + 303 pp. 7 black-and-white figs., 9 maps. Cloth, $29.95. Garland, Robert. The Eye of the Beholder: Deformity and Disability in the Graeco-Roman World. 2d ed. London: Bristol Classical Press, 2010. xxix  + 222 pp. 64 black-and-white plates. Paper, $33. Giardina, Giancarlo, trans. Elegie: Properzio. Revised and corrected. Testi e Commenti 25. Pisa: Fabrizio Serra Editore, 2010. 463 pp. Paper, price not stated. Graeser, Andreas. The Fog Dispelled: Two Studies in Plato’s Later Thought. Trans. by Ann M. Hentschel. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2010. 114 pp. Paper, price not stated. Grafton, Anthony, Glenn W. Most, and Salvatore Settis, eds. The Classical Tradition. Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2010. xix + 1067 pp. 165 color plates. Cloth, $49.95. Greaves, Alan M. Society and Economy in the Archaic Period. Malden, Mass.: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010. xvi + 269 pp. 38 black-and-white ills. Cloth, $110. Greene, Ellen, and Marilyn B. Skinner, eds. The New Sappho on Old Age: Textual and Philosophical Issues. Hellenic Studies 38. Washington, D.C.: Center for Hellenic Studies, 2009. Dist. by Harvard University Press. vii + 213 pp. 31 blackand-white figs. Paper, $19.95. Grethlein, Jonas. The Greeks and Their Past: Poetry, Oratory and History in the Fifth Century BCE. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. xii + 350 pp. 3 black-and-white figs. Cloth, $95. Harries, Jill, and Ian Wood, eds. The Theodosian Code: Studies in the Imperial Law of Late Antiquity. 2d ed. London: Bristol Classical Press, 2010. x + 261 pp. Paper, $33. Humez, Alexander, Nicholas Humez, and Rob Flynn. Short Cuts: A Guide to Oaths, Ring Tones, Ransom Notes, Famous Last Words, and Other Forms of Minimalist Communication. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. xv + 296 pp. 8 black-and-white figs. Cloth, $19.95. Inwood, Brad, ed. Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy. Vol. 38. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. vii + 310 pp. Paper, $50.

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James, Liz, ed. A Companion to Byzantium. Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World. Malden, Mass.: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010. xxx + 451 pp. 29 black-and-white figs., 5 maps. Cloth, $199.95. Kelly, Christopher, Richard Flower, and Michael Stuart Williams, eds. Unclassical Traditions. Volume 1: Alternatives to the Classical Past in Late Antiquity. Cambridge Classical Journal Supplementary Volume 34. Cambridge: The Cambridge Philological Society, 2010. vii + 156 pp. Cloth, $90. Kepel, Gilles. Beyond Terror and Martyrdom: The Future of the Middle East. Trans. by Pascale Ghazaleh. Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2008. vii + 328 pp. Paper, $17.95. Kesselring, Jürg. Im Anfang war das Wort . . . und die Evolution: Gedanken zur Sprachentwicklung aus neurologischer Sicht. Vortäge der Aeneas-Silvius-Stiftung an der Universität Basel 46. Basel: Schwabe, 2010. 27 pp. 7 black-and-white figs. Paper, E17. Kirichenko, Alexander. A Comedy of Storytelling: Theatricality and Narrative in Apuleius’ Golden Ass. Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter, 2010. xii + 248 pp. Cloth, price not stated. Labate, Mario. Passato remoto: Età mitiche e identità augustea in Ovidio. Biblioteca di “Materiali e discussioni per l’analisi dei testi classici” 21. Pisa: Fabrizio Serra Editore, 2010. 260 pp. Paper, price not stated. Leibowitz, David. The Ironic Defense of Socrates: Plato’s Apology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. ix + 194 pp. Cloth, $80. Lloyd, Alan B., ed. A Companion to Ancient Egypt. 2 vols. Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World. Malden, Mass.: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010. lxviii + 1276 pp. 34 color plates, 217 black-and-white figs., 4 tables, 2 maps. Cloth, $350. López Férez, Juan Antonio, ed. La mitología clásica en la literatura española. Panorama diacrónico. Estudios de Filología Griega 11. Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas, 2006. ix + 849 pp. Paper, E42. Marcinkowska-Rosót, Maria. Die Konzeption des ‘noein’ bei Parmenides von Elea. Studia Praesocratica 2. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2010. 284 pp. Cloth, price not stated. Mastronarde, Donald J. The Art of Euripides: Dramatic Technique and Social Context. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. xiii + 361 pp. Cloth, $99. Meijer, Fik. Chariot Racing in the Roman Empire. Trans. by Liz Waters. Baltimore, Md.: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2010. xxi + 185 pp. 22 black-and-white figs., 2 maps. Cloth, £15.50. Myers, Sara K., ed. Ovid Metamorphoses: Book XIV. Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009. ix + 237 pp. Cloth, $85; paper, $32.99.

books received

173

Neschke-Hentschke, Ada, Kaspar Howald, Tanja Ruben, and Andreas Schatzmann, eds. Argumenta in Dialogos Platonis. Teil 1: Platoninterpretation und ihre Hermeneutik von der Antike bis zum Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts. Akten des internationalen Symposions vom 27.–29. April 2006 im Istituto Svizzero di Roma. Bibliotheca Helvetica Romana 31. Basel: Schwabe, 2010. xviii + 465 pp. Cloth, E47.50. Orlin, Eric M. Foreign Cults in Rome: Creating a Roman Empire. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. xi + 248 pp. 2 black-and-white figs., 2 maps. Cloth, $74. Osborne, Robin. Athens and Athenian Democracy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. xix + 462 pp. 34 black-and-white ills., 4 tables. Cloth, $99; paper, $39.99. Penella, Robert, J., ed. Rhetorical Exercises from Late Antiquity: A Translation of Choricius of Gaza’s Preliminary Talks and Declamations. With an Epilogue on Choricius’ reception in Byzantium. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009. xii + 323 pp. Cloth, $99. Perin, Casey. The Demands of Reason: An Essay on Pyrrhonian Scepticism. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. ix + 130 pp. Cloth, $49.95. Podany, Amanda H. Brotherhood of Kings: How International Relations Shaped the Ancient Near East. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. xxiv + 398 pp. 13 black-and-white figs., 5 maps. Cloth, $34.95. Pucci, Joseph, trans. Venantius Fortunatus: Poems to Friends. With intro. and comm. Indianapolis, Ind.: Hackett, 2010. xiviii + 155 pp. 2 maps. Cloth, $44; paper, $14.95. Putnam, Michael C. J., trans. Jacopo Sannazaro: Latin Poetry. The I Tatti Renaissance Library 38. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2009. xxv + 562 pp. Cloth, $29.95. Rebenich, Stefan, Barbara von Reibnitz, and Thomas Späth, eds. Translating Antiquity. Basel: Schwabe, 2010. 247 pp. Paper, E47.50. Regier, Willis Goth. Quotology. Stages Series. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2010. xxi + 248 pp. 10 black-and-white ills. Paper, $19.95. Riedlberger, Peter, trans. Philologischer, historischer und liturgischer Kommentar zum 8. Buch der Johannis des Goripp. Groningen: Egbert Forsten, 2010. 503 pp. 25 black-and-white ills. Cloth, price not stated. Rosenfield, Kathrin H. Antigone: Sophocles’ Art, Hölderlin’s Insight. Aurora, Colo.: The Davies Group, 2010. Published with the support of PRONEX/FAPERGSCNPQ. xviii + 205 pp. Paper, $24. Schaps, David M. Handbook for Classical Research. London: Routledge, 2011. xxii + 466 pp. 34 black-and-white figs. Paper, $37.95.

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Sebesta, Judith, and Mark Haynes. Cicero: A Legamus Transitional Reader. ­LEGAMUS Transitional Readers. Mundelein, Ill.: Bolchazy-Carducci, 2010. xxi + 222 pp. 18 black-and-white figs., 4 maps. Paper, $36. Smith, Andrew, trans. Boethius: On Aristotle. On Interpretation 1–3. Ancient Commentators on Aristotle. London: Duckworth, 2010. viii + 166 pp. Cloth, $80. Smith, Tyler Jo. Komast Dancers in Archaic Greek Art. Oxford Monographs on Classical Archaeology. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. xxx + 357 pp. 148 black-and-white plates, 5 black-and-white figs. Cloth, $120. Steiner, Deborah, ed. Homer: Odyssey Books XVII and XVIII. Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. xi  + 242 pp. Cloth, $95; paper, $34.99. Stephens, Susan A., and Phiroze Vasunia, eds. Classics and National Cultures. Classical Presences. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. xiii + 373 pp. 5 blackand-white ills. Cloth, $115. Tipping, Ben. Exemplary Epic: Silius Italicus’ Punica. Oxford Classical Monographs. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. x + 245 pp. Cloth, $99. Toth, Imre. Fragmente und Spuren nichteuklidischer Geometrie bei Aristoteles. Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 280. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2010. xxv + 425 pp. 26 black-and-white figs. Cloth, E102.76. Tzifopoulos, Yannis. ‘Paradise’ Earned: The Bacchic-Orphic Gold Lamellae of Crete. Hellenic Studies 23. Washington, D.C.: Center for Hellenic Studies, 2010. Dist. by Harvard University Press. x  + 373 pp. 50 black-and-white figs. Paper, $17.95. Van Hoof, Lieve. Plutarch’s Practical Ethics: The Social Dynamics of Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. xi + 328 pp. Cloth, $110. Vannini, Giulio. Petronii Arbitri Satyricon 100–115. With comm. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2010. vii + 377 pp. Cloth, price not stated. Viscido, Lorenzo. Lessico zoologico nelle Variae di Cassiodoro. With a preface by Giacinto Namia. 2d ed. Catanzaro: Grafiche Lucia, 2010. 149 pp. Paper, price not stated. Wenzel, Antonia. Die Xandra-Gedichte des Cristoforo Landino. Kalliope: Studien zur griechischen und lateinischen Poesie 10. Heidelberg: Winter, 2010. 329 pp. Cloth, E45. Williams, Rose. A Beginning Latin Christian Reader: De Bonis Cogitationibus. Mundelein, Ill.: Bolchazy-Carducci, 2010. iv + 79 pp. Numerous black-and-white figs. Paper, $12. Winsbury, Rex. Zenobia of Palmyra: History, Myth and the Neo-Classical Imagination. London: Duckworth, 2010. 198 pp. 45 black-and-white figs., 1 map. Paper, $29.95.

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175

Wohl, Victoria. Law’s Cosmos: Juridical Discourse in Athenian Forensic Oratory. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. xiv + 362 pp. Cloth, $99. Zhou, Yiqun. Festivals, Feasts, and Gender Relations in Ancient China and Greece. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. x + 373 pp. Cloth, $99.