ࡱ>  bjbjEE 3 //%XX((84TD3B" $ 02222222,4728882d/(pPu3d/d/d/82d/82d/d//v2hy/Lf22303n2]8d/]8v2d/v2$88822d/8883]8888888888X :   THE GRANDSTAND THAT WAS GREECE: GREEK OBSERVERS ON ROMAN CIVIL WARS Christopher Pelling Greece knew all about Roman civil wars. In the last century of the Republic, Greece was where the big battles were usually fought: at Dyrrhachium, at Pharsalus, at Actium; and Philippi was not too far away to the north. There are good reasons of historical geography why this should be so. When civil wars struck, it was natural for the Mediterranean world to split around the former Yugoslavia, just as it has so often split since, and for one side to go east to collect wealth and resources while the other stayed in the west; but it was much easier to cross the Adriatic eastwards than it then became to return westwards, once the two great Adriatic ports of Tarentum and Brundisium were firmly held by the western power. The grain of the land means that the coast of western Greece is much messier and more uneven, often offering natural anchorages and landing-grounds, and therefore it is harder to defend than eastern Italy. So it was regularly the western side that found it easier to cross the Adriatic without too many losses, and it was then in northern Greece that one side brought the other to battle. Greeks observed Roman civil wars in the most literal sense: these wars played themselves out in front of their eyes. They did more than observe as well, they suffered from them. One does not have great battles in ones backyard without feeling the pain. There is a vivid moment in Plutarchs Life of Antony which brings that home. We are in autumn 31 bce, and the battle of Actium has just been fought. Octavian then sailed to Athens, came to terms with the Greeks, and distributed among the cities the grain that he still had from the war. These cities were at the time in a dreadful state, stripped of their money, slaves, and cattle. There was one story that our own great-grandfather Nicarchus used to tell: all our citizens [that is, the citizens of the small town of Chaeronea in Boeotia] were forced to carry down a fixed measure of wheat to the sea at Anticyra, and they were whipped as they went to make them go faster. They carried one load in this way, and the second had already been measured out ready for them to carry. Then the news arrived that Antony had lost: the city was saved! For Antonys stewards and soldiers immediately took to their heels, and the Greeks shared out the grain among themselves. (Antony 68.68) This grandstand could offer decidedly too close a view for comfort. Greeks thought hard too about what they saw: that was what Greeks did. Quite often, of course, their reflections coincided with Roman reflections: that it was all so horrific, that brothers could kill brothers and sons could kill fathers (and various scenes along those lines were imaginatively developed), that it was all so crazy and unnecessary, that selfishness and avarice must be to blame, that surely it would be better to fight external wars rather than soak the ground with kindred blood. The first book of Lucan plays many tunes which may come back to mind when we turn to the Greek texts: Bella per Emathios plus quam ciuilia campos iusque datum sceleri canimus, populumque potentem in sua uictrici conuersum uiscera dextra cognatasque acies, et rupto foedere regni certatum totis concussi uiribus orbis 5 in commune nefas, infestisque obuia signis signa, pares aquilas et pila minantia pilis. quis furor, o ciues, quae tanta licentia ferri? gentibus inuisis Latium praebere cruorem cumque superba foret Babylon spolianda tropaeis 10 Ausoniis umbraque erraret Crassus inulta bella geri placuit nullos habitura triumphos? heu, quantum terrae potuit pelagique parari hoc quem ciuiles hauserunt sanguine dextrae, unde uenit Titan et nox ubi sidera condit 15 quaque dies medius flagrantibus aestuat horis et qua bruma rigens ac nescia uere remitti astringit Scythico glacialem frigore pontum! sub iuga iam Seres, iam barbarus isset Araxes et gens siqua iacet nascenti conscia Nilo. 20 tum, si tantus amor belli tibi, Roma, nefandi, totum sub Latias leges cum miseris orbem, in te uerte manus: nondum tibi defuit hostis. I sing of war worse than civil, fought through the plains of Thessaly; of the name of justice conferred on crime; of a mighty people turning its triumphant right hand against its own vitals; of kin arrayed against kin; of a broken deal for the throne, and then a contest waged with all the power of a staggering world, all to share the disgrace; of standards against standards, eagles matching eagles, and javelins menacing javelins. What was this madness, citizens? What explains such readiness to raise the sword? Why present our enemy with the spectacle of Latin blood? When proud Babylon was still waiting to disgorge its Italian trophies and the shade of Crassus still wandered unavenged, why wage a war that could never lead to triumphs? How much of the worlds land and sea could have been gained with this blood that was shed at the hands of fellow-citizens where Titan comes from, where night buries the stars, where the Equator burns, where the northern frost, never melting with spring, freezes the icy sea with its Scythian cold! The Chinese would have passed beneath our yoke; so would the barbarian river Araxes; so would whatever people there may be who witness the source of the Nile. Then, if you had so great a longing, Rome, for a wicked war, once you had brought the whole world under Latin laws, then was the time to turn your hand against yourself! You have never yet lacked an enemy. (Lucan 1.123) Here, however, I will concentrate on the times when one can sense the Greek in what is said, when one could almost put Speaking as a Greek in front of a reflection: where a particular Greek way of figuring things may come into play, for instance that of Greek tragedy; where an implied comparison with Greek history may cast a particular light on Roman catastrophes. Let us start with another Life of Plutarch, that of Pompey, written probably in the 110s ce. The observer conceit is there made explicit: for it was not that Heaven was prescribing that plain of Pharsalus to be the stadium and theatre for the Romans to contend for the empire (Comparison of Agesilaus and Pompey 4.6). Both the stadium and the theatre pick up strands of imagery athletic contest and tragedy that have run earlier through the Life. The night before the battle Pompey dreamed that he was going into his own theatre at Rome (68.2), and there is a sense in which that dream is already coming true he is entering the theatre, but a different one, and he himself is to be the show. There may also be a distant reminiscence of Iliad 22, when Achilles and Hector race around the walls before two sets of spectators that are both gripped by what they see, the one of the human participants on both sides, the second of the gods above. As the two sides are about to clash at Pharsalus, there is a pause. [Hdh de; sunqhvmato" didomevnou para; ajmfotevrwn kai; th'" savlpiggo" ajrcomevnh" ejgkeleuvesqai pro;" th;n suvstasin, tw'n me;n pollw'n e{kasto" ejskovpei to; kaq" auJtovn, ojlivgoi de; JRwmaivwn oiJ bevltistoi kaiv tine" JEllhvnwn parovnte" e[xw th'" mavch", wJ" ejggu;" h\n to; deinovn, ejlogivzonto th;n pleonexivan kai; filonikivan, o{pou fevrousa th;n hJgemonivan ejxevqhken. o{pla ga;r suggenika; kai; tavxei" ajdelfai; kai; koina; shmei'a kai; mia'" povlew" eujandriva tosauvth kai; duvnami" aujth; pro;" eJauth;n sunevpipten, ejpideiknumevnh th;n ajnqrwpivnhn fuvsin, wJ" ejn pavqei genomevnh tuflovn ejsti kai; maniw'de". h\n me;n ga;r h[dh kaq" hJsucivan crh/vzousin a[rcein kai; ajpolauvein tw'n kateirgasmevnwn to; plei'ston kai; kravtiston ajreth/' gh'" kai; qalavssh" uJphvkoon, h\n d" e[ti tropaivwn kai; qriavmbwn e[rwti boulomevnou" carivzesqai kai; diyw'nta" ejmpivplasqai Parqikw'n polevmwn h] Germanikw'n. polu; de; kai; Skuqiva leipovmenon e[rgon kai; "Indoiv, kai; provfasi" oujk a[doxo" ejpi; tau'ta th'" pleonexiva" hJmerw'sai ta; barbarikav. tiv" d" a]n h] Skuqw'n i{ppo" h] toxeuvmata Pavrqwn h] plou'to" "Indw'n ejpevsce muriavda" eJpta; Rwmaivwn ejn o{ploi" ejpercomevna" Pomphi?ou kai; Kaivsaro" hJgoumevnwn, w|n o[noma polu; provteron h[kousan h] to; Rwmaivwn; ou{tw" a[mikta kai; poikivla kai; qhriwvdh fu'la nikw'nte" ejph'lqon. tovte de; ajllhvloi" macouvmenoi sunh/vesan, oujde; th;n dovxan auJtw'n, di" h}n th'" patrivdo" hjfeivdoun, oijkteivrante", a[cri th'" hJmevra" ejkeivnh" ajnikhvtwn prosagoreuomevnwn. hJ me;n ga;r genomevnh suggevneia kai; ta; "Iouliva" fivltra kai; gavmo" ejkei'no" eujqu;" h\n ajpathla; kai; u{popta koinwniva" ejpi; creiva/ sunistamevnh" oJmhreuvmata, filiva" d" ajlhqinh'" ouj metevscen. (Plutarch, Pompey 70) Let us take, and translate, that passage in several stages. Just as the signal was being given by both sides and the trumpet was calling for the battle to begin, the ordinary soldiers each considered his own predicament, but a few of the best of the Romans and some Greeks who were there but not participating reflected, now that the danger was at hand, on the plight to which greed and rivalry [philonikia] had brought the empire and laid it out before them Laid it out before them, ejxevqhken, a word that is exactly right for a spectacle: the grandstand that was Greece, indeed. Notice these Greek non-participants. There is good reason to believe that Plutarchs source for these events probably Asinius Pollio had a similar passage here: but the main reason for thinking that is a parallel set of reflections in the account of Appian (BC 2.77.3204). Yet Appian puts the reflections in the minds of Caesar and Pompey, who are (rather uncharacteristically) overtaken by apprehensiveness as the battle approaches, and think of the risks which they are taking themselves and to which they are exposing their men. Nothing there of these best of the Romans and some Greeks who were there but not participating. Perhaps we should again think of these as a sort of audience, watching in that distinctively theatrical way that combines intense imaginative engagement with an essential level of detachment; perhaps, indeed, we should adopt a metatextual approach, and think of the response of these spectators as a model for the response of the reader, all of us drawn in to imagine ourselves as observers too. In any case, the theatre is in our mind from a passage a few chapters earlier where the armies took up their positions like a chorus (68.7), and the texture of what these spectators go on to think does have a good deal of the tragic chorus about it, filling a pause before a crisis with reflections on human nature, moving from the specific to the general, opening a world-wide perspective with a vista of distant lands, wistfully moving through the world of the might-have-been. This is, indeed, a distinctively Greek way of figuring things. It is a way, too, which evokes tragedy, not just in the sense that it is all really rather sad, but evoking ideas of kindred conflict, of a single household having resonances and impact on a whole nation, of the past hanging heavily over the present, of fierce and uncontrollable emotion bringing inevitable catastrophe. Here were kindred arms and battle-lines of brothers; Neat phrasing: the kindred arms suggest the relation of Caesar the father-in-law and Pompey the son-in-law, pointing to the marriage of Pompey to Julia that comes back at the end of the passage (the bella plus quam ciuilia of the first line of Lucan, worse than internecine because it is intrafamilial as well); then the battle-lines of brothers moves the perspective more to the armies than the generals, starting an elegant ambivalence in this passage about whether these observers are really talking about the principals or about the armies as a whole. In Galba and Otho, dealing with that later civil war of 69 ce, it is again greed that Plutarch highlights, in that case greed of the soldiers even more than of the principals. here was so much manhood and might, all falling upon one another. It was a demonstration that human nature, once aroused to emotion, is a blind and frenzied thing. And, with human nature in the forefront, we may already sense a tinge of Thucydides. The language around adds to and deepens the Thucydidean themes. Notice particularly the stress on this as civil conflict, something that makes it particularly blind and frenzied, but may also help to explain the intensity of the emotion, the pavqo~. Thucydides classic analysis of civil strife at Corcyra (3.823) is not far away. And it will not be far away for the rest of this lecture, either. By now, had they wished to rule in peace and enjoy their past achievements, the greatest and the best parts of land and sea were already theirs, and open for them to do so; had they still wanted to gratify a thirst for trophies and triumphs, they could have drunk their fill of Parthian or German wars. (That is, by extending Pompeys past conquests to the east and Caesars to the north.) Scythia too was a great task that remained, and India as well; and they had an excuse that was not inglorious for such greed, for they could claim that they were civilising the barbarians. That might give us pause. We might again recall the opening of Lucan, but if we do it will be to notice a contrast as well as a similarity. For Lucan it was Babylon which still needed to disgorge its trophies, it was Crassus who wandered unavenged; the extremities of the world might indeed be brought under Roman arms. But there is not this casual assumption that this was just a matter of greed, or that any high-sounding words any talk about civilising the barbarian, pacique imponere morem in the terms of Aeneid 6.853 were just excuses. Plutarch himself was not beyond purveying ideas like that in some other cases: he does so in his essays on Alexander the Great, for instance, representing him as a philosopher in arms. But such a notion does not, at least in these observers eyes, fit the Romans. It is not that that Romans themselves were incapable of a harder-headed view of what their imperialism amounted to. There is a fair amount of that in the Aeneid itself, after all. Calgacus in Tacitus Agricola, in that wonderful they make a desolation and they call it peace speech, talks of the way the Romans are raptores orbis, the predators of the world: once they have run out of lands in their path of devastation, they scour the sea, greedy if their enemy is rich and glory-seeking if poor, people whom neither East nor West will every satisfy, Agricola 30. (Notice the glory-seeking and the greed there as well.) Calgacus sits in a rhetorical tradition of clear-sightedness about the realities of power that one can trace back at least to Sallusts Letter of Mithridates (Hist. 4. fr. 69 M. = 67 McG.). But at Rome such ideas never, I think, lost their capacity to shock. When Propertius represents himself relaxing with his girl-friend watching the triumph, it is felt as naughty when he represents a possible campaign against the Indians as simply a money-grabbing opportunity for Augustus (3.4, esp. 14, 212). For Plutarch just to waft all the complacency of imperialism away, and assume or rather make those best of the Romans and some non-participant Greeks assume that all the words of civilising the world are just that, mere words, and the reality is pure greed: that is something else, and here we may really be sensing a distinctive, Greek, outsider view of it all. The thought here is not trivial either, even if Plutarch does not make a meal of it. The two alternatives if it was power they wanted, they had it already; if it was glory, there were other opportunities both capture distinctive Roman concerns: and the drives that produced civil war, the greed and rivalry, were those same elements of human nature that also produced empire. We have again moved subtly away from the shadow of Lucan to feel more of the shadow of Thucydides. So it is no surprise to find the emphasis on wealth continuing: For what Scythian cavalry or Parthian arrows or Indian wealth would have resisted 70,000 Romans attacking them in arms, with Pompey and Caesar in command It is a sort of military equivalent of the two men walking arm and arm into the sunset: perhaps too a distant reminiscence of Hectors momentary fantasy in Iliad 22 that he and Achilles might just put their weapons down and agree that Helen might be returned and everyone could go home until he recalls that this is not the sort of man you can engage in lovers chat (22.11130). Nor, now, are Pompey and Caesar. these men whose name those enemies had heard even before they heard of Rome? For such were the unapproachable and varied and savage tribes they had traversed in arms. But now they came together to fight one another, feeling no pity even for their own glory, the thing which led them to be unsparing of their own country: up to that day they had the name of being unconquered. For the kinship they had acquired and the charms of Julia and that marriage [of Julia and Pompey] were from the outset matters of deception and mutual suspicion, a question of hostage-taking and of a union that was put together for expediency: there was no true friendship about it. The remarks on the marriage of Julia and Pompey are in a way surprising, for the narrative of the Life itself has stressed how deeply in love the two of them became: those charms love-charms, philtra of Julia were real, even if there was no true love or friendship, philia, between the in-law male principals. The author of the Life of Antony was never going to be a man to underrate the power of love even among the great, perhaps especially among the great. But there were bigger emotions, path, in play too, those drives of power and glory and greed. Thucydides would have recognised a good deal of this  I mean the real Thucydides, not the fantasy  realist Thucydides who has been created and appropriated in certain strands of neo-conservative thinking, the illusionary one who regards humans as dispassionately and effectively promoting their own self-interest on an international stage. For an important strand in the real Thucydides is precisely how unrealistic realist thinkers often are, how frequently humans take decisions that are likely to bring on the consequences they most fear and are not at all in their own interest, how often what is expedient is expedient for what? For advancing an agenda of emotions, hatred or revenge, especially against those who in a way ought to be closest to you, your fellow-citizens, your neighbouring city, your colonies. In the Corcyrean chapters it is made explicit that the claims of kinship took second place in this world of daring and greed (3.82.6). Perhaps this immense influence in Plutarch of the great individuals is something different: not that Thucydides underrated the influence that a Pericles or an Alcibiades could exercise, but a good deal of his emphasis was on how the demands of human nature created forces that even a Pericles, say, could not combat or override. The emphasis of Plutarch here is more on how the great individuals embody rather than confront such forces of nature, the greed, the recklessness. That too tells a tale about how a Greek writer thought about Rome, and thought about it in the context of the Roman principate, where the impact of one particular great man of power was all too clear: and a great man, Trajan, who at this very moment was probably engaged in Parthian or Scythian well, Dacian anyway wars. I am not going to pursue that theme of contemporary reference here, as my own view is that Plutarch preferred more timeless, less contemporary morals. We will return to this at the end. But it certainly remains striking that he could be so frank about Rome and Roman motives at a time when these themes were still as live as can be. What I have said so far may conjure up a rather sniffy Plutarch, who speaking as a Greek is putting those poor demented Romans in their place: if only they had not shown those distinctive Roman traits, things would have been so much better And there are certainly times when Plutarch can manage a sniff, and suggest that certain ways where Romans are different are also ways where Romans are worse. That is particularly true when the values of Greek education are in point: if only Coriolanus and Marius had taken the trouble to learn Greek and study Greek literature in their youth, then they would not have become the sort of Roman soldier they were, fine on the battlefield but still with a lack of emotional self-control that encouraged their aggressive and violent tendencies. (How useful Plutarch would be in writing letters to the papers on the value of Classics in the school curriculum.) He makes no bones either about the Roman lack of aesthetic tastes: he saw the marble columns which were intended for Domitians temple when they were waiting for shipping at Athens, and at that point they were perfectly proportioned; when they got to Rome, those cowboy masons who put them up made a real mess of it, and they now looked dreadful (Poplicola 15.4). We might again remember Virgils Anchises, this time his acknowledgement that others, presumably the Greeks, would be better sculptors than the Romans (Aeneid 6.8478). How true, how very true. But that is not the sort of thing that we are talking about now. Those reflections in the Pompey are given an extra perspective because Plutarch writes his Lives in pairs, a Greek and a Roman, and each story deftly illuminates the other. Pompey is paired with the Spartan king Agesilaus, and early in that Life Agesilaus is having a run of glorious success in Asia Minor. In fact, things are going so well that Agesilaus can think of launching an Eastern campaign against Persia. But at this moment Epicydidas the Spartiate arrived, announcing that a great Greek war [note the phrasing] was besetting Sparta, and so the ephors were summoning him and commanding him to help the people at home. You Greeks! You are the inventers of barbarian evils. For what else could one call that jealousy and that combination and array of Greek forces against one another? Fortune was on an upward surge, yet they laid hold upon her; they turned upon themselves the arms that were levelled against barbarians and the war that they had driven out of Greece. I do not myself agree with Demaratus of Corinth when he said that those Greeks had been robbed of a great pleasure who had not seen Alexander sitting on Darius throne; no, I think they would have done better to shed tears at the thought that this had been left for Alexander by those who had at that time expended the lives of Greek generals at Leuctra, Coroneia, Corinth, and in Arcadia. (Agesilaus 15.24) So Agesilaus meekly obeys orders and goes home. So: it is not just Romans who lose the chance of glorious Eastern conquest by a stupid, blind taste for self-destruction. Perhaps there is an implied contrast of the dutiful Agesilaus and the great Roman dynasts, military men who no longer know how to obey as well as to command, but the similarities between Greek and Roman are greater than the differences. Nor is this an isolated instance in Plutarch: elsewhere too he says the same thing, or a typical ploy has concerned observers, rather as in the Pompey, say the same thing. In a famous passage Greek observers in 196 bce reflect on the freedom that the Roman Flamininus had been able to bring them but that the Greeks had always been too dysfunctional to acquire for themselves (Flamininus 11.37): They fell to thinking and talking about Greece and all the wars she had fought for freedom; but freedom had never come more firmly or more delightfully than now, and it had come almost without blood and without grief, championed by another people, this finest and most enviable of prizes Men like Agesilaus, Lysander, Nicias, and Alcibiades had been great warriors and had known how to lead their men to victories on land and sea, but had not known how to use their victories to noble and glorious ends. If one discounted Marathon, Salamis, Plataea, and Thermopylae, and Cimons victories at the Eurymedon and in Cyprus, all Greeces wars had been fought internally for slavery, every trophy had been also a disaster and reproach for Greece, which had generally been overthrown by its leaders evil ways and rivalry (kakiva kai; filonikiva) So the crucial Greek characteristic was philonikia, probably felt as suggesting two separate Greek concepts that one might be in love with, both nike, victory, and neikos, quarrels. For Plutarch, it was the ease with which the one craving could become the other that had been the bugbear of Greek history, and had ensured that they had never been able to get for themselves what the can-do Romans were able to do for them. And what drove the Romans on, or at least Flamininus, was a similar quality that could at times be more positive: the philotimia, the love of honour that Flamininus so strongly displayed, that honour which the appreciative Greeks were so willing to pay him. Perhaps that freedom and that honour had eventually turned sour. We saw that sourness at the beginning, with those sufferings of the civil war and the whips that were lashing the burghers of Chaeronea into carrying their burdens in a more sprightly way. One reason was closely linked with that distinctive Roman philotimia. Whereas in Greece it was the warring states that were the barrier to collective action, at Rome it was the warring individuals, so intent on pursuing their own ends: it was, remember, their own glory that led them to be unsparing of their own country, and eventually produced the philonikia that, in the Pompey passage, had come to typify Rome as well. Here there are some further, distinctively Greek insights that are being applied to Roman carnage. One is that it is so often the same qualities that build a persons or a nations greatness and then go on to destroy it. That is true of Homers Achilles; it is true of so many characters in tragedy, Oedipus or Medea or Antigone or Ajax; it is true of Herodotus Persia; it is true of Thucydides Athens. Here it is that distinctive Roman taste for glory, individual glory, that makes them great and gets them to a stage, which should not be scorned, where the great individuals have already achieved those external conquests that an Agesilaus has wrily and resignedly to draw back from. Here, Greeks fail even get to the starting gate: can-do Romans can indeed do, even if they eventually fail and collapse into chaos. So Agesilaus cannot play Alexander ahead of his time; by this stage, Pompey has already done so, for in the first part of his career, Plutarch has stressed, he has indeed been the Roman Alexander (Pompey 46.12). And a second insight, more distinctively Thucydidean though Herodotean and Homeric too, focuses on that aspect of human nature. National differences matter, and to explain history one has to take them into account; but in the last analysis, particularly when warfare, that great equaliser, either reduces humanity to a lowest common denominator or just occasionally raises it to its highest levels of achievement, the warring sides are not so very different after all. There is one last point before we leave that passage of Flamininus. The Greeks failure to achieve is conditioned by that philonikia, that love of contention and/or love of victory. Flamininus is paired by Plutarch with the life of the Greek freedom-fighter Philopoemen, Flamininus contemporary and at times adversary, so that both men have a walk-on role in each others Life. And Philopoemen was the man of filonikiva par excellence: he was always likely to be looking for a fight, sometimes with other Greeks (so that when there was no convenient war at home, he went off to Crete to look for one), sometimes with the Roman masters as he fought for Greek liberty. In one way Plutarch admires so fierce a commitment to freedom and to national pride: he begins by quoting the praise of a certain Roman for him as the last of the Greeks (Philopoemen 1.7) a fine, resonant phrase, and we may remember that Cassius was also acclaimed as the last of the Romans for his similarly resolute attachment to the cause of liberty in striking down Julius Caesar (Brutus 44.2). But the way Philopoemen set about it also helps to explain why he was the last of the Greeks. Their philonikia, and his in particular, both weakened them internally and left the Roman masters little choice but to take them over. It also suggests a further question. Why did Rome survive, in virtually all its power, when Greece had been so terminally weakened? If Philopoemen was the last of the Greeks, why were not Pompey and Caesar similarly destructive to Rome? Why indeed was Cassius not the last of the Romans in a fuller sense than he was? Any reflective observer needed to ask questions like that, questions not merely about Roman frailty but also about Roman resilience, about their national instinct for survival as well as for self-destruction. And Plutarch may have an answer or so, as we shall shortly see: but I have spent long enough on Plutarch already. There are many other writers clamouring for discussion: Appian, so far mentioned only briefly and as a foil for Plutarch, but an author with plenty of ideas of his own; particularly perhaps Cassius Dio, Roman consul as well as Bithynian Greek, who in the third century ce wrote a Roman history brimming with interpretative ideas owed both to the Roman tradition and to the Greek. But I shall go back to an earlier Greek historian of Roman civil wars, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, writing in Rome itself under Augustus; and writing about a much earlier set of civil wars, or rather civil conflict (an important distinction, as we shall see) the interminable Struggle of the Orders, patrician against plebeian, that dominated the history of the fifth and fourth centuries bce. I say interminable, and that is partly an impression given by Dionysius own narrative in his Roman Antiquities. After the first few books this is heavily dominated by speech after speech, and the same themes keep coming back the problems of famine and debt, the value of tradition, the need for moderation or for resolution, the glories or the dangers of freedom, the case for discipline and the rule of law and it seems that very little progress is made. The reader is left bemused, battered, and bewildered. But here too there is a brain at work, and a distinctively Greek one. Dionysius has a big thesis, and it is in dialogue with Polybius, the previous great Greek historian of Romes expansion. Polybius had argued that, to understand Romes success in becoming masters of the Mediterranean world in just fifty-three years, one had to examine those years closely, and see exactly where Romes strengths lay: for him, these were particularly (but not only) to be found in their distinctive constitution. But in Dionysius view you had to go back much earlier, right to the beginnings: and if you do go back earlier, Dionysius says, you will find the real secret to Romes greatness. It was that it was a Greek city, founded from Greece, influenced throughout by Greek ideas, and showing a wise readiness always to learn from and welcome what was most valuable in Greek culture. Including, one might think, a rhetorical culture, and perhaps at times too much verbal virtuosity for ones own good: all those speeches. In fact, that raises a question: if Dionysius is so keen to show Romes greatness and its good qualities, why does he spend so much time and effort showing Rome at what seems to be her worst? There is an answer, and he gives it at 7.66. Dionysius has just recounted the institution of the tribunate, and the hauling of Coriolanus before a court to stand trial. And, given that they made this constitutional change not by using armed violence on one another to enforce it, but by persuading one another, I have thought it necessary to recount the speeches that the men of power at the time made on both sides. I should be amazed myself if people think it necessary to describe the events of warfare in detail, sometimes expending many words on a single battle and going through the nature of the terrain [Polybius is surely a target here] and the distinctive nature of the weaponry and the character of the battle-lines and the exhortations of the generals and all the other things that explain why one side wins, but when they tell of political upheavals and factions they do not think they need to include the speeches which brought about the paradoxical, amazing events. For this, in my view, ranks above all the other praises one can heap on Rome and the other features which everyone ought to imitate, indeed is the most brilliant of all the many other amazing things about them the way that neither did those fighting for the people attack the patricians in their scorn for them, wreaking carnage among the men of power and seizing all their property, nor did the men of rank use their own resources or employ mercenaries to destroy the whole people and go on to live without fear. It was more like brothers dealing with brothers or children dealing with parents in a well-ordered house: they would talk to one another about fairness and justice, and settle their quarrels through persuasion and talk, and not allow themselves to do anything irreparable or wicked against one another. Contrast what the Corcyreans did during their faction, and the Argives, and the Milesians, and all Sicily, and many other cities. That is why I have chosen to expand the narrative to include more rather than less detail. (7.66) There is a most interesting paradox that is beginning to form. It will be others, says Virgils Anchises again, surely the Greeks who will be the better pleaders in court, orabunt causas melius (Aeneid 6.849); it was Athens that was the city of words (cf. Demosthenes 19.184). Yet not merely was a taste for words, logoi, one of those boons that Rome learnt from Greece: for Dionysius, they also learnt to outdo those talkative Greeks by managing to use words to avoid bloodshed, jaw-jaw-jaw to avoid war-war-war. Civil conflict, yes; civil war, no. This is not after all showing the Romans at their worst, but at their best. They may not have been so eloquent as the Greeks, but these men of action knew how to make speech work, in fact to turn logos, speech, into a preferable form of ergon, action. Or rather had known then. No one could read those words at the time of Augustus without reflecting that time had changed. Kin had indeed come to blows with kin (Dionysius language here might remind us again of that of the Pompey), and carnage, seizure of property, and irreparable, wicked deeds had come to be the currency of the last few generations. Something had changed; something needed to be put right. Once again Greek analysis of Roman strengths turns out to put a finger on Roman weaknesses as well. And once again Thucydides is not far away. Notice that reference at the end to the Corcyreans, which inevitably points us back once again to that classic Thucydidean analysis of civil war. The first implication is once again that Rome did things better: that Thucydides may have illustrated the paradigm of civil wars ferocious bloodiness, but Rome managed to avoid falling into that paradigm. But the Thucydidean model also gives extra bite to that qualification, or did so then. If we recall that later Roman experience of the first century bce, Thucydides was not so wrong in suggesting that such things happen and will always happen as long as human nature stays the same, but may take fiercer or less intense forms depending on how each change of circumstance accompanies the events (3.82.2, introducing that analysis of stasis). For the carnage did come back, and the ferocity. It is another version of the pattern I was suggesting with Plutarch: things do differ, and the way Rome developed differently from Greece can help to explain why Rome could achieve things that Greece could not; but eventually things do not differ as much as all that, and Greek experience can be a guide to what can always happen in Rome as well. Let us take another example of how Thucydidean intertextuality may work: Aeneas speech at Roman Antiquities 1.58, the first oratio recta in the work. We are natives of Troy, not the least distinguished city among the Greeks. The Achaeans took this away from us when they conquered us in a ten-year war, and since then we have been wanderers, going around for lack of a city and a land to dwell in for the future. We have followed the orders of the gods and have come here, and so the oracles of the gods tell us this land alone is left to us as the haven at the end of our wanderings. We are taking from the country what we need, in a way that shows our misfortune rather than telling to our credit; we should not have wished this to be so. But we will pay with many good actions in recompense, putting at your disposal bodies and souls that are well schooled in facing danger, keeping your own land unravaged and joining you enthusiastically in conquering that of your enemies. We beseech you as suppliants not to be angry at what we have done, taking into account that these have been deeds of involuntary necessity rather than wilful violence; and what is involuntary deserves forgiveness (a{pan de; suvggnwmon to; ajkouvsion). We are stretching out our hands to you (cei'ra" proecomevnwn), and you should not take a contrary view about us. If you do, we will call on the gods and daimones of this land to forgive us for what we are forced to do, and will attempt to defend ourselves against you if you start the war (polevmou a[rconta" uJma'" ajmuvnesqai). This would not be the first nor the biggest war from which we would reap the consequences a menacing way to end. Troy, not the least distinguished city among the Greeks That is a striking way to start, especially as Troys Greekness is still unexplained. It is all connected with Atlas, Arcadia, and Evander, but that only comes out a few chapters later. (Perhaps the Aeneid would have helped, presumably in circulation fairly soon after Virgils death in 19 bce and therefore available by the time of Dionysius publication twelve years later.) Then 45 are an amalgam of Thucydidean allusions. What is involuntary deserves forgiveness (a{pan de; suvggnwmon to; ajkouvsion) recalls Cleons words at 3.40.1, where he is arguing (not wholly consistently) that the Mytileneans behaviour was not involuntary and therefore deserves punishment by death. The next sentence recalls various aspects of the Plataean debate (closely juxtaposed with the Mytilenean debate in Thucydides original), where holding out hands in supplication becomes a key phrase, used first by the Plataeans then thrown back in their faces by their Theban adversaries (3.58.3, 66.2); calling on the gods of this land is also a key concept there (3.58, cf. already Archidamus at 2.74.2). We will attempt to defend ourselves against you if you start the war (polevmou a[rconta~ uJma`~ ajmuvnesqai) then echoes Pericles uncompromising reply to the Spartans at 1.144.2 (We will not start this war, but we will defend ourselves against those who do, polevmou d" oujk a[rxomen, ajrcomevnou~ de; ajmunouvmeqa). If we recall not just the words but the Thucydidean contexts from which they come, they summon up that world of Thucydidean brutality, where moral arguments are used only when they happen to be convenient, where force is met with force, and the gods those gods on which Aeneas now calls just as the Plataeans called in their day are nowhere. Yet it would be hard to imagine anything further removed from the world that we have here, where both Latinus and Aeneas have already been primed by the gods to be nice to one another. Within a few lines everything is hugs and friendship and treaties. So what to make of it? I give you the choice of two Dionysiuses. One is the one who is closer to the conventional picture, one who shows only how far a Greek can misunderstand Roman history. That Dionysius is a rather simple soul, who brings to the party nothing much except stylistic virtuosity, and here applies Thucydidean tags with no inkling of quite how much he is dumbing them down: they are, on this view, pure adornment, nothing more. The other is a Dionysius that I would prefer, one who is using the echoes more dynamically: the point is for him exactly the one I have been making, that the worlds are so different. The Greekness of Rome is only part of it: the other part is to bring out how Rome, right from the beginning, adds something of its own to the mix, and that is this mix of divine favour, moral worthiness, and the mailed glove in the background that makes men like Latinus realise that this is something special, special enough to mean that the Thucydidean match-force-with-force mindset does not work is indeed outdated in this world even though it is actually eight hundred years earlier than the Thucydidean model it is evoking. For Dionysius Rome, morality works; and here it works in avoiding the civil war that otherwise threatens, even if it had not gone on working well enough to avoid the civil wars of more recent times. That gives us a clue for how to approach the question I raised earlier, not merely why Rome fought herself but also how Rome survived. That survival had to be closely bound up with the reign of Augustus, and for Dionysius that meant a contemporary issue: the Augustan programme was still carrying through, and there are times when we can sense it in Dionysius text. Lots of the good, foundational ideas of Romulus, for instance, sound as if they are capable of being dusted down and taking a deep breath to start all over again religion and morality, extending citizenship, adopting a sort of monarchy but tempering it by borrowing the best aspects of other forms of rule. But perhaps the more important point is the bigger one that underlies this, the idea that one might look to the distant past and still find it helpful to explain why things went right then that had since gone wrong. That distinctive Roman morality, for instance, might not have gone away completely, nor that divine favour: there are themes there that Augustus would not find uncongenial, and ones that again will sound familiar to those who spend their time with Horace and Virgil rather than with Dionysius. Still, those distinctive emphases both on learning from Greece and on the power of speech and persuasion to avoid civil strife a very Greek idea in itself, of course, one familiar from Aeschylus Eumenides strike a rather different, more unroman note. Romans themselves often dwelt on the disastrous, unmanning effect of cultural influences from the east, importing tastes for luxury and wealth: Dionysius points to something far more valuable that could come from their eastern neighbour. They had drawn so much of value from Greece in the past, and they could do so still. And one of those things they could learn was the value and the power of logos from this Greek master of rhetorical logoi, Dionysius himself. Let us go back to Plutarch at the end. How would he have dealt with that question about survival, why Rome had survived its self-destructive urges so much better than Greece? The answer for this profoundly religious man would partly be a question of the gods. In his essay On the Fortune of the Romans he develops a picture of the warring nations finding resolution in the unifying power of the Roman Empire rather as the philosopher Democritus thought the cosmos took shape from a chaos of randomly conflicting atoms (317ac) perhaps the nearest we get in antiquity to a philosophical theory that is more often claimed than really demonstrated, the idea that the Roman Empire was the manifestation of the order that a kindly Providence had ordained for humanity. There are times in the Lives too where he simply says that it was necessary that power should come round to one man, and Heaven was guiding things in that direction (Antony 56.6, Brutus 47.7). But one can still ask what were the human characteristics that Providence could exploit to achieve what she wanted, rather as the gods of Greek tragedy fasten on distinctive chinks or strengths of human characters to wreak their will. Chinks or strengths and here we can put an earlier idea into reverse. I suggested that crucial strengths could become crucial weaknesses; perhaps a chink can also become a strength. Plutarch can write most eloquently of the way everything became totally unmanageable in the city of Rome, with violence, bloodshed, and corruption everywhere, a dysfunctional politic which he memorably calls kakopoliteia (Caesar 28.4). So by now sensible people would be thankful if the outcome were monarchy, and nothing worse. Indeed, by now there were many who were ready to say in public that the state could only be cured by a monarchy, and the right thing to do was to take the remedy from the gentlest of the doctors who were offering it meaning Pompey. (Caesar 28.56) Here we have another group of sensible observers. They are wrong only in thinking that the doctor will be Pompey, and they were not the only ones. Brutus and Cassius were wrong too: Caesars rule caused trouble for its opponents during its genesis, but once they had accepted it and been defeated it seemed no more than a name and an idea, and nothing cruel or tyrannical sprang from it. Indeed, it seemed that the state needed monarchy, and Caesar was Heavens gift to Rome as the gentlest possible doctor. (Comparison of Dion and Brutus 2.2) So not Pompey but Caesar as the doctor, but in any case a single man was needed, the great individual. We saw earlier how Greek philonikia was a matter of contention among cities while its Roman equivalent was a struggle of one great man against another. Certainly that power of the individual at Rome may have been a bugbear: Plutarch analyses this too, in a passage where he talks of the power that the great men accrued because of their control of the armies and their capacity to satisfy those armies greed greed, once again (Sulla 12.914). But that is just another way in which Romes acclimatisation to the great individuals was at first destructive, but then also conditioned them to accept the power of the greatest individual of them all. And that was how Rome survived. Was Greece glad? Was it a grandstand that would leap to its feet with a cheer for these Roman masters, because what, after all, was the odd whipping or the odd forced march between friends? Plutarch could certainly acknowledge the values of the Roman empire: in his dialogue On the Pythian Oracles he has a character say The current situation and conditions are ones that I am very content with, those conditions that form the subject-matter of the questions people put to the god. There is great peace and tranquillity, war has come to an end, there are no wanderings of people, no civil strife, no tyrannies, nor any of the other ailments and evils of Greece that require complex and elaborate treatments. (Theon, On the Pythian Oracles 408b) The Greek past being what it was, that mattered. Far better to have the oracle dealing with mundane questions like shall I marry, shall I make a journey, rather than the great questions of the past about wars and empires. In Advice on Public Life Plutarch says something similar in his own person: Consider the greatest goods that cities can enjoy, peace, freedom, good crops, strong manpower, harmony. As for peace, the peoples that a statesman leads have no needs at the moment, for all war, Greek and barbarian, has gone from us and disappeared. And freedom? The peoples have as much as our masters allow them, and perhaps it is just as well there is not more. There is boundless fertility of the soil and a friendly mix of the seasons, and the wise person will pray to the gods that women may bear children like their parents (Hesiod, Works and Days 235) and that those who are born may live in safety. (Plutarch, Advice on Public Life 824cd) One can understand why John Dillon a few years ago could compare Plutarchs view of the Roman Empire with Fukuyama on the end of History: just as Fukuyama thought that western liberalism had cleared out the opposition so decisively that the future could only be a continuation of the present state, so Plutarch might have thought the same about the imperial Roman peace. Fifteen years have made a difference, and one now tends to mention Fukuyama only with a wry smile. I would not go so far myself as to make Plutarch a figure of resistance to Roman power, as some have done; but I do not think that Plutarch would have been so trusting in the Roman future as Fukuyama was in western liberalism. Augustus might have been the reason why Rome survived; but only 99 years after the battle of Actium had come civil war again, in the maelstrom of 69 ce; and Plutarch was worldly-wise enough to know that civil war had not been too far away in the uncertainties that had followed Domitians death in 96, only a few years before he was writing most of the words I have been discussing here. I suggested earlier that he was more interested in the timeless morals, not those with sharp and precise contemporary relevance. That cuts both ways, because lessons from history can be timeless precisely because they might at any time become as relevant as ever. War may have gone from us and vanished, says Plutarch; but it might always come back, and with it all those grimmest aspects of human brutality. That is because one can indeed talk about human nature, that human nature which is shown at its most murderous and gruesome by that violent schoolmaster, as Thucydides called it, civil war itself (3.82.2). He knew a thing or two, did Thucydides. And so did Plutarch.     PAGE  PAGE 7  This is the text, only lightly adapted and annotated, of the second Housman lecture, delivered on 20 June 2007. I am most grateful to University College, London for this signal honour, and particularly to Professor Chris Carey for his hospitality, his encouragement, and his patience. Some of the Dionysius material was reused in Learning from that violent schoolmaster...: Thucydidean intertextuality and some Greek views of Roman civil war in Citizens of Discord: Rome and its Civil Wars, ed. C. Damon, A. Rossi, and B. Breed (Oxford, 2010), 10517; some of the comments on Plutarch overlap with my chapter on Wealth and decadence in Plutarchs Lives, to appear in the Cambridge Companion to Plutarch, ed. F. Titchener and A. Zadorojnyi.  Anticyra was the nearest port on the Corinthian Gulf: this would be about a 30 km. march from Chaeronea, over steep and difficult country.  Athletic contest: Pompey 8.7, 17.2, 20.2, 41.2, 51.2, 66.4. Tragedy: 68.7, and see below.  Or so it is usually assumed, for good reasons already laid out by E. Kornemann in 1896 (Die historische Schriftstellerei des C. Asinius Pollio, Jb. fr cl. Phil. Supp. 22, 555692); cf. my Plutarch and History (Classical Press of Wales, 2002), 1213, and further bibliography cited there, esp. A.M. Gowing, The Triumviral Narratives of Appian and Cassius Dio (Michigan, 1992), 3950 on the various ways in which the later writers seem to have manipulated and adapted Pollios material. In the present case Plutarch is much more likely than Appian to be the one who is adapting what stood in their shared source.  Esp. Galba 1.6, with R. Ash, Severed heads: individual portraits and irrational forces in Plutarchs Galba and Otho, in Plutarch and his Intellectual World!DEG  , E!I!J!K!!!o"t"###,,000l1n1\2شحѦشћz hHMhKh~YhKB*phh~YhKB*OJQJphh~YhKOJQJ ht!hK h,/hKjhb&hK0JUhb&hK:hb&hK6 h~YhK hb&hKjhb&hK0JCJUhb&hKCJhb&hMCJ-!FG[\/ M,\Hu dh`gdKdh^`gdK $a$gdKgdK d`gdKdgdK $da$gdK $da$gdK;i0[&P~1>#dgdK dgdK $dha$gdK7dh^7`gdK dh`gdK>###00n1G3C65;m;Q>>@ BdB!CZF5LNWNdgdKgdK d`gdK$d`a$gdK7dh^7`gdK d`gdK\2233.3E3F3c3o3K4L444886<M<======N>>>>??Ұ@@*0EE۹ܹFF$,GGHHHI5WNNP(SvVo_'egjjknNqsv|ܕ d`gdK $da$gdKgdKgdKdgdK7dh^7`gdKSSSSSS=TCT{TTUVVfWhW [[^^``bbTd]ddeeeeeff=fZf^fhhjjllm mKmNmmmn5qKqMqvqqqqqqrrlsvss͸͸Ͱͩ͸hHMhKOJQJ hHMhKhvhK:jhvhK0JUhvhK6 hvhK huIHhKh^ThK6jh("hK0JU h("hKh("hK6>sss8uBuu`vjvxv~vxxzz||}}H}R}~ ~,~7~E~F~G~H~^b*4?A6:պխ}}h,/hK: hVhK hq{hKh,/hK6 h,/hKh6hKOJQJjh("hK0JUh("hKOJQJhq{hK6h("hK6 h("hKhvhK6 hvhK h .hKjhvhK0JU+:;<$)Әؘ $.1KQ*<N^jrwߤPY٥zէاºº³¤¤‘¤³ht!hK:ht!hK6h= hK6h9hKB*phh9hKB*OJQJph ht!hKhk"YhK6 hk"YhKh,/hK: huIHhKh,/hK6 h,/hKh,/hK5:jh,/hK0J:U0ܕ y_v_` -BC $da$gdKgdKgdK d`gdKdgdK $a$gdK$'Ajnot*5WXT]#DI`quz  'FKWm(%)ػشhTzhK6 hK6hK hTzhKh= hK6 h= hKhq{hK6jhk"YhK0JUhk"YhK6 hk"YhK hq{hKht!hK6 ht!hKht!hKOJQJ:/]_ &`#$gdK L dhgdK$ L 7dh^7`a$gdK L 7dh^7`gdK L dgdK$a$gdK)*]|tu /0>@KVӿӷӯwh3#hKB*phjhK0JUh*o0JmHnHuhK hK0JjhK0JUhMjhMUh= hK: hq{hKjh= hK0JU h= hK hHMhKht!hK6 ht!hK hTzhKh= hK6,u9<K: dhgdK dhgdK dhgdK &`#$gdKVu fg{uvev;9:@E<=MQn.2#&Rۿ۸۰۸Uhq{hK6 hq{hKjhq{hK0JU hK6jhK0JUhKh3#hK6B*phh3#hKB*phhKB*phD, ed. J. Mossman (Classical Press of Wales, 1997), 189214.  But not in the Life: on this see J.R. Hamilton, Plutarch, Alexander: a Commentary (Oxford, 1969), xxiiixxxiii, esp. xxxixxxii, and my Plutarch and History (n. 4), 147.  Pompey 48.8, 53. Pompeys uxoriousness is a recurrent theme in that Life: cf.. 55.35, 745, 78.7, 79.3 (Cornelia), presaged already at 2.58 (Flora).  On this cf. Plutarch and History (n. 4), ch. 11.  Marius 2.34, Coriolanus 1. On this see esp. S. Swain, Hellenic culture and the Roman heroes of Plutarch, JHS 100 (1990), 12645, repr. in B. Scardigli, Essays on Plutarchs Lives (Oxford, 1995), 22964.  A quotation from the barbarian Andromache at Euripides Trojan Women 764, though there it is the evils that the victorious Greeks have imposed on the defeated barbarian Trojans. There may be a further point here too in transposing it to evils that they are inflicting on one another.  Besides Flamininus 11 cf. also Cimon 19, Timoleon 29.6, and On the Pythian Oracles 401cd.  Or so I have argued: Plutarch and History (n. 4), 345 and 347 n. 24.  Flamininus as filotimovtato~ kai; filodoxovtato~, intensely ambitious for honour and glory, Flam. 1.3: then 3.3, 7.2, 7.5, 9.5, 17.2, 20.1, and esp. Comparison of Flamininus and Philopoemen 1.4, ta; toivnun aJmarthvmata tou' me;n filotimiva", tou' de; filonikiva" gevgone, the one mans errors came from his philotimia, the others from his philonikia.  Phil. 3.1, 17.7, Comparison 1.4 (quoted above, n.  NOTEREF _Ref92968436 \h 13) and 1.7.  I treat Dionysius again in the Blackwell Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography (ed. J. Marincola, 2007), i. 2527.  [I]m Grunde zeigt er nur, in welchen Ausma ein Grieche die rmische Geschichte miverstehen konnte, W. Hoffmann, Livius und der zweite Punische Krieg (Berlin, 1942), 4.  J. Dillon, Plutarch and the end of history, in Plutarch and his Intellectual World (n. 5), 233-40, discussing F. Fukuyama, The End of History and the Last Man (New York, 1992).  So in particular T. 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