The Tetrarchy As Ideology: Reconfigurations and Representations of an Imperial Power 9783515134002, 9783515134033, 351513400X

Table of contents :
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CONTRIBUTORS
THE TETRARCHY AS IDEOLOGY: AN INTRODUCTION (Filippo Carlà-Uhink & Christian Rollinger)
THE IMPERIAL COLLEGE AND THE COURT
QUOD OMNI CONSANGUINITATE CERTIUS EST, VIRTUTIBUS FRATRES. FAMILIES AND FAMILY RELATIONSHIPS IN ‘TETRARCHIC’ IDEOLOGY (Filippo Carlà-Uhink)
VIRTUTIBUS FRATRES. THE BROTHERHOOD OF DIOCLETIAN AND MAXIMIAN (Byron Waldron)
THE TETRARCHIC SIGNA RECONSIDERED (Anne Hunnell Chen)
PERFORMING (NEW) POWER
THESE BOOTS AREN’T MADE FOR WALKING: TETRARCHIC COURT CEREMONIAL AS A LANGUAGE OF AUTHORITY (Christian Rollinger)
PUBLIC RITUALS AND PERFORMANCE: THE CEREMONIAL STAGING OF IMPERIAL AUTHORITY UNDER DIOCLETIAN (Fabio Guidetti)
THE MONUMENTAL BUREAUCRACY OF DIOCLETIAN (Monica Hellström)
THE TETRARCHIC EMPIRE
FIDES MILITUM: TETRARCHIC MESSAGING, THE ARMY, AND AN IDEOLOGY OF COLLECTIVE VICTORY (Mark Hebblewhite)
THE ‘HAMMER OF THE ARISTOCRACY’? DIOCLETIAN’S REIGN AND ITS CONSEQUENCES FOR THE AMPLISSIMUS ORDO (Nikolas Hächler)
THE LAST PHARAOHS: THE EGYPTIAN RECEPTION OF LATE ROMAN EMPERORS (Nicola Barbagli)
REPRESENTATIONS OF DEVIANCE AND DEVIANTS
THE ENEMIES OF THE TETRARCHS: BARBARIANS, REBELS AND USURPERS IN THE IDEOLOGY OF DIOCLETIAN’S TETRARCHY (Adrastos Omissi)
IN THE SHADOW OF VALERIAN: GALERIUS’ PERSIAN CAMPAIGNS AND THE COMMUNICATION STRATEGIES OF TETRARCHIC EASTERN POLICY (Marc Tipold)
THE AFTERLIFE OF THE TETRARCHY
FUNERALS, FUNERAL RITES, AND TOMBS OF THE TETRARCHY (Javier Arce)
FRACTURING THE COLLECTIVE: POLITICAL DISGRACE AND TETRARCHIC COMMEMORATION (Rebecca Usherwood)
CONCLUDING REMARKS: IDEOLOGY MADE AND UNMADE (Mark Humphries)
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Unbenannt

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The Tetrarchy as Ideology Reconfigurations and Representations of an Imperial Power Edited by Filippo Carlà-Uhink and Christian Rollinger

HABE S Heidelberger Althistorische Beiträge | 64 Franz Steiner Verlag

habes Heidelberger Althistorische Beiträge und Epigraphische Studien Begründet von Géza Alföldy Herausgegeben von Angelos Chaniotis und Christian Witschel Beirat: François Bérard, Kostas Buraselis, Lucas de Blois, Ségolène Demougin, Elio Lo Cascio, Mischa Meier, Elizabeth Meyer, Michael Peachin, Henk Versnel und Martin Zimmermann Band 64

The Tetrarchy as Ideology Reconfigurations and Representations of an Imperial Power Edited by Filippo Carlà-Uhink and Christian Rollinger

Franz Steiner Verlag

Umschlagabbildung: Imperial cult chamber at Luxor, hypothetical reconstruction © Dmitry Karelin, Moscow Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über dnb.d-nb.de abrufbar. Dieses Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist unzulässig und strafbar. © Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart 2023 www.steiner-verlag.de Druck: Memminger MedienCentrum, Memmingen Gedruckt auf säurefreiem, alterungsbeständigem Papier. Printed in Germany. ISBN 978-3-515-13400-2 (Print) ISBN 978-3-515-13403-3 (E-Book)

TABLE OF CONTENTS Contributors ............................................................................................................. 7 Filippo Carlà-Uhink & Christian Rollinger The Tetrarchy as Ideology: An Introduction ......................................................... 11 THE IMPERIAL COLLEGE AND THE COURT Filippo Carlà-Uhink Quod omni consanguinitate certius est, virtutibus fratres Families and Family Relationships in ‘Tetrarchic’ Ideology ................................ 25 Byron Waldron Virtutibus fratres: The Brotherhood of Diocletian and Maximian ........................ 47 Anne Hunnell Chen The Tetrarchic Signa Reconsidered ....................................................................... 67 PERFORMING (NEW) POWER Christian Rollinger These Boots Aren’t Made for Walking: Tetrarchic Court Ceremonial as a Language of Authority .................................... 93 Fabio Guidetti Public Rituals and Performance: The Ceremonial Staging of Imperial Authority under Diocletian ....................... 119 Monica Hellström The Monumental Bureaucracy of Diocletian....................................................... 141 THE TETRARCHIC EMPIRE Mark Hebblewhite Fides Militum: Tetrarchic Messaging, the Army, and an Ideology of Collective Victory ................................................................. 161

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Nikolas Hächler The ‘Hammer of the Aristocracy’? Diocletian’s Reign and Its Consequences for the Amplissimus Ordo ................. 179 Nicola Barbagli The Last Pharaohs: The Egyptian Reception of Late Roman Emperors ............. 221 REPRESENTATIONS OF DEVIANCE AND DEVIANTS Adrastos Omissi The Enemies of the Tetrarchs: Barbarians, Rebels, and Usurpers in the Ideology of Diocletian’s Tetrarchy ..... 247 Marc Tipold In the Shadow of Valerian: Galerius’ Persian Campaigns and the Communication Strategies of Tetrarchic Eastern Policy ..................................... 267 THE AFTERLIFE OF THE TETRARCHY Javier Arce Funerals, Funeral Rites, and Tombs of the Tetrarchy.......................................... 287 Rebecca Usherwood Fracturing the Collective: Political Disgrace and Tetrarchic Commemoration .. 303

Mark Humphries Concluding Remarks: Ideology Made and Unmade ............................................ 319

Bibliography ........................................................................................................ 329 Plates .................................................................................................................... 357

CONTRIBUTORS JAVIER ARCE is Professor emeritus for Roman Archaeology at the Université de Lille in France. After studies of Classical Philology at the University of Salamanca (Spain), he was Assistant Professor of Classical Archaeology at the University of Madrid, Research Professor in the Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas in Madrid, Director of the Escuela Española de Historia y Arqueología in Rome, and Associate Professor at the University of Strasbourg in France. He has directed excavations in Rome (the so-called temple of Iuppiter Stator), Tusculum and Rab (Croatia). His most recent publications include Insignia dominationis. Simbolos de poder y rango del emperador romano en la Antigüedad tardía (2022) and Romanos y sasánidas: el Breviarium de Festus (2022). NICOLA BARBAGLI is annual Research Fellow at the Istituto Italiano per gli Studi Storici of Naples. He studied Roman History, Classical Archaeology, and Egyptology in Florence and Pisa. He has recently obtained a PhD in Classics from the Scuola Normale Superiore in Pisa, with a thesis entitled Faraoni romani: Rappresentazioni del potere imperiale in Egitto da Augusto a Domiziano. He is interested in the history and culture of the Roman empire, particularly of Egypt. His current research focuses on the representation of the emperor in the Egyptian province as conveyed by texts and images. FILIPPO CARLÀ-UHINK is Professor for Ancient History at the University of Potsdam, Germany. After studying Classics and Ancient History at the University of Turin and completing his PhD in the same subjects at the University of Udine, he taught and researched at the Universities of Heidelberg, Mainz, Exeter, at the University of Education Heidelberg and at the University of Tübingen before joining the Historical Institute in Potsdam in 2018. His main research interests include the economic and social history of the (later) Roman empire, the performances and discourses of power in the ancient world, and the reception of Greek and Roman antiquity in modern popular culture. FABIO GUIDETTI studied Ancient History, Classics, and Ancient Art History at the University of Pisa and the Scuola Normale Superiore, where he obtained his PhD in 2011. After working as a post-doctoral fellow at the Topoi Excellence Cluster in Berlin, and as a Marie Skłodowska-Curie fellow at the University of Edinburgh, he is currently a Research Assistant in Roman History at the University of Pisa. His interdisciplinary interests include the social and cultural history of the Roman world and the history of ancient historiography and science.

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NIKOLAS HÄCHLER is working on the reception of Cicero’s notion of justice in late antiquity as a member of the ERC-project ‘The Just City’ under the supervision of Prof. Dr. Benjamin Straumann at the Department of History at the University of Zurich. In his dissertation, supervised by Prof. Dr. Anne Kolb (Zurich), he studied the history of the senatorial order between 235–284. Results of this prosopographical analysis were published under the title Kontinuität und Wandel des Senatorenstandes im Zeitalter der Soldatenkaiser in the series Impact of Empire (2019). MARK HEBBLEWHITE completed his PhD at Macquarie University, Australia, in 2012 and has taught widely in the field of Ancient History. His research interests centre on the ideology and politics of the later Roman Empire, with particular reference to the role of the army in imperial politics and ways the emperor maintained control over the institution. His published works include Theodosius and the Limits of Empire (2020) and The Emperor and the Army in the Later Roman Empire (2017). He currently works at the Australian Catholic University. MONICA HELLSTRÖM is Departmental Lecturer in Ancient History at Oxford University, and a Research Associate of Corpus Christi College. After completing her PhD from Columbia University she has held postdoctoral fellowships in Rome and the UK, most recently as Leverhulme Early Career Fellow at Durham University. She has published on the history, historiography, urbanism, art and architecture of the High and Later Roman Empire. MARK HUMPHRIES is Professor of Ancient History at Swansea University. He is the author of numerous studies of Italy, Rome, and imperial politics in late antiquity, and is currently completing a study of the reign of Valentinian I. He is one of the general editors of the Liverpool University Press series Translated Texts for Historians. ANNE HUNNELL CHEN is Assistant Professor in the Art History and Visual Culture and Experimental Humanities Programs at Bard College (NY) and specializes in the art and archaeology of the globally-connected Roman world. She is the founder and co-director of the International (Digital) Dura-Europos Archive (IDEA), an archaeological data accessibility project, and is Co-Chair and Annotations Activity Co-coordinator for the international Pelagios Network. She has published on Roman, Persian, and Digital Humanities topics, and taught equally wideranging coursework. She also serves as an historical consultant for the Virtual Center for Late Antiquity (VCLA). ADRASTOS OMISSI is Lecturer in Latin Literature at the University of Glasgow. His work focusses on power, inter-imperial competition, and court culture in the late Roman world. He is the author of Emperors and Usurpers in the Later Roman Empire: Civil War, Panegyric, and the Construction of Legitimacy (2018) and the coeditor, with Alan Ross, of Imperial Panegyric from Diocletian to Honorius (2020).

Contributors

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CHRISTIAN ROLLINGER is Reader for Ancient History at the University of Trier, where he completed his PhD on Roman elite society and amicitia, and his Habilitation on late antique court ceremonial. He has published on the social, economic and cultural history of the late Roman republic and early imperial period, Hellenistic and Roman monarchic courts and power in antiquity, as well as pop culture receptions of the ancient world, especially in video games. He is currently preparing the manuscript of his next book, Zeremoniell und Herrschaft in der Spätantike. Die Rituale des Kaiserhofs in Konstantinopel (4.–7. Jh.), for publication. MARC TIPOLD studied History and (Protestant) Theology at the Eberhard Karls Universität Tübingen. He has been working as a research assistant and PhD candidate at the University of Potsdam since 2019. In his PhD project, he analyses the spatial construction of Roman-Persian peace treaties in Late Antiquity. His research focuses on the history of pre-islamic Iran, especially the Sāsānian and later Roman empires. REBECCA USHERWOOD is Assistant Professor in Late Antique and Early Byzantine Studies in the department of Classics at Trinity College Dublin. Her research examines emperors and imperial ideology, with particular focus on material evidence and collective responses to political ideas. Her first book, Political Memory and the Constantinian Dynasty, was published by Palgrave-Macmillan in 2022. BYRON WALDRON is Lecturer in Ancient History at the University of Sydney and a member of the Serbo-Australian Glac Project, which is excavating a Late Roman imperial villa near Sremska Mitrovica. He holds the Australasian Society for Classical Studies Early Career Award, and published a monograph titled Dynastic Politics in the Age of Diocletian, AD 284–311 with Edinburgh University Press in 2022. He has also published articles for various journals including Journal of Late Antiquity, Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik, and Papers of the British School at Rome.

THE TETRARCHY AS IDEOLOGY: AN INTRODUCTION Filippo Carlà-Uhink & Christian Rollinger ‘The tetrarchy’, as the first chapter in this collection eloquently puts it, ‘was a language, not a system’.1 This basic understanding of the re-arranging of Roman imperial government under Diocletian is the fundamental starting point for the present volume, which includes 14 contributions to the study of this period of Roman imperial history and the form of imperial government established by Diocletian in successive steps from 285.2 The tetrarchy is commonly seen as lasting, in some form or other and depending on what is understood by ‘tetrarchic’ rule, either to ca. 312, when Constantine I, son of one former tetrarchic Augustus, vanquished Maxentius, the son of another former tetrarchic Augustus in a battle near Rome, or to 324, when the same Constantine eventually defeated Licinius, who had been made an Augustus in 308 by Diocletian and Galerius.3 It has been the object of extensive study. Diocletian has variously been interpreted as the last barracks-emperor or (more often, under the powerful influence of Edward Gibbon) as the first late antique emperor; as an original thinker and subtle innovator or as a naïve military man given to fanciful ideas; as a decisive military commander or a grandiose tyrant. Traditionally, and particularly in 19th century and early 20th century scholarship, his name has been associated with a clear break in the history of the Roman Empire, marking the end of the ‘classic’ principate and the coming of something simultaneously new and lesser, the ‘dominate’.4 More generally, scholars have been near-unanimous in seeing his rule as one of significant, even radical change.5 His opposition to the spread of Christianity and (less so) his persecution of Christians launched in the waning years of his rule has earned him high marks from scholars such as Voltaire or Gibbon, sympathetic attempts at explanation by some, and the opprobrium of others.6 This drastic view has abated somewhat over the years, as our view of Diocletian himself and of the form of government associated with his name has changed in the context of a still relatively recent re-evaluation of the period now known as Late Antiquity. No longer simply the harbinger of decadence and decay, his attempts at reform have attracted the attention of significant scholars and resulted in many articles, biographies and monographs devoted to analysing the minutiae of his all1 CARLÀ-UHINK, this volume, 46. The chapters in this volume use UK spelling and single quotation marks for direct quotes. 2 Unless otherwise indicated, all dates throughout this volume are CE. 3 On the story of the use of this word to define this historical period, see VOLLMER 1991. 4 For a decisive debunking of this notion, see MEIER 2003b. 5 CARLÀ-UHINK 2019, 9–11. 6 LEPPIN 2004; see also CARLÀ-UHINK 2019, 185–196.

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encompassing activity. Various monographs and edited collections, as well as a veritable flood of articles and smaller works, have been devoted to Diocletian’s and other tetrarchs’ biographies,7 as well as to individual aspects of their rule and reforms, from an analysis of tetrarchic representations in various official state media, to palace architecture and legal innovations.8 The astonishing recent discovery of a series of monumental reliefs and statues from what has been interpreted as the imperial cult complex in Diocletian’s residence of Nicomedia (modern İzmit) shows how our understanding of tetrarchic imperial representation and ideology can still be augmented and how much more remains to be analysed and interpreted.9 The present volume, we hope, is a step in this direction, as the papers collected herein illustrate a new approach to the thorny issues of Diocletian’s twenty-year rule. Much of previous scholarship has been singularly devoted to understanding the precise nature of Diocletian’s reforms, particularly his innovations in Roman monarchic rule, whereby he first selected a single colleague to serve as his co-Augustus and then selected two more colleagues to serve as ‘junior’ emperors or Caesares. While neither joint rule between two equal Augusti nor the appointment of Caesares, with an understanding that this title circumscribed potential heirs designate, were new phenomena in themselves, the specific configuration of what has been called the ‘tetrarchic system’ was, indeed, unprecedented. The core question that 20th century scholarship on the tetrarchy has been trying to answer is that as to the nature of this ‘system’. Were Diocletian’s innovations, as, e.g., William Seston and Stephen Williams maintained, mere reactions of external circumstances, a collection of ad-hoc measures introduced to alleviate the most significant stresses on an empire that had been tottering near the abyss in the decades immediately preceding his rule?10 (An abyss, it must be noted, in the guise of the so-called ‘crisis of the third century’, whose catastrophic aspects have been intensely revised in the past three decades.)11 Or were the years between 286–305 witness to the systematic and planned introduction of a well thought-out, previously conceived new imperial ‘system’, as Frank Kolb and Wolfgang Kuhoff have alleged, ‘ein tatsächliches “System”, das sich im Laufe weniger Jahre verfestigte und in hohem Maße ideologisch 7

To name but the most important biographies and monographs: SESTON 1946. WILLIAMS 1985. KOLB 1987a. KUHOFF 2001a. REES 2004. ROBERTO 2014. RÉMY 2016. CARLÀ-UHINK 2019. WALDRON 2022. DEMANDT 2022. Diocletian’s imperial colleagues and successors (apart from Constantine) have received less attention, with some significant exceptions: FELD 1960. PASQUALINI 1979. CULLHED 1994. LEADBETTER 2009. CASELLA 2017. The papers collected in DEMANDT, GOLTZ & SCHLANGE-SCHÖNINGEN 2004 still serve as a valuable introduction to the status quaestionis. 8 CORCORAN 2000. BOSCHUNG & ECK 2006. CAMBI, BELAMARIĆ & MARASOVIĆ 2009. CAMBI 2017. ECK & PULIATTI 2018. 9 ŞARE AĞTÜRK 2018. 2021. 10 SESTON 1946. WILLIAMS 1985. The alternative proposed by KÖNIG 1974, that Maximian had in fact usurped against Diocletian and was then recognised by the latter, thus creating an ‘involuntary’ college of emperors, was original but has found few followers. For KÖNIG, this college was not founded on concord and harmony, but rather on rivalry and bitter opposition. Cf. ROUSSELLE 1976. KÖNIG 1986. 11 See e.g. WITSCHEL 1999.

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untermauert wurde’?12 Kuhoff, for example, speaks of the ‘tetrarchy’ as a ‘true system’ (‘einem wirklichen System’), identifying as its main elements the ideologische Überhöhung des Kaisertums und der sie ausübenden Personen, die nach und nach vollzogene Zuweisung territorialer Zuständigkeitsgebiete mit zugehörigen Münzstätten, die Verteilung der Jahreskonsulate unter die Mitglieder des Kaiserkollegiums und schließlich die freiwilligen Abdankungen der beiden Augusti und die Weitergabe an die bisherigen Caesares mitsamt deren Eintritt in den höheren Rang.13

Each of the individual points he makes is disputable: the ‘superelevation’ of the imperial power, is most decidedly not specific (and even less exclusive) to the tetrarchy; the division of territorial competences was never formal;14 the (more or less) even distribution of consulates among co-emperors is well-known for previous situations in which a college of emperors existed; finally, the ‘voluntary abdication’ of the Augusti is neither as simple nor as clear-cut as Kuhoff would have it.15 Determining whether we are dealing with a ‘true system’ depends on minute and, at times, highly speculative interpretations of fragmentary and complex sources. In turn, adherence to one or the other of these two great ‘schools’ of scholarship influences how the available evidence is interpreted. Understanding the tetrarchy as a system of government, as a significant, systematic overhaul not only of how the administration and defense of the Roman Empire functioned, but of the nature of emperorship as such, independent of the forms and reasons for its genesis, also inevitably generates further research questions: why did this tetrarchic ‘system’ collapse? Could it have endured without its spiritus rector? How? Why did some notable aspects of tetrarchic rule survive, while others did not? This applies particularly to the realm of imperial representation and performance, which followed and adapted the path laid out (allegedly) by Diocletian, but also to the question of coemperorship, which remained the norm with Constantine (who was never sole ruler, but always ‘shared’ his emperorship with Augusti and/or Caesares) and afterwards. Wolfgang Kuhoff attributed the demise of the tetrarchy to an inherent lack of flexibility in its systemic configuration, but how are we to explain that a fundamental reform touching on all aspects and facets of imperial administration should then result in an inflexible, monolithic new ‘system’, which, in the end, is simply postulated by Kuhoff?16 And how are we to reconcile the image of Diocletian as a methodical thinker and thorough reformer with the facts of his troubled succession? Adopting the position that he ‘invented’ a new system of government out of whole cloth forces us to assume that he somehow seems to have then overlooked or ignored the importance of familial relationship in the Roman succession and the contingencies of life as a military emperor.17

12 13 14 15 16 17

KOLB 1987a. KUHOFF 2001a. 2001b. 2004 (quote: 18–19). KUHOFF 2001b, 149. BLECKMANN 2004. CARLÀ-UHINK 2019, 151–164. KUHOFF 2004, 19. On the importance of familial and/or dynastic templates for Roman rulers, see HEKSTER 2015.

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Thus, the discussion as it stands now has exhausted its possibilities and the dichotomy of two opposing ‘schools’ has lost its usefulness. Definitively concluding whether the tetrarchy was a carefully planned system imposed ‘top-down’ by Diocletian or rather a ‘bottom-up’ institutional arrangement deriving from circumstance, is impossible. The former idea requires a significant amount of speculation and unprovable postulates, and encounters difficulties in explaining the delay in the realisation of the individual parts of an alleged ‘master plan’. The latter does not account for the undeniable novelty of the forms of (self-)representation and legitimation of ‘tetrarchic’ political power. It is our contention that this avenue of research has reached an impasse and become intellectually sterile. In the light of our fragmentary and selective source traditions, it is impossible to further advance the discussion centred on the question of pre-planning and implementation of reforms. Even if new papyrological, numismatic or epigraphic material should come to light which could conceivably lead to revisions of individual datings or interpretations, it is unlikely that this would significantly impact the wider discussion – the incredible discoveries at İzmit have advanced our knowledge of imperial representation and art in the 280s and early 290s but have not radically changed the discussion on the ‘tetrarchy’. Even the discovery of Gamzigrad – or, rather, the discovery of the inscription clearly identifying those ruins with Romuliana, in 1984 – did not significantly shift the terms of the debate on the tetrarchy as ‘political system’.18 Even if we were able to definitively answer the question as to whether or not Maximinian was adopted by Diocletian; or able to conclude whether or not Constantius Chlorus and Galerius both were related by marriage to Diocletian and Maximian prior to their appointments as Caesars; or even capable of ascertaining the role that Diocletian envisioned for Constantine and Maxentius, two adult sons of Augusti, the larger picture would only be slightly modified. It is with this conviction in mind that this book has been conceived, with the firm intention of shifting the terms of the question and thus hopefully arriving at answers through an approach that might throw new light on the formation, development, and end of the ‘tetrarchy’. A ‘TETRARCHIC IDEOLOGY’? ‘Historical explanations are inevitably shaped by the ontological commitment of the historians who frame them’.19 Indeed, the impasse in scholarship about the tetrarchy which we have described can be conceptualized as deriving from being framed into dichotomic oppositions – such as ‘individual’ vs. ‘society’ or ‘agency’ vs. ‘structure’: Taking the side of the first terms in these dichotomies yields narratives in which the actions or ideas of persons, typically ‘great men’, are the main factors shaping events, situations, or the outcomes of particular struggles. […] Taking the side of the second terms, on the other hand,

18 SREJOVIĆ 1985. 19 DE LANDA 2016, 13.

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yields narratives framed in terms of the transformations that enduring social structures have undergone.20

‘Individual’ and ‘agency’ lead us to Diocletian the creator, ‘structure’ and ‘society’ to the interpretation of his activity as imperial reaction to historical contingency. One possible way to overcome this dichotomy is by looking at societies as assemblages, in which ‘persons are featured too but not as great men, while larger entities, like kingdoms, empires, world economies, are treated not as abstract social structures but as concrete historical individuals’.21 This is not in itself a particularly new thought; Braudel was already moving in the same direction. And yet, combining his approach with assemblage theory, as proposed by Manuel De Landa, can lead to a different, more complex understanding of the tetrarchic empire in its political, cultural, social context and thus to overcome, in our turn, the scholarly dichotomy presented above. One crucial consequence of this is the possibility of re-thinking and thus deploying in a different way the concept of ‘ideology’ when referring to the tetrarchy. Going back to the elements that, according to Wolfgang Kuhoff, compose the ‘tetrarchic system’, he first names the ‘ideologische Überhöhung des Kaisertums und der sie ausübenden Personen’. Such a ‘superelevation’ of the imperial function and of the emperors is defined by Kuhoff as ‘ideological’, without much discussion about the use of this word. It is probably intended here to mean simply that such ‘superelevation’ did not correspond to any ‘factual’ increase in power, but rather consisted in a discursive exaltation of the members of the imperial college and of their ‘superhuman’ faculties; it is therefore probably mostly meant in reference to the adoption by the ‘tetrarchs’ of the nomina Iovius and Herculius, which have been re-explored for this volume by Anne Hunnell Chen. Kuhoff is not the only author who has used the concept of ‘ideology’ in reference to the tetrarchy. Oliver Hekster had done the same two years before and in a similar fashion, identifying the idea of the joint rulership as the main aspect of ‘tetrarchic ideology’ and defining the usage of the nomina Iovius and Herculius as one of the ‘modes of representation’ that contributed to pinpoint such an ‘ideology’. His aim was mostly to contrast ‘tetrarchic’ ideology with that of Maxentius, which was based on sole rulership and on the centrality of Rome. In this case as well, the word ‘ideology’ seems to have been used to simply indicate a principle orienting government and encompassing a variety of legitimation strategies, without much discussion of the concept itself.22 Almost simultaneously, Roger Rees similarly used the expression ‘imperial ideology’ to define the messages of unity and agreement in the imperial collegium as they are deployed and reproduced by Eumenius in his speech For the Restoration of Schools (Pan. Lat. IX(5)) in 297/298 CE.23 And yet, ‘ideology’ is a famously complex and disputed concept. In his introductory work to it, Terry Eagleton singles out sixteen definitions which were in use 20 21 22 23

DE LANDA 2016, 13. DE LANDA 2016, 14. HEKSTER 1999, particularly 718. REES 2002, 150–151.

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at the time of his writing and which are at least in part in contradiction with each other.24 Eagleton distinguishes between two main approaches to ideology, an epistemological and a sociological one, with the latter ‘concerned more with the function of ideas within social life than with their reality or unreality’.25 If we consider it a necessary attribute of ideologies that they must mould and shape an entire society, it is quite difficult to identify any ‘ideology’ before the 20th century with its rise of systems of mass communication and their use by totalitarian regimes.26 This is not strictly necessary though, and many different scholars have understood ‘ideology’ as being a broad, diverse, and comprehensive set of beliefs shared by a group in its interpretation and communication of the world – and thus successfully applied this concept to antiquity.27 In the context of the ancient world, ‘ideology’ has for example been used by Nicolas Wiater to refer to the discursive practices through which a ‘group [establishes] an all-encompassing comprehensive view not only of itself, but of history and, finally, of the whole world,’ as a community’s specific ‘ideology.’ Thus understood, the term ‘ideology’ describes not, as in its Marxist use, the conscious manipulation of the lower classes by the ruling elite; rather, it describes a characteristic of human perception in general, the selective perception and concomitant shaping of the world according to a set of rules or norms which are provided by the social worlds in which we are organized – ‘something out of which we think, rather than something that we think.’28

Following Paul Ricoeur’s phenomenological approach, we can thus posit as a working definition that ideology ‘expresses the necessity for any social group to make and to give itself an image, to “represent” itself, in the theatrical sense of the word’29 – and is therefore deeply connected to shared historical narratives, the deployment of symbols, and collective memory. At a second level, Ricoeur adds, ‘authority raises a claim to legitimacy, and ideology serves as the code of interpretation which secures integration by justifying the system of authority as it is. Inasmuch as the systems of authority and domination differ according to their basis of legitimacy, the typology of these systems of legitimacy tend to coincide with the typology of ideologies’.30 As formulated by Ivan Jordović and Uwe Walter, ideology thus absolves to two crucial functions: founding and reinforcing identity and orienting choices and actions.31 The role of ideology in the survival and stability of the Roman empire has been the specific study of a seminal study by Clifford Ando, which attempts to answer a deceptively simple question: what ensured that Roman emperors – of the Principate 24 25 26 27 28

EAGLETON 1991, 1–2. EAGLETON 1991, 3. ANDO 2000, 20. JORDOVIĆ & WALTER 2018, 21–25, in specific reference to democratic Athens. WIATER 2011, 21–22, quoting RICOEUR 1978, 47. For the traditional Marxist view of ideology see ALTHUSSER 1970, particularly 172–173. 29 RICOEUR 1978, 45. 30 RICOEUR 1978, 48. 31 JORDOVIĆ & WALTER 2018, 22.

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– were obeyed? With extensive reference to the works of Michel Foucault and Pierre Bourdieu, among others, and making use of Max Weber’s sociological typologies of rule and domination, Ando understands Roman ‘imperial ideology’ as a system of beliefs making ‘explicit the particular principles of legitimation to which it appeals, and to the extent that the regime is successful the ideology gives voice to the foundational beliefs on which an individual subject’s normative commitment to the social order is based.’32 As for its means of operation, in his study of provincial reception of and interaction with this ideology, Ando has shown that ideology, in this sense, is better understood as a multidirectional communication (instead of a top-down imposition) by means of ‘symbolic phenomena’ generated both by the state and by individuals, ‘in order to represent their imagined relationship’ to each other.33 When it comes to the rule of Diocletian and his imperial colleagues, therefore, the question to be asked is whether they shifted these communicative mechanisms of legitimation up to a point where we can say that they developed a new and different typology when compared to earlier and later forms of legitimation of the Roman imperial power. As the individual contributions to this volume show from a range of different perspectives, the answer is both yes and no. ‘No’, if we look at communicative contexts and individual symbols and representations deployed within these, which are to a significant degree conventional and traditional; ‘yes’, if we look at the new ways in which these symbols are connected and made functional. Many of the relevant aspects of ‘ideologies’, indeed, fit the ‘tetrarchic’ system of symbols particularly well, for instance their heterogeneity, as ‘ideologies are usually internally complex, differentiated formations, with conflicts between their various elements which need to be continually renegotiated and resolved’.34 We will see throughout this volume that this applies very well to the different forms and means of communication of imperial power during the ‘tetrarchy’: the continuous communication as well as aspects that, from an external perspective, appear contradictory or at least inconsistent, are explained by the multiplicity of configurations and interpretations that could be (and were) ascribed to the same symbols, and thus by the necessity of a differentiation.35 Additionally, ideologies often deploy mechanisms of universalisation and naturalisation that make their contents appear eternal, responding to the needs of each society and individual, and innate to human nature – and thus present themselves as a-historical or de-historicized (or omnihistorical, in the Marxist view).36 Once again, this perfectly fits the kind of political communication developed during the ‘tetrarchy’, which strongly insisted on imperial rule as unavoidable, eternal, and universal.

32 33 34 35 36

ANDO 2000, 24 Ibid. EAGLETON 1991, 45. EAGLETON 1991, 45–46. EAGLETON 1991, 56–61. Cf. ANDO 2000, 20–21. JORDOVIĆ & WALTER 2018, 23.

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It is in this sense, understanding ‘ideology’ mainly as a ‘discursive or semiotic phenomenon’, ‘a particular set of effects within discourses’,37 contributing to the legitimation of the social and political order, that we understand the tetrarchic system of symbols and representations as a ‘tetrarchic ideology’. Indeed, the crucial aspect in this approach is the role played by the symbol which cannot be separated from the overarching concept of the ‘ideology’. As Eagleton puts it, ‘if ideology cannot be divorced from the sign, then neither can the sign be isolated from concrete forms of social intercourse. It is within these alone that the sign “lives”’.38 This implies that the same symbol can be used, interpreted and mobilized in service of different forms of legitimation and of ‘ideology’. At the same time, this definition also posits that ‘ideology should not be seen as a univocal entity, but as a constantly negotiated position which could encompass several competing and conflicting ideas, justifying and reconciling them to each other and to the history of their development’.39 This in turn implies that individual symbols which play a role within specific ideological structures can be detached from these and re-signified in a new context, in which they then express a new meaning. In this sense, ‘ideologies’ should be conceived of not as ‘organic totalities’, but rather as what the philosopher Gilles Deleuze calls assemblages, wholes characterized by relations of exteriority. These relations imply, first of all, that a component part of an assemblage may be detached from it and plugged into a different assemblage in which its interactions are different.40

This perspective allows us to recognize that the ‘tetrarchy’ did not need to develop completely new symbols and signs – the re-deployment, re-signification and recontextualization of existing and established symbols of imperial power, of ideologemes (the fundamental units of ideology) such as the divine protection of the emperors, the nomina triumphalia, the creation of fictive family relations, can be re-configured to create a new ‘ideology’, a new ‘assemblage’,41 that is a whole ‘whose properties emerge from the interaction between parts’, which eventually shifts the forms of political (self-)representation and of legitimation as well as the normative definition of the imperial power and the expectations connected to the imperial role.42

37 38 39 40 41

EAGLETON 1991, 194; italics in the original. EAGLETON 1991, 195. MITCHELL 1997, 179. DE LANDA 2006, 10–11; italics in the original. It is important to stress here that the English word ‘assemblage’ is different from the original French agencement, as it gives ‘the impression that the concept refers to a product not a process’. On the contrary, agencement relates ‘to the action of matching or fitting together a set of components (agencer), as well as to the result of such an action’ (DE LANDA 2016, 1); this is also the meaning intended in our usage of ‘assemblage’. 42 DE LANDA 2006, 5. On ideologemes, see BAKHTIN 1981, 429 and LYLO 2017, 19: ‘The ideologeme is a unit of ideology and its explication. It can not only form an individual’s attitude to reality, but primarily it can construct this reality on the axiological level and even replace it.’

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When studying organizations and governments as assemblages, Manuel De Landa suggests for simplicity’s sake to separate elements playing a ‘material role’, i.e. which ensure the ‘enforcement of obedience’, from those playing ‘an expressive role, that is those components that express the legitimacy of the authority’, the latter including slogans and mottos, images, rituals and performances.43 However, the two roles must be conceived as ideal types in the Weberian sense, as hermeneutic tools, since they cannot be strictly separated: the symbols expressing legitimacy and the discourses they produce are precisely among the elements ensuring obedience through consensus, as Ando has demonstrated.44 The representation and performance of obedience and its enforcement, for example in the display of punishment, are clear examples of how most elements, to various degrees, serve both functions.45 The way in which such practices and ideologemes thus combine into an assemblage which legitimates, reinforces and attempts to perpetuate political structures is what we understand, from a sociologically inspired perspective, as ‘ideology’. THE ‘TETRARCHY’ AS A ‘DISCOURSE’ Such a definition of ‘ideology’ is undeniably closely related to the concept of ‘discourse’ as defined by Michel Foucault – as a system of communications that constructs and shapes what is understood as truth, and thus constructs and legitimates power relations. But the two concepts do not completely overlap, neither are they interchangeable. Even if Foucault recognized the role of practices as parts of discourse containing enouncements, the very concept of discourse and the methods of discourse analysis mostly concentrate on verbal communication, and less on the role of rituals and performances that we have already identified as crucial to the ‘assemblage ideology’. On the other hand, while Foucault’s discourse highlights rather the structures of exclusion and the negotiation of power implicit in each human interaction, ‘assemblage ideology’ as a heuristic category as we understand it, is more focused on the categories of inclusion, of identity creation, and of homologation of systems of belief. However, Foucault ascribes to discourse not only the function of communicating, but also the function of creating and shaping the very realities that are defined and described. This is also crucial to our understanding of the ‘tetrarchic ideology’. It would be quite simply wrong to understand imperial ideologemes, the set of symbols, signs and messages that represented and legitimated tetrarchic power, merely as a premodern and abstract form of propaganda, deployed to ‘mould the masses’, and/or cynically elaborated at the highest echelons

43 DE LANDA 2006, 68; italics in the original. 44 ANDO 2000, 73–276. 45 DE LANDA 2006, 71; cf. also 2016, 31–32. The role of punishment as performance of power and authority, especially in reference to the public forms of torture and execution of the premodern and early modern states, is of course based on Foucault’s analyses in Surveiller et punir (FOUCAULT 1975).

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of the empire to reinforce their own position.46 Ideology, to again quote Clifford Ando, ‘is a system of belief that channels rather than stifles creativity; [it] is generative’.47 Understanding this ‘assemblage’ analogously to discourse allows us to clearly see that those who use and manipulate it are deeply entangled in it. This signifies then further that the development of a specifically ‘tetrarchic’ ideology, as any other, continuously shifted instances of legitimacy and normative values. From this point of view, the question of whether the ‘tetrarchy’ was a thought-out system of government, planned in advance and implemented step-by-step, or whether it was rather an ad hoc reaction to circumstances beyond the control of its ‘founder’, loses much of its significance. We propose instead to understand the tetrarchy not as a system of government, but as an assemblage of symbols, a system of communication, a language, which, through constant redeploying in new fashions and new functionalisations of the same elements that were available to their predecessors, reformed and reshaped imperial political communication and (self-)representation. Thus, this new language of empire created (or contributed to creating) a new sense of what imperial power should be, how it should work, how it should look and feel, and what should determine its legitimacy. In this sense, it was generative, as it established new configurations of empire, some of which lasted longer than others. To put it provocatively: it is very likely that no Roman before 305 would have had a notion in mind that Augusti should (or even could) become seniores Augusti after 10 or 20 years in that role.48 And yet, the fact that this did happen and that this decision was communicated, explained and legitimated through various communicative and representational means, might have generated, at least in some circles, an expectation that the next Augusti would do the same. In other words, a new imperial ideologeme might have been generated. As Oliver Hekster writes, one can only stress ‘how important ideological messages of a predecessor are if one is to understand the ideology of a new ruler’.49 Setting out from this approach, it is in our view irrelevant for the ‘big picture’ of the tetrarchy – and in any case impossible to determine with certainty, even though much effort has been expended on it – whether an imperial ‘college’ of four members with two Augusti and two Caesares was intentionally planned, when it 46 The use of the concept of ‘propaganda’ for the study of the ancient world has been widely discussed, and sometimes rejected, especially by German-speaking scholars (see WEBER & ZIMMERMANN 2003, 14–31. EICH 2003). This is not the place to reopen this discussion; yet it must be highlighted that the concept of propaganda can also be used with a broader definition, as ‘the deliberate attempt to influence public opinion through the transmission of ideas and values for a specific purpose, not through violence and bribery’ (CULL, CULBERT & WELCH 2003, 318). In this more general sense, it is applicable to antiquity: see CARLÀ & CASTELLO 2010, 31–36. 47 ANDO 2000, 21. Ando is specifically referring to Bourdieu’s concept of habitus, which he equates with ideology. 48 The concept of ‘abdication’, frequently used to refer to the political act of 305, is highly problematic: see CARLÀ-UHINK 2019, 151–164. 49 HEKSTER 1999, 718.

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was conceived and what the specific modalities of its appointment were. Once it had come into existence and a specific language of symbols across different media had been developed to legitimate the number four as the correct, normative number of rulers, this language then suggested and furthered the expectation that the imperial college would go on being formed by four members in the future. In this sense, the numerological justifications of both the ‘dyarchy’ of 286-293 and of the ‘tetrarchy’ after 293, as revealed by the Panegyrici Latini, are significative: they give us glimpses into these processes and they reveal precisely by what means the ideological ‘construction’ of the current number of emperors as the only normatively correct number acceptable was undertaken.50 The analysis of those elements constituting the ‘ideology’ of the imperial college and its legitimacy informs the first section of this volume, with individual chapters undertaking a revision of some of the best-known aspects of ‘tetrarchic’ representations of imperial power. In the first chapter, Filippo Carlà-Uhink investigates the role of real and fictive families and family representations, comparing the use of such elements during the ‘tetrarchy’ with the practice of the 3rd and of the early 4th century. Following this, Byron Waldron focuses on the concept of brotherhood, the one specific family relationship that played a crucial role in ‘tetrarchic ideology’; he demonstrates its connections to military language and shows the deep interlocking of the various aspects of imperial (self-)representation, in this case the familial metaphor and the role of the emperor as military commander. In the third and last chapter of this section, Anne Hunnell Chen reconsiders the nomina Iovius and Herculius, highlighting that ‘tetrarchic ideology’, as assemblage, was also subject to regional variations and hues, a point on which we will come back later. Hunnell Chen’s chapter likewise stresses that any analysis of the ‘assemblage tetrarchy’ cannot be exclusively limited to literary sources; as mentioned above, the spoken and written word are part of all ideological constructs, but these also include and are informed by visual representations, by performances and rituals, whose importance in establishing and reinforcing the legitimacy of (imperial) power cannot be underestimated. The second section of the volume is thus dedicated to such tetrarchic performances and manifestations of power. This is not a completely new approach: a collective volume edited in 2006 by Dietrich Boschung and Werner Eck has been seminal in showing the necessity of studying in greater depth the different forms of mediatic presentation of tetrarchy – yet the authors of that volume still started from the assumption that the tetrarchy represented a new ‘political system’, as explicitly stated in the very title of the book.51 This collection of studies was additionally structured according to the different media deployed in representing the tetrarchy – from inscriptions to laws, from papyri to coins. What we have tried to pursue here is a different approach, aiming rather at reconstructing the complex interaction of different media in composing the political language developed in individual contexts or aimed at specific target publics.

50 Cf. CARLÀ-UHINK 2019, 47–58. 51 BOSCHUNG & ECK 2006.

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Christian Rollinger thus proposes a new perspective on the changes in aulic imperial ceremonies and political rituals that have been traditionally ascribed, by both our sources and modern scholarship, but for different reasons, to Diocletian. Fabio Guidetti’s chapter is also centred on political rituals, but of a more ‘public’ nature, as he specifically analyses ceremonies occurring outside the palace and court, particularly the ‘new’ tetrarchic adventus, which he understands as a ‘staging of tetrarchic ideology’. In this section’s final chapter, Monica Hellström investigates the role of statues in representing both the members of the imperial collegium and the local officials, thus shaping an articulated representation of power, from the ‘abstract presentation’ of the Augusti to the very concrete depiction of the local authorities in charge. This shows the potentiality of investigating the imperial representation next to and together with the representation of other elites and interest groups within the empire, to highlight the convergence into the new tetrarchic assemblage of different levels of political (self-)representation and discourse. Indeed, the need to reject any image of an ideology as ‘organic totality’ and the necessity of thinking of them as ‘assemblages’, become even clearer when one considers the flexibility of ideology – and also of ‘tetrarchic ideology’: individual elements could be deployed in a more or less present way, or in different functional combinations, according to the specific public that was addressed and its forms of understanding and constructing legitimacy and obedience. The third section of the volume is dedicated to the investigation of a series of case studies revealing these individual forms that ‘tetrarchic language’ assumed when addressing specific social groups or localities of the empire. Mark Hebblewhite thus investigates tetrarchic messages aimed at the military and the construction of a common ideology of victory; Nikolas Hächler concentrates on the relationships between the imperial college and the Senate, traditionally described as difficult or even hostile; finally, Nicola Barbagli analyses the forms adopted by ‘tetrarchic language’ in a very peculiar local context: the city of Hermonthis in Egypt. A crucial element in the construction of any ‘ideology’, which, as we have seen, shapes identities and notions of belonging through (inter alia) the definition of a recognisable set of normative values, is the representation of those deviating from the acknowledged norm. As mentioned above, their identification, portrayal and punishment are crucial aspects both for their material and their expressive role within the ‘assemblage’. For this reason, a separate section is dedicated to two case studies analysing the role of the ‘Others’, that is of those who are perceived and identified as the ‘outsiders’ and ‘enemies’ of the ‘tetrarchic order’. Adrastos Omissi thus devotes his chapter to the representation of ‘barbarians’, usurpers and dissidents within the language of the ‘tetrarchy’, particularly in the context of imperial panegyric. Marc Tipold, on the other hand, investigates the discursive construction of the Sāsānian empire as an enemy power and thus the role of the military actions against it in defining aims and legitimation of the imperial power of Diocletian and Galerius. The chapters of a final section look at the discursive and ideological presentation of former emperors. Javier Arce investigates the imperial mausolea and the forms that have been developed to memorialise the ‘tetrarchic emperors’ after their

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death, while Rebecca Usherwood considers the practices of damnatio memoriae exercised against individual ‘tetrarchs’. This again leads us to the point of stressing the continuous change, the dynamic nature of ‘ideology’ conceived as assemblage. Famously, the ‘tetrarchic ideology’ did not survive long enough to allow for a true embedding of the previous generation of emperors within it. Or, better put: the death, memorialisation, and disgrace of the ‘tetrarchs’ took place mostly at a time, when forms of legitimation and enforcement had already changed noticeably. THE ‘END’ OF THE ‘TETRARCHY’ Yet the approach developed here allows us indeed to reopen the discussion about the ‘end’ of the ‘tetrarchy’. In literature, this has been too often conceived as the narrative of a clash between the ‘defenders’ of the ‘system’ created by Diocletian (i.e. Galerius) and the ‘opponents’ (i.e. Constantine), whose aim was to destroy that institutional setting.52 This narrative cannot be accepted in this rather simple form.53 It has been shown repeatedly that neither can Galerius be considered as a sheepish epigone of Diocletian, struggling to keep the ‘tetrarchic dream’ alive, nor should Constantine be thought of as someone who, from the very beginning, subverted the existing institutional arrangement while dreaming of becoming sole emperor (for instance, it has been convincingly argued that Constantine’s accession to the imperial college in 306 was not an usurpation and that he immediately received the title of a Caesar, rather than settling for it in order to avoid a civil war.)54 Assemblage theory – which stresses that every assemblage has ‘a fully contingent historical identity’,55 and is thus completely unique – comes to our help again, as it recognizes the existence of variable processes in which these components become involved and that either stabilize the identity of an assemblage, by increasing its degree of internal homogeneity or the degree of sharpness of its boundaries, or destabilize it. The former are referred to as processes of territorialization and the latter as processes of deterritorialization. One and the same assemblage can have components working to stabilize its identity as well as components forcing it to change or even transforming it into a different assemblage. In fact, one and the same component may participate in both processes by exercising different sets of capacities.56

And furthermore: The identity of any assemblage at any level of scale is always the product of a process (territorialization and, in some cases, coding) and it is always precarious, since other processes (deterritorialization and decoding) can destabilize it. For this reason, the ontological status of assemblages, large or small, is always that of unique, singular individuals.57

52 53 54 55 56 57

For Galerius as faithful successor to Diocletian see particularly LEADBETTER 2009. See CARLÀ 2012. KUHOFF 2001a, 796–799; WIENAND 2012, 119–127. DE LANDA 2016, 19. DE LANDA 2006, 12 (italics in the original). DE LANDA 2006, 28.

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Crucial to the processes of territorialization and deterritorialization are phenomena of coding and decoding: expressive components – languages, when dealing with human societies – are structured in codified rituals and rules that contribute to the fixation and legitimacy of the whole. In this sense, the development of the tetrarchic ‘language of power’, as composed by its slogans, its panegyric texts, but also its visual languages and expressions, its performances, acted in coding the system and territorializing it. The decoding – and deterritorialization – can and should be sought therefore at the semantic level, where they manifest as shifts in the meaning, use and significance of individual units. After the deterritorialization which ‘disassembled’ the tetrarchic assemblage in a long process starting in 307/308 and continuing well beyond 324, its components were readapted and reassembled, shaping political thought, (self-)representation and ‘ideology’ of Constantine’s empire and then of that of his successors.58 Constantine’s unrealized succession plans, foreseeing a form of intrafamilial ‘tetrarchy’, with two Augusti (Constantine II and Constantius II) and two Caesares (Constans and Delmatius), three of which were brothers (and the fourth a cousin),59 is a perfect example of both the persistence and the transformation of the tetrarchic language. In this sense, we can stop looking for the ‘end of the tetrarchy’, meant as the moment in which a supposed system would have ‘collapsed’. This is a problem that cannot be solved, as shown by the variety of different moments chosen to signify when the tetrarchy would have stopped existing. We should rather look at how the components of that language went on being used, displaced, and replaced in new assemblages, in which the legitimacy of the imperial power was constructed in a different way. Literature on the tetrarchy in the past two generations has been abundant. We hope and feel, however, that this contribution will not have been useless if it helps in shifting the dominating perspectives in scholarship on this period. Overcoming the dichotomy (or, rather: dichotomies) that have characterized reflections and studies on Diocletian and the tetrarchy until now – we believe – can help understand better not only the historical period between 284 and 308 (or 312, or 324 …), but also of the Constantinian age and the following decades. However, this must not mean again placing Diocletian at the beginning of Late Antiquity, as the Gibbonian emperor who, in parallel to Augustus, shaped a new empire. On the contrary, we are confident that our shift in perspectives and our approach can contribute to a clearer insertion of Diocletian and the ‘tetrarchy’ within the continuous flux of assemblages and ideological shifts that constitutes, in the end, the history of power, its languages and its representations.

58 Cf. CARLÀ 2012. 59 CHANTRAINE 1992. CARLÀ & CASTELLO 2010, 134–140.

QUOD OMNI CONSANGUINITATE CERTIUS EST, VIRTUTIBUS FRATRES FAMILIES AND FAMILY RELATIONSHIPS IN ‘TETRARCHIC’ IDEOLOGY Filippo Carlà-Uhink INTRODUCTION As argued in the introduction to this volume, the ‘tetrarchy’, independent of the purposes and ways in which it came into being and independent of its possible characterisation as a ‘political system’, developed a specific, consistent and innovative language of imperial legitimation and self-representation, propagated through different media, which can therefore be defined as an ‘ideology’.1 A crucial part of this language concerns the relationship between the members of the imperial college, and generally the position and role of the imperial family/ies. It is often argued that Diocletian’s accession to the throne brought about radical change, as did the construction, in the following year, of the imperial college that we term the ‘tetrarchy’, which has often been supposed to be a ‘new non-dynastic imperial system’2 and to have eventually failed because of a postulated opposition of the soldiers and of the armies, ‘ontologically’ bound to a dynastic faithfulness to their emperor.3 It is not relevant for the purpose of this chapter whether Diocletian had planned from the very beginning, as argued by Kolb, a new political system with the clear aim of defining a new and clearly structured succession system based on a non-dynastic choice of the future emperor and on his ‘training’ as a Caesar to the future role as Augustus,4 or, as many other scholars believe, whether the new political language concerning families was ‘imposed’ on Diocletian by his familial situation, as he had no sons.5 What really matters is that the ‘ideology’ of the third century is supposed to have been radically altered: a new discourse and a new iconography of relation and parenthood within the imperial college supposedly emerged. It is the aim of this chapter to show that this is an overly simplistic picture, and that the construction of

1 2 3 4 5

See the introduction to this volume, 14–19. HEKSTER 2015, 279. See also KOLB 1987a, 86–87. ECK 2006, 327. E.g., KOLB 1997, 36. On the unreliability of this postulate, see WALDRON 2018, 134–145. See also BÖRM 2015, 242–243, who argues on the contrary that the soldiers would actually be against a strong dynastic principle. KOLB 1987a, 2–9. 1997, 37–38. E.g., KUHOFF 2001a, 30. LEADBETTER 2009, 48.

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‘imperial family/ies’ in ‘tetrarchic’ language is much more complex and varied than hitherto recognized. Those who argue for a ‘tetrarchic revolution’ assume, to begin with, that the emperors of the third century provided a homogeneous ‘ideology’: in the presence of more than one emperor, an Augustus or a Caesar, these were (with maybe just a few exceptions) members of the same family. In this sense, the emperors of the third century would have tried to establish an ever-stronger dynastic principle. Accordingly, young sons and women in the imperial family played a crucial role: the former as possible future emperors, the latter as guarantors of dynastic continuity – as mothers of future emperors. For this reason, many emperors’ wives received the title of Augusta and were correspondingly honoured with statues, on coins, in inscriptions etc.6 But much less considered in scholarship is the successful and long-lasting ‘fiction’ that constructed the relation, or rather the direct descendancy from one another, of Roman emperors through onomastics, and therefore ‘invented’ dynasties. The practice of changing names upon becoming emperor was indeed probably much more widespread than we generally tend to think and went well beyond the best-known example Decius, who assumed the cognomen Traianus. Starting with Septimius Severus, who presented himself as the fictive son of Marcus Aurelius (a mere discursive kinship which did not correspond to any real blood relation, nor to any act of adoption), and thus famously (re-)named his elder son Marcus Aurelius Severus Antoninus,7 most emperors of the 3rd century share the nomen Aurelius, often with the praenomen Marcus. This might also have been influenced by Caracalla’s Constitutio Antoniana, following which the ‘new citizens’ acquired the name Marcus Aurelius from the emperor who gave them Roman citizenship,8 as many ‘soldier emperors’ of this period might have fallen into this category, even if in most cases we do not have sufficient information.9 But even in this case, the name similarity generated an ‘ambiguity’ that was surely not unwelcome. In the context of the ‘crisis of the 3rd century’, which mostly represented a crisis in the recognized and shared forms of legitimation of imperial power, it helped to construct in discourse and at a symbolic level a substantial continuity that was badly needed by often very ephemeral emperors: ‘the imperial change of name and implicit link with a predecessor was taken up without difficulties’.10 Just to provide an example, we can consider the imperial college ruling the Roman Empire just before Diocletian’s accession: Carus, Carinus and Numerianus. The idea of an imperial college was not created by Diocletian (nor by Carus)11 – yet 6

KUHOFF 1993, 255. SCHADE 2003, 8–12. JOHNE 2008b, 608–615. JOHNE & HARTMANN 2008, 1038. 7 HEKSTER 2015, 209–217. 8 See e.g., KEEGAN 1973, 41–43. BLANCO-PÉREZ 2016 has further shown that it is not true, as has previously been believed, that the name Marcus Aurelius would have been used before the constitutio Antoniniana, and the simple Aurelius afterwards. 9 See e.g., POTTER 2004, 265. WALDRON 2018, 30. 10 HEKSTER 2015, 217. See also KUHOFF 2001a, 30. 11 JOHNE & HARTMANN 2008, 1041–1043.

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this college consisted solely of members of one and the same family: a father and his two sons.12 Marcus Aurelius Carus from Gaul13 (who might originally have been a Numerius and have taken the nomen Aurelius upon becoming emperor) nominated his sons Marcus Aurelius Carinus and (shortly afterwards) Marcus Aurelius Numerius Numerianus as Caesares. Carinus was then promoted to the role of Augustus in the spring of 283, when he was left in the West as his father and brother moved against the Sāsānians. Numerianus became an Augustus only upon his father’s death in July 283. Interestingly, the name of Carus’ wife is unknown, and she was not honoured with the title Augusta, nor with inscriptions or coins. This might be a consequence of her death before Carus’ accession to the throne,14 or of the fact that, having given birth to two already grown-up sons (and possibly a daughter), her role in guaranteeing the continuity of imperial power was already ‘fulfilled’ and did not therefore require special honours. But in this sense, too, Carus is not an innovator, and the view that great honours for the women of the imperial houses during the 3rd century were the absolute norm must be radically corrected. Regarding Probus, for instance, we do not know what his wife was called, or even whether he had a wife, as no inscriptions, statues or coins in her honour are known (and might have never existed), nor was she ever mentioned in literary sources. The same applies to Tacitus and Florianus, even if here the advanced age of the former and the short reign of both might be regarded as attenuating circumstances. While Numerianus’ wife is also unknown (we only know that the praetorian prefect Aper was Numerianus’s father-in-law), the construction of a dynastic discourse for imperial propaganda is clearly visible in the case of Carinus: his wife Magna Urbica, whom he married in 283, received the title Augusta, the appellative mater castrorum and was represented on coins throughout the empire.15 The dynastic ambition is further strengthened by the honours received by Carinus and Urbica’s son, (Marcus Aurelius?) Nigrinianus, who was born in 284 and died just a few months old: he received a consecratio and was thus deified as divus Nigrinianus.16 And yet, it has also been noted that Carinus and Numerianus do not refer to their descent from Carus in their titulature, which shows a sort of ‘detachment’ from the rhetoric of kin. This might be a product of the evolution of the political language that now relied on nomina, such as Aurelius, to indicate continuity without a direct reference to paternity in formulas such as Cari filius.17 The picture is therefore much more blurred than generally admitted.18 12 See ALTMAYER 2014, 185–206. 13 ALTMAYER 2014, 66–67. 14 Yet Caecina Paulina and Mariniana were divinized and represented on coins even if they died before their husbands’ accession to the throne: KLEIN 1998, 6. 15 RIC V/2, pp. 181–185, nn. 334–351 (Roma, Lugdunum, Ticinum, Siscia). ALTMAYER 2014, 75–76. 16 CIL VI 31380; RIC V/2, pp. 202–203, nn. 471–474 (Roma). See ALTMAYER 2014, 77–78; 163– 165; 237–239. 17 HEKSTER 2015, 96–98; see also 100–101. 18 WALDRON 2018, 180–181.

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THE GENS VALERIA AETERNA With Diocletian, too, a first important step took place in the construction of the language of imperial familiarity in the onomastics. In this case, we know for sure that his name before the 20th November 284 was Gaius Valerius Diocles, and that it was changed upon his accession to the imperial throne.19 He is then attested as Marcus Aurelius Gaius Valerius Diocletianus in an inscription from Ayasofya in Pamphylia that has long been believed to date to the very first weeks of his reign;20 yet there are good reasons to assume that the inscription dates to 288 and displays a contamination of the names of Diocletian and Maximian.21 If assigned to the beginning of the reign, it could imply a fictive adoption into Carus’ family and this might also have been an attempt to placate Carinus so that he might recognise Diocletian as legitimate co-emperor,22 later ‘undone’ when it was clear that Carinus was not ready to come to any compromise. If the inscription was produced at a later stage, as seems more probable, the name, intentionally steering away from the nomen Aurelius, might have been chosen exactly to display opposition to Carinus.23 Indeed, Diocletian is otherwise, before Maximian’s accession, always called Gaius Valerius Diocletianus.24 Finally and most stably, at least since 286, he assumed the name Gaius Aurelius Valerius Diocletianus. As his predecessors, therefore, Diocletian presented himself, at least from 286, as a member of the family of the Aurelii; this placed him within a long and fictive imperial dynasty, stretching from Marcus Aurelius to his immediate predecessor Numerianus whom, it is important to remember, he claimed to have avenged (thus also removing from himself any suspicion of complicity in Numerianus’ killing).25 Diocletian, who was crowned emperor by soldiers, had to fight against Carinus and to stabilise and legitimise his power. Diocletian thus followed the ‘tradition’ of establishing a nominal continuity with immediate predecessors and emperors who had left a positive mark in Roman cultural memory (such as Claudius II or Probus).26 That he possibly wanted, through this act, also to obscure his origins might be a

19 Epit. Caes. 39.1. I will not here discuss the question of when precisely Diocletian assumed the new name: this might have happened sometime after his accession to the throne on the 20th November 284, as P.Oxy 42, 3055 (7th March 285) knows him as emperor with the name Diocles, but P.Michaelidis 21 knows him as Gaius Valerius Diocletianus on the 10th February 285. Stefan 2015, 274, argues for instance that the emperor still was called Diocles in the first weeks after his accession to the throne. 20 LORIOT 1975, 71–72. 21 STEFAN 2015, 278–279. 22 LORIOT 1975, 72. 23 STEFAN 2019, 289. 24 STEFAN 2019. 25 On the importance of this narrative element in Diocletian’s legitimation strategy, especially in reference to the figure of Aper and his killing (a subject that is beyond the scope of this chapter), see CARLÀ-UHINK 2019, 35–39. 26 KUHOFF 2001a, 19. HEKSTER 2015, 57: ‘Including a predecessor’s name (or that of his gens) in a new nomenclature was the most common way to forge connections’.

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further aspect: Diocles is a Greek name,27 which might have been perceived as unseemly for a Roman emperor. Assuming that Diocletianus does not seem to come from Diocles, but rather from Diocletius, Nenad Cambi has thus suggested that this name, a marker of a humble origin, was first changed to Diocles and then to Diocletianus.28 This is not necessary: Diocles derives from a root Dioclet- (genitive Diocletis) and could therefore generate the name Diocletianus by adding the typical suffix used in name-giving after adoption.29 But of course, Diocletian was not adopted, just as Septimius Severus had also not been adopted, nor it is clear who the adoptive father was supposed to be if the name Aurelius was really added only in 286. What is clear is that Diocletian builds on the political language of the 3rd century consistently and constructs from the very beginning what can be defined as a fictional family that is an instrument of legitimation and stabilization of his power. It is therefore no wonder that this continued to happen also when Diocletian promoted Maximian to the imperial power. It is not necessary here to discuss whether and for how long Maximian had been a Caesar before being elevated to the rank of an Augustus; it is more important to highlight that the earliest documents already call him Aurelius Valerius Maximianus (CIL VIII, 10285; 10396), then Marcus Aurelius Valerius Maximianus (at least after he became Augustus). Maximian displays thus both the nomen Aurelius and the nomen Valerius, which creates a relationship to Diocletian that goes beyond general belonging, as for most emperors, to the Aurelii. From this moment, as already mentioned, Diocletian also definitively assumes the name Aurelius. It is impossible to know what was the exact sequence and the precise meaning of this further name change, and scholarship has filled the gap both by assuming that Diocletian took the name Aurelius as a homage to Maximian, who bore this name already before the imperial accession,30 and by suggesting the contrary reading, that Maximian took both names from his senior colleague.31 It might be relevant that, beyond the references to many predecessors, as already explained, the name Aurelius might at this time also have functioned as a ‘lieu de mémoire’ recalling a previous pair of reigning brothers, Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Aurelius Verus.32 This is of minor relevance once it becomes clear that the two Augusti share the same nomina, and thus present themselves as members of the same family. Indeed, as early as 286, with Maximian’s elevation to Augustus, the political language revolves around the concordia of the two emperors, and around their great affinity –

27 Epit. Caes. 39.1 seems to insist on this: Graium nomen in Romanum morem convertit. See STEFAN 2015, 276–277. On Diocletian’s origins, humble according to all sources, see CARLÀUHINK 2019, 29–30. 28 CAMBI 2004, 38–40. 29 STEFAN 2015, 271–272; 275. Stefan does not connect the suffix to adoption, though, but considers it merely a strategy to ‘latinize’ the emperor’s name. 30 LORIOT 1975, 72. See also WALDRON, this volume, 52–53. 31 KUHOFF 2001a, 31. CAMBI 2004, 41. 32 KOLB 1987a, 16–17. 1997, 39. HEKSTER 1999, 719–720. STEFAN 2019, 289, argues that this was the very reason for the adoption of the name Aurelius.

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an affinity that makes them into brothers.33 The panegyric for Maximian of 289 CE already reveals, before the creation of the ‘tetrarchy’ in 293, the strength of this language: Maximian is repeatedly called Diocletian’s brother.34 The rhetor explicitly addresses the fact that this brotherhood is fictional, and stresses this as a sign of even surer harmony, a crucial component of ‘tetrarchic’ propaganda, as revealed by the fact that Lactantius twists it polemically:35 Both of you are now most bountiful, both most brave, and because of this very similarity in your characters the harmony between you is ever increasing, and you are brothers in virtue, which is a surer tie than any tie of blood. And so it happens that such a great empire is shared between you without any rivalry; nor do you suffer there to be any distinction between you but you plainly hold equal share in the State, like those twin Lacedaemonian kings, the Heraclidae. However, you are better and more just in this than they, for their mother compelled them to rule as peers in age and authority by craft, since she would confess to no one which she had given birth to first. You on the other hand rule in this fashion voluntarily, you whom not any resemblance of features, but rather resemblance of character, has made equal at the summit of affairs.36

Diocletian and Maximian are even compared to Romulus and Remus, to conclude that they are better than the mythical founder of the city and his twin brother37 – also hinting in this way at the lack of that competition that, in the tradition about the origins of Rome, would lead to fratricide. The same concept is repeated in Maximian’s birthday speech in 291: Surely all men would be struck dumb with admiration for you, even if the same father and same mother had inspired you to that harmony of yours by Nature’s laws. Yet how much more admirable or glorious it is that camps, that battles, that equal victories have made you brothers! […] Your brotherhood is not of chance but of choice; everyone knows that unlike children are often born to the same parents, but the likeness of only the most certain brotherhood reaches all the way up to the supreme power.38

The language of brotherhood is also not new, and emperors of the third century have constructed a dynastic legitimacy by attributing important political and administrative roles to their brothers.39 We have no idea whether Diocletian had any siblings and why, eventually, they did not get any share in his power – yet his 33 On this brotherhood and its origins, see also WALDRON in this volume, as well as WALDRON 2018, 201–229. STEFAN 2015, 272–273, argues that an inscription from Tyre, known through the Talmudic tradition and defining Maximian as Diocletian’s brother, should be dated to 286, and thus that the ‘language of brotherhood’ started immediately after Maximian assumed the title of Augustus. 34 Pan. Lat. X (2) 1.5; 4.1; 9.1; 10.6. See KUHOFF 2001a, 54–55. LEADBETTER 2004. WALDRON, this volume, 48–49. 35 Lact. DMP 8.1–2; see REES 2002, 54–55; 74–77. LEADBETTER 2004, 264. BROSCH 2006, 88– 91. These passages can also be compared with Plin. Pan. 7.4, which insists on the similarity in excellence that binds Nerva and Trajan. 36 Pan. Lat. X (2) 9.3–5; transl. Nixon & Rodgers. 37 Pan. Lat. X (2) 13.1–3. On this passage see also HUNSUCKER 2018, 90–93, who curiously does not refer to the theme of the brotherhood of the Augusti. WALDRON, this volume, 49. 38 Pan. Lat. XI (3) 7.4–6; transl. Nixon & Rodgers. 39 JOHNE 2008b, 606–608. JOHNE & HARTMANN 2008, 1042–1043.

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decision to present Maximian as a brother is not surprising and finds precedents in the generations immediately before. Philippus Arabs, for instance, made his brother praefectus praetorio and rector Orientis, and Claudius II gave Italy to his brother Quintillus. Florianus was probably a brother or half-brother of his predecessor Tacitus, but we cannot exclude, considering the difficulties and contradiction of the sources, that the brotherhood was not real, but was discursively constructed.40 Carinus and Numerianus, finally, were brothers. This language is developed further after 293, through its extension to the Caesares. These become ‘sons’ of the Augusti. The panegyric of 297 for Constantius coherently calls the Augusti ‘father and uncle’ of the Caesar: Maximian is his father, and thus Diocletian, Maximian’s brother, his uncle.41 For Eumenius, speaking in 297–298, Maximian is again Constantius’ father, thus making Heracles his ‘ancestor’, or maybe grandfather (avus).42 Once again, the construction of such an ‘imperial family’ is accompanied by name changes. Constantius is Caius or Marcus Flavius Valerius Constantius: he assumes therefore the nomen Valerius and the praenomen of one of the two Augusti.43 Galerius might have originally been called Maximinus, and Diocletian might have changed his name to Maximianus ‘as a good omen because of the loyalty of his fellow Augustus’.44 The Epitome de Caesaribus adds that he was called Armentarius, defining this a cognomentum – if this was a cognomen and not simply a ‘nickname’, it was also dropped upon the assumption of the title of Caesar.45 Some sources hint at the practice of name changing, even if they relate to the Caesares nominated in 305. Most notably, in Lactantius’ narrative (and it does not matter that it is probably completely invented), when Galerius on the 1st May 305 becomes Augustus and names as his Caesar the unknown Maximinus, the soldiers, who were expecting Constantine to be nominated, at first think that Maximinus is Costantine’s new name, thus revealing that such a name change would be normal, even expected.46 According to the same author, Maximinus was called Daza and received the former name only upon appointment and because it was Galerius’ name.47 In this way, Galerius was ‘emphasizing the dynastic nature of the appointment’, as Maximinus was his nephew,48 and working within a tradition of name change that was clearly widespread. Maximinus is Galerius Valerius Maximinus, and Severus Flavius Valerius Severus: both are therefore members of the gens 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48

SAUER 1998, 174–178. See also WALDRON 2018, 126. Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 1.3: patris ac patrui tui. See also Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 13.2. Pan. Lat. IX (4) 6.2; 8.1. CAMBI 2004, 42. BARNES 2011, 29. It is irrelevant here whether he already bore the cognomen Chlorus, as Cambi believes, or, as is more likely, this is a later invention (as it is attested only since the 6th century). MACKAY 1999, 206. See also CAMBI 2004, 41. Epit. Caes. 39.2. Lact. DMP 19.4. Lact. DMP 18.13. On the reasons why Daza is to be preferred to Daia, see MACKAY 1999, 207– 209. MACKAY 1999, 206.

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Valeria (as all emperors until Crispus),49 and additionally receive a name directly connecting them to their Augustus, Galerius or Flavius. It is important to highlight that this throws a different light on the ‘tetrarchic system’: should we assume that the new Caesares and their Augusti were understood to be a compact familiar group in the same way as the ‘first tetrarchy’, or should the different form of name-giving, as I believe, be taken as a clue that a systematically planned ‘tetrarchic system’ did not exist? The ‘relatedness’ of the emperors and their connection to a fictive family was propagated throughout the empire through the different media of imperial propaganda. Two of the most important stylemes in this sense were similarity and affection. The fact that the emperors of the ‘tetrarchy’ were represented very similarly to each other has been noted many times: on coins, just as on statues and in paintings, the ‘tetrarchs’ did not display sufficient physiognomic features that would allow us now to recognize individual rulers in their portraits. This has been explained mostly as the reification of the similarity mentioned in the panegyric quoted above, as a desire to show how the ‘tetrarchs’ corresponded to an ‘imperial idea’, more than being individual rulers, and to demonstrate, through their resemblance, their harmony, their concordia (indeed a central concept of ‘tetrarchic’ self-representation, and the one most stressed in the ancient sources).50 Yet there is an additional dimension to this iconographic choice: in Roman art similarity was traditionally a styleme deployed to identify and represent family relations.51 The similar physiognomy of the ‘tetrarchs’ is thus also a way of visually representing a ‘genetic connection’ and belonging to one and the same family. The concept of concordia had also already been crucial in the imperial propaganda in earlier periods, often to stress the agreement between emperor and soldiers (concordia militum), but also in connection to the relationships within the imperial family, and particularly between emperor and empress.52 CONCORDIA AETERNA was thus, for example, represented on coins of Salonina, who is also accompanied by CONCORDIA AVGG, deployed also for Magnia Urbica.53 A silver medallion for Salonina presents on the reverse the legend CONCORDIA AVGVSTORUM and shows the empress next to Gallienus; coins minted for Severina with the legend CONCORDIA AVG(G) show the emperor and the empress clasping hands, thus making clear that their agreement is at stake.54

49 CAMBI 2004, 42. 50 L’ORANGE 1965a, 46–52. REES 1993, 182–183; 187–193. KOLB 1997, 41–42. SMITH 1997, 180–181. HEKSTER 1999, 720. KUHOFF 2001a, 574–586. BOSCHUNG 2006, 349–353. ECK 2006, 340–343. WEISER 2006, 210–211. DEPPMEYER 2008, 61–62. KUHOFF 2009, 105. ECK 2013, 23–26. EFFENBERGER 2013a, 59. HEKSTER 2015, 280–282. WALDRON, this volume, 53– 54. 51 HEKSTER 2015, 80–82. HUNNELL CHEN 2018, 53–54. 52 But also between father and son: see e.g. RIC V/1, p. 106, n. 1 (Roma). 53 RIC V/1, p. 105, nn. 1–3 (Roma); p. 192, n. 2 (Roma); p. 195, n. 34 (Roma); p. 198, n. 71–72 (Siscia); V/2, p. 185, n. 348 (Siscia). 54 RIC V/1, p. 63, n. 1; pp. 317–318, nn. 16 (Serdica); 19 (Antiochia).

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Also the dextrarum iunctio, the clasping of (right) hands, often used in representations of the ‘tetrarchs’,55 is a well-known symbol of agreement, deployed also in the political field.56 There is more: sculptural representations of the ‘tetrarchy’, as the ‘tetrarchic’ group from Venice, or that from the Vatican Library, show its members embracing, an unprecedented gesture for Roman emperors, and this bodily contact has been interpreted as a sign and symbol of concordia.57 But once again, signs of affection such as embrace are in Roman iconography reserved for members of the family, and particularly for couples;58 also clasping hands, an iconography that represents harmonious marriage, was typical from the Republican time.59 It was then adopted in imperial representation from the time of Antoninus Pius to show the union of emperor and empress, sometimes with the addition of a personification of concordia.60 With such gestures, therefore, the ‘tetrarchs’ were showing throughout the empire, in effigy, that they perceived themselves as belonging to one and the same family.61 As with the language of brotherhood, we might have confirmation that this kind of visual language had already been developed in the time of the ‘diarchy’ of Maximian and Diocletian: a relief found in Nicomedia in 2009, belonging to a 50m long frieze that decorated what probably was ‘an audience hall that might have functioned as a space for imperial justice and imperial cult’,62 and dated because of its iconography to the period between 286 and 293,63 shows an adventus scene, in which two emperors, probably the two Augusti, descend from their ceremonial quadrigas and embrace each other.64 Only one other example of such an iconography from earlier times is known. It represents Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus – interestingly enough, as brothers.65 One should also not forget that they were Aurelii, and until Diocletian and Maximian the only emperor pair who presented themselves as siblings.66 What comes into being is therefore an ‘imperial family’, the domus augusta or domus divina,67 which receives as such honours and cult throughout the empire – 55 E.g., Pan. Lat. X (2) 9.2; see HEKSTER 2015, 305. 56 As e.g., on the coins celebrating Hadrian’s adoption by Trajan, which showed the two emperors clasping hands: RIC II, p. 339, n. 3 (Roma). 57 KOLB 1987a, 127. REES 1993, 193. 58 KAMPEN 2009, 110–119; ŞARE AĞTÜRK 2021, 56–57. 59 REEKMANS 1958, 25–30. 60 REEKMANS 1958, 32–37. ALEXANDRIDIS 2000, 17–20. REES 2002, 61–63. KAMPEN 2009, 112– 113. 61 HEKSTER 2015, 285–286. See also LAUBSCHER 1999, 213–217. EFFENBERGER 2013a, 60–62. 62 ŞARE AĞTÜRK 2021, 23. 63 ŞARE AĞTÜRK 2021, 45; 57–58, suggesting that the relief might represent an actual encounter between Diocletian, and Maximian, which took place in 288, but should more probably ‘be understood as a symbolic and timeless representation of a continuous state of like-minded concord between the two emperors, who in reality rarely saw each other’. 64 ŞARE AĞTÜRK 2021, cat. 16, 118–122; see also 54–55. 65 ŞARE AĞTÜRK 2018. 66 KOLB 1987a, 47. 67 On the concept of domus augusta and similar, see HEKSTER 2015, 25. Questions about the specific relevance of the religious component and about the divine descent of the ‘tetrarchs’,

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as gens Valeria aeterna, for example, it received a temple and a cult in the African city of Thibari.68 It is important to note that this domus divina is only one – and not two, as it has sometimes been claimed by insisting on the distinction between Jovii and Herculii. It is only with Maximinus and Severus that we can see the onomastic formation of two branches, even if both still clearly inserted within the gens Valeria. THE DISCUSSION ON ADOPTION What has been described above should make it immediately clear that the language of familiarity deployed in ‘tetrarchic’ imperial self-representation is consistent in u-sing themes of relation and parenthood to explain what binds the four emperors. A good example is offered by the dedicatory inscription of the Baths of Diocletian in Rome, dating to 305–306. It is said here that the baths were built on Maximian’s order to be dedicated to his brother Diocletian; additionally, the two, with the title of seniores augusti acquired on the 1st May 305, are named ‘parents of the emperors and of the Caesars’.69 Diocletian and Maximian are here thus not only the fathers of Constantius and Galerius, but those of Maximinus and Severus too. A dedication to Diocletian from the rest of the imperial college from the same period still calls Maximian his brother (frater).70 Yet, as it has been highlighted,71 the language is very varied, shifts often and cannot be considered completely consistent: on a statue basis for Diocletian realized after 305 and displayed in Alexandria, for instance, the senior Augustus is defined as father of both the current Augusti – and not as father of Galerius and uncle of Constantius.72 The relation of brotherhood and of fatherhood (implying, but only at a later moment, also the presentation of Maximian as ‘grandfather’ of Constantine, as we will see) coexists with other denominations as colleagues, as ‘creator of gods’, as ‘parents of humankind’,73 etc. What does this mean for the interpretation of the imperial college as a family? Scholarship has seldom asked this question, often assuming that the ‘tetrarchs’ constructed family ties through adoption, and not investigating this aspect further, thus incurring in contradiction and lack of clarity. A typical statement, for instance, is that the Caesares were adopted by the Augusti and that the ‘tetrarchs’ thus built a fictive family.74 Now, while it is true that in anthropological literature adoption is

68 69 70 71 72 73 74

particularly in connection with the possible definition of the ‘tetrarchy’ as a theocracy (thus KOLB 1987a, 88–114. 1988), and thus connected to the persecutions of Manichaeans and Christians, are not relevant here. AE 2010, 1805. CIL VI 30567; 31242; 31463; AE 2012, 203. The title patres augustorum et caesarum for Diocletian and Maximian after the 1 May 305 is recurrent: see e.g. RMD 78. AE 1964, 235; see SORDI 1962. HEKSTER 2015, 279. CIL III 14125. CIL III 710: Edict. Diocl. praet., pr. CLAUSS 2002, 140.

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considered a fictive form of kinship,75 in a legal sense a family constructed through adoption is not fictive, but very real, to which family law applies entirely. Without entering this debate, it is worth remembering that discussions around this issue are not specific to the ‘tetrarchy’ and that scholarship has been debating at length, for example, whether Nerva’s adoption of Trajan was a proper one in legal terms, considering that Trajan took Nerva’s cognomen, but not the nomen Cocceius. It is therefore necessary to question whether this domus divina was also legally configured as a ‘family’ – and whether Diocletian and later Maximian proceeded to bind to themselves the other members of the imperial college through adoption – or even through multiple and contradictory adoptions, as it has sometimes been suggested.76 This has been argued on many occasions by scholars, who sometimes stress that the use of adoption did make, in the end, the ‘tetrarchic’ language a dynastic one.77 In particular, it has been repeatedly argued that two measures of this kind took place, namely that in 286 Diocletian adopted Maximian, and the two Augusti in turn adopted one Caesar each in 293. It is therefore necessary to deal with these two hypothetical adoptions separately. I will argue, in fact, that neither of them took place, that the domus divina was a family only at the discursive level and that the four emperors were not brothers, cousins, or fathers and sons in any legal sense. The idea that Maximian was adopted by Diocletian is based mostly on the name change and on the passages from the Panegyrici Latini presented above. As scholars have found it implausible, however, that Maximian was adopted as Diocletian’s son, considering the language of brotherhood,78 it has been thought that Diocletian might have legally inserted Maximian in his own family in the position of a sibling.79 This idea cannot be accepted for a very simple reason: the adoption as brother does not exist in Roman law, or, rather: it is explicitly forbidden. Ironically enough, the law preserved in the Justinian Code that clearly excludes this possibility even among foreigners (nec apud peregrinos) was released by Diocletian and Maximian in 285.80 The change in the names of the ‘tetrarchs’ is no proof. In fact, already in the Principate people could assume the name of a relative or a friend, and the fact ‘that friends could enter into the nomenclature reveals the high esteem in which they were held in Roman society’.81 The practice of constituting fictive families was therefore known and widespread.

75 HEKSTER 2015, 24; 206. 76 According to BARNES 2011, 46, for instance, Diocletian first adopted Maximian as a son in 295, then as a brother in 286, adding to that the adoption of the Caesares as sons of the Augusti in 293. 77 CHANTRAINE 1982, 482. 78 HEKSTER 2015, 277–278. ROUSSELLE 1976, 457, nonetheless thinks that Diocletian adopted Maximian as a son in 285 upon making him a Caesar, and is followed on this by REES 2002, 33. There are no sources to support this. 79 KOLB 1997, 38. 80 CJ 6.24.7. 81 CORBIER 1991, 131.

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It is much more frequently assumed that Diocletian and Maximian adopted Galerius und Constantius as sons.82 Again, this is based on very thin evidence once it is accepted that changing names does not necessarily imply adoption. The occurrences presented above are not conclusive: the filiation could be ‘collateral’, based on marriages with the Augusti’s daughters (on which see below),83 and more generally there is no need for the Caesares to rely on any stronger juridical institution than Diocletian’s and Maximian’s ‘brotherhood’. Maxentius’ mints, for example, produced two kinds of consecration coins for Constantius Chlorus, calling him adfinis and cogn(atus).84 The first term, which indicates a relationship through marriage,85 is easy to explain, as Constantius had married Maxentius’ sister Theodora. But it has been argued that the cognatus-coins, deploying a term that indicates a blood relation, would be a demonstration of Maximian’s adoption of Constantius, that would have made Maxentius and Constantius siblings.86 This assumption does not hold – and not only because the term could be a result of Maxentius’ attempts to represent Constantius as being nearer to him than he really was,87 but also because cognatus is a word used also to identify specifically the husband of a sister,88 which could thus be adopted to properly indicate the brother-in-law while possibly also hinting, through the use of a generic word indicating many forms of relation and familiarity, at a general connection between the emperors.89 Not much changes when considering the panegyric of 307, which addresses Constantine as Maximian’s ‘grandchild through adoption’ (iure adoptionis nepotem), since he is called at the same time a ‘son by ranking in majesty’ (maiestatis ordine filium), and finally a ‘son-in-law’ (etiam generum) because of his marriage to Fausta:90 at a discursive level, different roles and positions of familiarity are used together and in an interchangeable fashion, without apparent contradiction, to stress the familiarity and connection of the members of the imperial college.91 What the panegyric offers is a ‘deliberate blurring of constitutional and family affairs’.92 Inscriptions also call

82 HEKSTER 2015, 278, for instance, recognizes many problems with this interpretation, and yet argues that at least Constantius was adopted by Maximian, deducing from this that the adoption of Galerius is also then plausible for the sheer sake of symmetry. See also KUHOFF 2001a, 121. WALDRON 2018, 60–62. 83 REES 2002, 105–106. 84 RIC VI, p. 404, nn. 27–29 (Ostia). 85 CORBIER 1991, 136. 86 MACKAY 1999, 202–203. 87 Thus HEKSTER 2015, 295. 88 ThlL, s.v. cognatus 2b, vol. III, coll. 1481–1482. 89 Cognatus is also used in Pan. Lat. X (2) 3.1 to define the relationship between Diocletian and Maximian. 90 Pan. Lat. VII (6) 3.3. 91 KOLB 1987a, 94, recognizes that the co-existence of the divine and the human family created ‘curious forms of relatedness’, but does not investigate this further and believes both in the legal adoption and that the emperors could marry within family relations without further problems. 92 REES 2002, 173.

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Constantine the ‘grandchild of Maximian’,93 but this is no stronger demonstration of an adoption than the filiation of the Caesares by the Augusti (as in the title filius Augustorum, which was ‘invented’ by Galerius in 309 for Constantine and Maximinus).94 The idea of a systematic adoption of the Caesares by the Augusti also cannot hold for the imperial colleges after 305. For Severus only the onomastics is available, and no further sources help, nor does Lactantius’ reported speech in which Valeria would have told Maximinus that her husband was his father need to mean anything beyond the fictive discourse of relation.95 At a further stage, Licinius’ access to the throne makes again visible all the difficulties of such a model – and of the idea that the ‘tetrarchy’ must have been a system working with clear rules. Inserted into the imperial college as Augustus to replace the dead Severus, Licinius would have to belong, according to the model of the strictly organized ‘tetrarchic family’, to the side of the Herculii – but he presented himself as a Iovius, something that additionally happened only at a later stage (nor there is any source hinting at a possible previous ‘Herculian’ affiliation). The idea that Licinius’ propaganda and onomastics would demonstrate that he had been adopted by Diocletian in 308, to be made a brother of Galerius and thus to insert him into a new ‘tetrarchic’ system,96 does not make much sense. Following the idea of a family constructed through adoption – indeed, Galerius and Constantius Chlorus had not been brothers, but cousins – Constantine would now have to be adopted by Licinius, which obviously never happened. Lactantius’ assertion that Galerius did not want Licinius to be a Caesar, as he did not want to call him a son, but a brother, as he did with Constantius,97 confirms in the end the purely discursive nature of these familial definitions. It is therefore necessary to conclude that the discursive relation of the members of the ‘tetrarchy’ had nothing to do with a juridical relation created by adoption, and that the name-giving and the adoption of the names Valerius and Aurelius are disconnected from any legal practice and are a part of the imperial self-representation as a cohesive group, the gens Valeria aeterna.98 This would have allowed Galerius and Constantius Chlorus, once they became Augusti, to be brothers exactly as Diocletian and Maximian had been, and their Caesars to be their sons. Indeed, following the theory of a planned and strictly ruled ‘tetrarchic’ system implying adoption, one would have to explain what kind of relation the emperors would have had after a few generations, when they would be cousins with an elevated degree of separation. Rather, we must interpret the language of relation deployed by the ‘tetrarchs’ purely as ‘fictive kinship’ – something that was very well-known and 93 E.g., CIL XII 5470. See GRÜNEWALD 1990, 34, for a complete list. 94 STEFAN 2004. 95 Lact. DMP 39.4: primo non posse de nuptiis in illo ferali habitu agere tepidus adhuc cineribus mariti sui, patris eius. 96 CHANTRAINE 1982, 483–486. KUHOFF 2001a, 834–835. 97 Lact. DMP 20.3. 98 CAMBI 2004, 45. See also HEKSTER 2015, 304, who argues, in relation to the panegyric of 291, that ‘the exact relationship between emperors and gods, and before the two men, remains unclear’.

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practiced in Rome since Republican times, for instance in forms as the ‘mothers’ and ‘fathers’ of collegia, of towns, etc. THE ROLE OF THE IMPERIAL WOMEN AND THE ‘FAMILY OF MEN’ There is a further problem in believing that the ‘tetrarchy’ was structured through the adoption of the Caesares by the Augusti. Constantius Chlorus, it is true, married Maximian’s daughter Theodora, and Galerius Diocletian’s daughter Valeria. There is some discussion on the chronology of these weddings, and it has been argued that Constantius might have already been married to Theodora in 289, but without any convincing arguments (based on a reference to what seems to be a wedding in the panegyric of that year);99 if they were, the family relationships would be even stronger than hitherto thought, as ‘the existing sons-in-law’ would have become Caesares.100 Independent of this, an adoption would have created huge legal difficulties, as it would have configured both couples as incestuous (this applies also to Constantine’s marriage to Fausta in 307).101 While it is true that legal devices were available to avoid such problems, for instance the emancipation of the daughters,102 the issue provides rather a further hint for understanding the domus divina as a purely discursive and fictional family.103 These marriages were crucial to the construction of the imperial college: such unions have been used already since the Republic as an important instrument for creating political connections and transmitting power, and therefore they were, from the very beginning of the Principate, a means to ‘strengthen the profile of possible successors’.104 Despite this, it has been noted in scholarship how absent ‘tetrarchic’ women are from the language of imperial self-representation, especially in comparison with the role played by the empresses of the 3rd century – this has thus been identified as 99 Pan. Lat. X (2) 11.4. Thus, e.g., LEADBETTER 1998a, 75–77. KUHOFF 2001a, 117–120. REES 2002, 156. POTTER 2004, 288. LEADBETTER 2009, 60–61. BARNES 2011, 39–41. HUNNELL CHEN 2018, 48. WALDRON 2018, 54–56. CASELLA 2020, 237–238. Yet this is in most cases (with the exclusion of Barnes and Waldron) based on the assumption that Constantius Chlorus had been praetorian prefect of Maximian, which is highly unlikely; the only praetorian prefects attested for Diocletian and Maximian are Asclepiodotus and Hannibalianus, and they seem to have been already in charge by late 288: see PORENA 2007, 103–133. The idea that this passage alludes to Maximian marrying Eutropia, who was Hannibalianus’ ex-wife, is therefore still the most tenable. There is no need to see in this an opposition between Maximian and a Diocletian already keenly opposing any dynastic succession, as e.g. does CULLHED 1994, 14–15. 100 CORCORAN 2012a, 4. 101 CORBIER 1991, 134. 102 CORCORAN 2012a, 5. HEKSTER 2015, 278. See CORBIER 1991, 142. 103 It is indeed impossible to follow KOLB 1987a, 68–69 when he argues that Diocletian and Maximian would not have cared about this and followed the model of the princeps legibus solutus, as this radically contrasts with the principles informing ‘tetrarchic’ lawgiving (see e.g. CJ 2.4.16 and 6.23.10). GRÜNEWALD 1990, 34, rejects this interpretation and simply states that this problem appears insoluble. 104 HEKSTER 2015, 5–6.

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the biggest break with the previous forms of political language.105 Indeed, no ‘tetrarchic’ woman was represented on coins, mentioned in the panegyrics, nor did any of them receive the title of Augusta. While this is not necessarily an absolute and complete novelty106 (we saw that Carus’ wife is also conspicuously absent from our documentation), it is something noteworthy and in need of explanation. In a recent article, Anne Hunnell Chen has suggested that this be read as a ‘productive absence’. In her words, the ‘tetrarchic’ language proposed ‘an all-male familial unit’ – the imperial college was formed through ‘familial bonds between men’ that ‘could be achieved without the aid of women’.107 This applied at the discursive level already from 286, with the language of brotherhood,108 and still in 309–310: the title filius Augustorum, introduced at that moment, as already mentioned, seems indeed to imply again a purely male filiation. However, Hunnell Chen’s arguments that these bonds were a ‘blood relation’ and that this coincides with the introduction of a new ‘imperial style’ in which the emperor was not a primus inter pares anymore but an always more transcendent authority, are not convincing. This would raise the question as to whether (and how) the emperors of the 3rd century could still be considered primi inter pares, but also why the emperors of Late Antiquity did in fact recur to imperial women again to legitimize and strengthen their position.109 Nonetheless, her arguments hold up in explaining the ideology and the rhetoric of the gens Valeria aeterna, of the domus divina, a purely male family at the head of the empire, held together by bonds of affection – and, as we saw earlier, represented through iconographies typically adopted for families, such as embracing. We have seen that the clasping hands were a typical iconography to represent a harmonious marriage, and Roger Rees has more generally noted that the orator of 289, when dealing with the emperors, ‘includes many of the characteristics often seen in representations of marriage’;110 these stylemes reoccur also in the panegyric of 291, which additionally deploys a language and an imagery typical of erotic meetings: ‘like young lovers, the dyarchs take comfort from each other’s touch. […] The political tête-à-tête is presented as a lovers’ tryst’.111 This is indeed a language visualizing and reifying a purely masculine family. All this makes clear that the ‘tetrarchy’ introduced a visible change in the form of imperial self-representation: sticking to the idea of the radically ‘anti-dynastic’ ideology would therefore be just as wrong as pushing the pendulum too far in the other direction and claiming that Diocletian in the end behaved in a typical fashion for an emperor without a son, and that he ‘founded a new dynasty which ruled the empire until the death of Julian in 363’.112 The question that must be asked is at this 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112

ECK 2006, 326–327. HEKSTER 2015, 282–283. Thus HUNNELL CHEN 2018, 42–43; 57. See also KOLB 1987a, 93–94. HUNNELL CHEN 2018, 55. See also KOLB 1997, 38. LEADBETTER 2004, 265. HUNNELL CHEN 2018, 74–75. REES 2002, 63–64. REES 2002, 77–80. See also KAMPEN 2009, 121. Thus LEADBETTER 2009, 48.

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point whether the two images of ‘family’ necessarily exclude each other; more specifically, if we are allowed to say that the self-representation of the imperial college as a family of men automatically means that the ‘juridical families’ of each emperor, their wives and children most of all, were completely excluded from political discourse and from imperial propaganda. This is, indeed, the stance assumed by almost all scholarship, which sees in the ‘tetrarchy’ a planned and radically anti-dynastic system, the only exception in the entire history of the Roman empire when it comes to the presence of women in imperial propaganda (which is inaccurate, as we have already seen),113 as a political context in which no single statue would have been ever dedicated to an imperial woman114 – and thus argues that the honours attributed to Fausta in 307 and to Galeria Valeria in 308 would change everything and represent the breakdown of such a consistent political system.115 Indeed, the ‘tetrarchic’ women seem to have been much less absent than presumed until now. First, it is necessary to remember that imperial self-representation was practiced through a substantial number of media that are not accessible to us anymore: performances of imperial women in public, for instance, are lost to us (even more lost than those of the emperors). And while it is impossible to deny that the imperial women had a much smaller role in the public presence than most of their predecessors and successors, it is wrong to argue that they were completely neglected. Statues in their honour, indeed, existed, as we now know since the discovery in 2002, among spolia, of the inscribed basis of a statue for Diocletian’s wife Prisca that stood in Salona, possibly within a temple of Jupiter.116 While one might argue that Salona, near Split, could have honoured her for local reasons (Salona was also honoured by Diocletian, and called by him Martia Iulia Valeria Salona Felix),117 it is impossible to deny that this inscription informs us of another important circumstance: Aurelia Prisca (for we now know, from the same inscription, that she bore the name Aurelia, too, as Valeria took the name Galeria from her husband) had the title of a nobilissima femina. Femina is used already since the Republic in connection with an adjective to indicate particularly virtuous or notable women;118 nor should we disregard the adjective nobilissimus as insignificant: it was used not only for imperial women, as just shown, but also for the Caesares, who from the 3rd century were defined as nobilissimi on inscriptions and coins.119

113 114 115 116

HUNNELL CHEN 2018, 42–43; 57; 74–75. See also SCHADE 2003, 17–18. HEKSTER 2015, 284. HEKSTER 2015, 290. AE 2015, 1076. See JELIČIĆ-RADONIĆ 2009, 310–315, who suggests the identification of two fragmentary female portraits from Salona with Prisca and Valeria, too, and attributes them to a set of imperial statues in the temple of Jupiter. As always with ‘tetrarchic’ figures, and lacking of parallels, the identification is highly hypothetical. See also WALDRON 2018, 183–184. 117 JELIČIĆ-RADONIĆ 2009, 319–320; 322. 118 ThlL, s.v. femina, 2a, vol. VI/1, 458. See Plin. ep. 9.28.1, where Plotina is called sanctissima femina. 119 ENßLIN 1936. Maximian had also been nobilissimus caesar before becoming Augustus: CIL VIII 10285; ILS 616.

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We have therefore to claim this title as part of the ‘tetrarchic’ language and argue strongly that it was given to the women of the imperial family/ies. Indeed, the title was known earlier, but interpreted in connection with a dissatisfaction or a breach of the ‘tetrarchic language’: yet the base of a statue in Gabii in honour of Valeria Maximilla nobilissima femina, paired with one for Maxentius vir clarissimus, and thus antedating the latter’s claim to the throne in October 306,120 might be very well in harmony with ‘tetrarchic’ self-representation,121 as well as the qualification of nobilissima femina for Fausta on coins in her honour minted on the occasion of her wedding with Constantine and in the following years (Pl. 1.a),122 for Helena on divisional from Thessaloniki of 318–319,123 or for Constantia on coins minted around 326–327.124 Assertions that ‘there is not a single mention of any of the imperial wives in an inscription’ are therefore wrong; and if it is true that not ‘a single one was honoured with any of the titles that by the third century CE had become commonplace for imperial women’125 (and yet the inscription from Salona reveals that Prisca received to our knowledge a stronger attention than Carus’ and possibly Probus’ wives), and that after Magna Urbica and until 308 no imperial woman was called an Augusta, we must admit that a new title was invented, certainly less elevated and ‘important’ but still marking their status.126 We do not know whether Fausta was a nobilissima femina already before 307, as Maximian’s daughter, or only upon her marriage (and the same applies to Constantia, Constantius’ daughter and Maximian’s granddaughter), but in any case Constantine did not innovate, re-attributing a bigger role to women, as many have argued until recently.127 So, while it cannot be denied that the role of imperial women in propaganda was much smaller than in the 3rd century (or in the 4th), we should be wary of thinking that they were completely ‘muted’. Indeed, many scholars have felt uneasy claiming that the ‘tetrarchy’ represents a completely anti-dynastic system and that the families of the emperors did not play any role. Maxentius was definitely seen in 289 as a potential successor, as clearly stated in the panegyric of that year (and this position was reinforced by his marrying

120 ILS 666–667. The statues appear to have been dedicated by Maxentius’ and Maximilla’s son Romulus. 121 There is therefore no need to date these inscriptions after 1 May 305. 122 RIC VI, p. 216, n. 756 (Treveri). RIC VII, p. 504, n. 49 (Thessalonica). See LONGO 2009, 85– 91. 123 RIC VII, p. 504, n. 48 (Thessalonica). 124 RIC VII, p. 571, n. 15 (Constantinopolis). On these coins, see CARLÀ & CASTELLO 2010, 143. The title nobilissima femina will remain significant throughout Late Antiquity: see ENßLIN 1936. LONGO 2009, 71. 125 HUNNELL CHEN 2018, 51–52. ECK 2006, 327 also denies any honours for ‘tetrarchic’ women in inscriptions or statues. 126 See WALDRON 2018, 184–185. 127 See CARLÀ 2012, 71–78. KUHOFF 2001a, 839, for instance, argues that the title of Augusta for Galeria Valeria was a reply to Constantine’s concession of the title of nobilissima femina to Fausta.

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Galerius’ daughter, Valeria Maximilla),128 but as this testimony dates four years before the accession of Galerius and Constantius to the title of Caesar, it is impossible to draw any sure conclusions from it.129 This might imply that he was prepared for succession, while Constantine was not (there is no reason to believe that the marriage with Fausta had been prepared long before 307);130 more probably this was a strategy to put Maxentius in a position of bigger visibility, which might place him at a more convenient place for succession, yet without guaranteeing he would become an emperor without further achievements. If ‘such ties were not regarded at this date as prerequisites to securing a place as Caesar’,131 it would be wrong to assume that they had no relevance at all and that they did not contribute to creating social and political hierarchies. Nor would it be correct to rule out that ideas about succession might have been shifting over the years, rather than being set in stone from the moment in which Galerius and Constantius became Caesares. And if we recognize that the family ties did not lose importance in the ‘tetrarchic’ period but were integrated and coordinated with another level of discursive familiarity, Constantine’s soldiers did not need to have a sort of ontological connection to dynastic principles to decide to offer him the imperial title in 306, upon his father’s death. Indeed, there is good reason to think that Constantine did not ‘usurp’ the title of Augustus in 306 only to accept that of Caesar as a compromise with Galerius, as claimed by Lactantius, but that he immediately assumed the title Caesar, as more correctly stated by the Anonymus Valesianus and by Zosimus, and possibly in complete agreement with Galerius and Severus.132 Scholars have formulated the theory that Maxentius and Constantine were the planned Caesares (according to Lactantius, everybody present at the ceremony on the 1st May 305 was expecting Constantine to be nominated)133 – and that the ‘tetrarchs’ might even have agreed to that, until something (Galerius’ opposition, for those who believe Lactantius) changed this plan.134 To be sure, we can assume with

128 Pan. Lat. X (2) 14.1–2. See, among others, REES 2002, 156. HUNNELL CHEN 2018, 48. WALDRON 2018, 166–167. 129 See e.g., KOLB 1987a, 140–141. 130 See, among others, REES 2002, 164–165; 170–171. BARNES 2011, 56. Contra, ROUSSELLE 1976, 459. CLAUSS 2002, 347. LEADBETTER 2009, 67. ECK 2013, 22. WALDRON 2018, 169– 173. BARNES 2011, 48–49, even argues that Constantine’s first wife, Minervina, was related to Diocletian, and that this would imply that Constantine was foreseen for succession at an early stage, but for this there is absolutely no evidence in the sources. 131 HUNNELL CHEN 2018, 51. See also KOLB 1987a, 3. 1997, 45. 132 Anon. Vales., Pars prior 2. Zos. 2.9.1. See KUHOFF 2001a, 796–799. WIENAND 2012, 119–127. BARNES 2011, 62–63, argues that already in 305 Galerius agreed to Constantine being the next in the line after Severus. 133 Lact. DMP 19.4. 134 Thus ROUSSELLE 1976, 459. CULLHED 1994, 30. BARNES 1997, 103–104. CORCORAN 2012a, 6–7. BÖRM 2015, 244, argues that Maxentius and Constantine ‘were certainly cultivated, presumably to prepare them for admission to the imperial college once they merited it’, but denies that this might have been the case already in 305. See also HUMPHRIES 2008, 89–90. However, I argue that this is not just a sign of the ‘resilience’ of the dynastic principle, but an intentional

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some certainty that Constantine was not Constantius’ legitimate son, as his mother was Helena, whom Constantius most probably never married,135 and ranked in terms of legitimacy behind Maxentius,136 whom, before 305, we can rather imagine to be an expected future Caesar, perhaps not immediately considered because of his too young age and lack of experience. And yet, the succession of 305 does not demonstrate that family ties did not matter: Maximinus Daza was a nephew of Galerius, his sister’s son,137 and thus strongly inserted into his family – as Lactantius calls him an adfinis of Galerius, we cannot exclude that the relation was also reinforced through a marriage, even if this must remain purely speculative.138 Candidianus, finally, is a difficult topic, as we know too little about him, and yet also here some features are visible: Galerius’ son from a previous (or another) union was adopted by Galeria Valeria, and thus made Diocletian’s grandson, and it was planned that he would marry Maximinus Daza’s daughter upon coming of age. It has also been argued he might have been foreseen for succession at a later stage, upon reaching a reasonable age and experience.139 Hunnell Chen stresses the ‘disconnect between the methods the emperors of the ‘first tetrarchy’ used for creating alliances among themselves and the strategy they used for conveying their cooperation to the public’.140 But was this a disconnect? The impression derives substantially from the assumption that the ‘tetrarchy’ had to be a systematic and monolithic ideology, radically anti-dynastic in its principles. If we accept, on the other hand, that the imperial image of a group of related men with strong bonds coexisted with their being embedded in imperial families, which were related to each other, and that these two ‘levels’ of family discourse coexisted in different forms of imperial performance and self-representation and reinforced each other (as the closely bonded men were indeed members of the same family, or made into such by marriage), the contradiction disappears. Women continued therefore to reinforce imperial legitimacy through marriage (and motherhood) relations, and their role in this sense cannot be underestimated – we could not understand otherwise why Galerius and Constantius had to abandon their previous partners if their wives had been completely insignificant in Diocletian’s ‘system’. The role played by the imperial women throughout the history of the Roman empire, which mostly derived from their nearness to the emperors, could in this way be still

integration of the dynastic principle in the political language of the ‘tetrarchy’; contra LEAD2009, 142–143. LEADBETTER 1998a, 78–79. WALDRON 2018, 94–95. Contra, among others, BARNES 2011, 33– 35. KOLB 1987a, 139. KUHOFF 2001a, 311; but his argument that Maxentius did not come into question either, because he would have become Caesar in the East, but had been until that moment only in the West does not hold scrutiny. Epit. Caes. 40.18; Zos. 2.8.1. BARNES 1999. E.g. ROUSSELLE 1976, 460. CASELLA 2020, 239–245. HUNNELL CHEN 2018, 76. BETTER

135 136 137 138 139 140

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accounted for, even if not formalized in titles and statues, if we admit that ‘tetrarchic’ ideology was shaped by this sort of ‘double family language’.141 THE FAMILY STILL RESISTS! The fact that Diocletian had no sons might very well explain the origin of this particular form of language.142 The other members of the ‘tetrarchy’ who had sons could conform to this language while still giving importance to the family ties, which might still be the reason behind many choices, as that of Maximinus Daza as Caesar.143 As it has been noted, dynastic aspects are stressed consistently by the Panegyrici Latini144 – the clearest expression of this ‘double layered’ language, which cannot be explained away by simply referring to the ‘expectations’ of common people, represented by the orators. The imperial mausoleums, and particularly the mausoleum in Split, which we know well enough, clearly show that there was space for a representation of family members: here, Prisca had her portrait together with Diocletian; it has been suggested that the frieze might have represented their apotheosis, thus admitting the possibility of divine honours after death for ‘tetrarchic’ imperial women, generally recognized only for Galerius’ mother Romula.145 This was noted by Kuhoff, who argued that the ‘natural families’, neglected throughout the ‘tetrarchic’ government, came back to the fore, in what he considered ‘eine bemerkenswerte postume Aufwertung des ansonsten unterdrückten dynastischen Gedankens’.146 Rather, we must conclude that the ‘dynastic thought’ was never suppressed, but rather channelled and redefined in a new language and presentation of the imperial power and of imperial legitimacy that was partly based on family ties but that integrated them in a more complex picture.147 As is well known, the concept of dynasty is extremely difficult to apply throughout Roman history – yet, in the system of acceptance that legitimated and supported the

141 See KUNST 2000, 3. In this sense, the families of the emperors cannot be defined as ‘profane’, nor it can be argued that they were completely removed from the principle of succession, as in KOLB 1987a, 142. 1997, 38. 142 ALTMAYER 2014, 206. According to KOLB 1987a, 15, this could have been from the very beginning the reason why Diocletian was elected emperor, as the other generals knew that he would have to provide chances for some of them to consolidate his power. Clearly, this can only be a suggestion and such an interpretation is not supported by any source. 143 See CORCORAN 2012a, 4–5. HEKSTER 2015, 288. 144 HEKSTER 2015, 311. 145 ŽIVKOV 2009, 515–516. On the mausoleum in Split, see also ARCE, this volume, 290–291, even if I dissent on some substantial aspects regarding the interpretation of the ‘tetrarchy’ as a system – as well as on the specific interpretation of this frieze. 146 KUHOFF 2001b, 159. 147 Cf. ZANGENBERG 2018, 41: ‘In a way, the Tetrarchy intends to combine and reconcile two conflicting principles: meritocracy and the dynastic principle’ (even if Zangenberg then provides a quite different explanation than the one presented here).

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imperial power, the family has always had a stabilising role;148 and it did not at all lose this role even in the ‘tetrarchic’ period.149 The traditional reading, according to which the ‘tetrarchy’ failed, in the end, under the pressure of the dynastic principle, of which particularly the soldiers who acclaimed Constantine as emperor were the bearers,150 must therefore be revised completely. We should abandon the idea that, in the years after 306, Galerius supposedly adhered wholly to Diocletian’s ideology and plan and tried to oppose Constantine and ‘rescue’ the ‘tetrarchy’, whereas Constantine was supposedly focused from the very beginning on becoming the sole emperor and on destroying the ‘tetrarchic system’.151 Galerius might have had ‘dynastic’ plans centred around Candidianus, but more importantly his mother became crucial in his self-representation (including the story that he had been ‘divinely’ generated by her union with a dragon)152 and his wife (and Diocletian’s daughter) Galeria Valeria received in 308 the titles Augusta and mater castrorum and a significant number of coins was minted in her honour.153 Valeria, as the Tyche of the city of Thessaloniki, and her marriage to Galerius were also celebrated on the so-called ‘small arch’ from the palace of Thessaloniki,154 which must date after 308, as she bears the imperial insignia (Pl. 9.a).155 What seems to have collapsed in the years after 306, and even more after 308, is the ‘family of men’ – the lack of concordia, Maxentius’ assumption of the imperial title and the multiple conflicts between the various emperors did not allow for that kind of language to be continued, and is important to stress again that the namegiving had already made clear in 305 that the imperial college was now constituted of two family branches: the Galerii Valerii and the Flavii Valerii. The ‘dynastic principle’, or rather the level of the ‘real family’ of the emperors was not, therefore, subversively ‘reintroduced’: it simply remained, as the second layer, when the first could no longer be deployed, and its saliency increased correspondingly. And yet, the ‘tetrarchic language’ did not disappear suddenly – and the celebration of the role of Valeria, or later of Fausta, cannot be understood as the ‘destruction of a system’. It has been noted, for instance, that the portrait of Galeria Valeria, as represented on the coins, follows the stylemes of the ‘tetrarchic’ iconography, representing her with the same kind of squared head of the ‘tetrarchs’ which, as we have seen above, stresses her relatedness to her father and her husband.156 At the same 148 HEKSTER 2015, 11, but he denies that this also applies to the ‘tetrarchy’. See also BÖRM 2015, 242–243. HEKSTER et al. 2019, 611. 149 As recognized, for instance, by BARNES 2011, 50–51. MARANESI 2018, 63–64. 150 KOLB 1997, 45. ECK 2013, 27. 151 E.g. KOLB 1987a, 143. LEADBETTER 1998a, 79. KUHOFF 2001a, 826–840. 152 Epit. Caes. 40.17. 153 CARLÀ 2012, 74–76; CULASSO GASTALDI & CARLÀ-UHINK 2020, 420–423. 154 KUHOFF 2001a, 728–729. KUHOFF 2009, 103. 155 STEFANIDOU-TIVERIOU 2009, 393–394. See WALDRON 2018, 191–194. 156 SCHADE 2000, 43. VARNER 2008, 193, notes the similarity, but considers it exclusively a way of making Valeria resemble her husband; he adds the further example of Valeria Maximilla, who is supposed to have been represented in portraits so as to resemble Maxentius and stress

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time, the panegyric of 307 used the occasion (Constantine’s marriage to Fausta), to redeploy the language of marriage and love among the emperors, in this case Maximian and Constantine, that we have found in the panegyrics of 289 and 291.157 A more cohesive understanding of the language of Constantine and of the Constantinian dynasty is possible if we consider it from the perspective of the ‘doublelayered family language’. Fausta received the title of Augusta158 and was in 325 the first woman to be represented on the throne with the nimbus – an iconography originally developed for the ‘tetrarchic’ emperors (Pl. 1.b).159 Even more significantly, Constantine’s succession plans went in the direction of creating a new ‘tetrarchy’ – but one in which the ‘family of men’ was also related by blood, being composed of three brothers (Constantine II, Constantius II and Constans) and a cousin, Delmatius.160 And it was again a ‘family of men’, and not only because Constantine did not remarry after Fausta’s death in 326 – and if he remarried, as it is argued for instance by Chausson, but without strong support in the sources, it would be even more meaningful that his third wife were so completely invisible:161 no coins were even minted for any of the wives of Constantine’s sons, either, and we do not even know the name of Constantine II’s spouse. The ‘tetrarchy’ was a language, not a system. And as such, as stated in the introduction to this volume, it was an ‘ideology’, meant as a set of symbols and discourses.162 When we consider it correctly from this perspective, we realize that it had a much longer life than we would otherwise acknowledge: as with any other system of signs, single elements could be used and re-deployed for a long time, even when the ‘assemblage’ as such had lost significance. This applies also to the composition of the ‘tetrarchic double family language’ that resonates in Constantine’s plans for his succession in 337 – which simply never came into being. Constantine did not destroy the ‘tetrarchy’, Galerius had not tried to rescue it; both constructed their legitimacy within the system of acceptance with the symbols at their disposition.

157 158

159 160 161 162

the concordia within the imperial couple. Yet, while this is definitely an important aspect, it does not need to be the only one, unless we postulate that such expressions of resemblance between husband and wife need to be seen as a product of the ‘disintegration of the tetrarchic system’. REES 2002, 171–172; 179. For Theodora, daughter of Maximian and wife of Constantius Chlorus, the title Augusta is also attested, but only in 337 – it is impossible to know whether it was attributed to her ‘retroactively’ only at this stage, or whether she had received it some time before. In the latter case, though, no coins would have been minted in her name. On Theodora’s coins minted in 337, see CALLU 1974. CARLÀ & CASTELLO 2010, 141–143. CARLÀ-UHINK in press. CLAUSS 2002, 352. CHANTRAINE 1992, 17–18. CARLÀ & CASTELLO 2010, 134–139. BÖRM 2015, 251–252. CHAUSSON 2007, 109. See the introduction to this volume, 14–19.

VIRTUTIBUS FRATRES THE BROTHERHOOD OF DIOCLETIAN AND MAXIMIAN Byron Waldron* Famously, Diocletian and Maximian expressed their joint rule through reference to Jupiter and Hercules. From 286 onwards these gods were prevalent on coinage, the emperors adopted the theophoric signa Jovius and Herculius respectively, and panegyrists presented Diocletian as a descendent of Jupiter, and Maximian of Hercules.1 One might thus be forgiven for presuming that, like Jupiter and Hercules, the Augusti represented their relationship to one another as that of a father and son. However, the same panegyrists instead described the Augusti as brothers, and other forms of media also treated their relationship as fraternal. Modern scholars have sought to understand the nature of this representation and why it was adopted. For Frank Kolb and Wolfgang Kuhoff, the Augusti modelled themselves on the image of the brothers Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, and sought to express their rule as one of equal leadership.2 After all, throughout history, ‘brother’ used in a nonbiological sense has tended to contain a notion of equality.3 Similarly, Roger Rees argues that the emperors advertised a fraternal relationship because brotherhood had been a ‘fundamental family relationship used in the presentation of a united imperial college’, and Bill Leadbetter proposes that Diocletian propagated a metaphorical fraternity because a) he needed a political language that could express the relationship of the two unrelated emperors, b) he wanted Maximian to be an active ruler like himself and thus not strongly subordinated, and c) he wished to establish a dynasty but did not have male kin.4 Like Leadbetter, Olivier Hekster suggests that the fraternal presentation responded to the need to represent relations between unrelated emperors, but he posits that it may have originated with panegyrists and others who sought to describe their relationship.5 Conversely, this chapter argues that the administrations of Diocletian and Maximian did indeed put forward the idea

*

1 2 3 4 5

WALDRON 2022, 38–69 is a more extensive discussion of the subject at hand, but omits the Talmudic evidence as well as considerations on Carus’ dynasty, the date of Maximinus’ marriage and dextrarum iunctio. I thank Filippo Carlà-Uhink and Christian Rollinger for their invaluable feedback. REES 2005. HEKSTER 2015, 297–300. See also HUNNELL CHEN, this volume. KOLB 1987a, 66, 104–105. KUHOFF 2001a, 42–43; cf. ROBERTO 2014, 63–64. BOSWELL 1996, 22–23. REES 2002, 52–54. LEADBETTER 2004. HEKSTER 2015, 305–307; 311.

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of an imperial fraternity.6 Moreover, it is proposed that military concerns and the military background of the emperors influenced the presentation. Specifically, the Augustan fraternity was a brotherhood between commilitones on an imperial scale. THE AUGUSTAN FRATERNITY IN THE PANEGYRICS Our most detailed sources for the fraternity of the Augusti are panegyrics, and the panegyric delivered to Maximian in 289 is also the earliest surviving explicit and securely dated testimony on their relationship.7 The panegyrist makes the fraternity of the Augusti into a theme of his speech, and he praises them for sharing the same virtues. Maximian demonstrated uirtus (valour) in his campaigns against the Germans (7.6), and Diocletian showed similis uirtus (similar valour) when he invaded German lands (9.1). When they later joined one another for a conference described as ‘trusting and fraternal’ (fidum ... fraternumque), they offered each other mutual examples of all the virtues (omnium ... uirtutum). When the orator then relates that Diocletian showed Maximian the gifts he had received from the Persians, and that Maximian showed Diocletian the spoils he had won from the Germans, he comments that Diocletian is not discouraged from liberalitas (generosity) by Maximian’s bellica uirtus (military valour), and vice versa (3). The implicit result is that the virtues of the Augusti are complementary.8 Having established this sharing of virtues, the speaker then celebrates that the brotherhood of Diocletian and Maximian is based upon similitudo (similarity) with regard to their uirtutes and mores (character), and that an equal fraternal rule has been entered upon voluntarily. Their brotherhood is thus superior to a relationship based upon the accident of blood, and thanks to their similitudo it is characterized by concordia (harmony):9 Both of you are now most bountiful, both most brave, and because of this very similarity in your virtues, the harmony between you is ever increasing, and you are brothers in virtue, which is surer than any tie of blood. Thus, it happens that so great an empire is shared between you without any jealousy; nor do you allow there to be any difference between you, but clearly, like those twin Lacadaemonian kings, the Heraclidae, you hold an equal share in the state. However, in this you are better and more just, for with cunning their mother compelled them to rule as peers in age and authority, since she would confess to no-one to which she had first given birth, whereas you do so voluntarily, you whom not any similarity in visage, but rather a similarity of character, has made equal in the most important matters.10

6 7 8 9 10

On tetrarchic governance, see CORCORAN 2000, 266–274. Pan. Lat. X (2). The sharing of virtues, see REES 2002, 55. DE TRIZIO 2009, 104–106. BROSCH 2006, 89. Pan. Lat. X (2) 9.3–5: …ambo nunc estis largissimi, ambo fortissimo atque hac ipsa uestri similtudine magis magisque concordes et, quod omni consanguinitate certius est, uirtutibus fratres. Sic fit ut uobis tantum imperium sine ulla aemulatione commune sit neque ullum inter uos discrimen esse patiamini, sed plane ut gemini illi reges Lacedaemones Heraclidae rem publicam pari sorte teneatis. Quamquam hoc uos meliores et iustiores, quod illos mater astu

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The idea that Maximian’s relationship with Diocletian is not based upon blood but the surer tie of uirtutes is accentuated by the panegyrist’s comment that the Augusti do not physically resemble one another. Indeed, whereas later tetrarchic art employed a physical similitudo between the emperors to highlight their concordia, the orator’s claim accords with contemporary coinage produced at the key Gallic mint of Lyon, which emphatically differentiated between the Augusti.11 The speaker goes on to compare the small size of Lacadaemonia with the realm of Diocletian and Maximian, and asserts that the sharing of rule over such a small region is unimpressive compared with that of the Augusti, whose rule extends to the heavens (10.1). The orator declares that the Augusti, in sharing such might and power, demonstrate a ‘divine and truly immortal fidelity’ (diuinae profecto immortalisque fiduciae). As with 9.1 (fidum ... fraternumque), the orator thus draws a connection between fraternity and fides, a mutual fides that is conducive to harmony. The panegyrist spoke on the anniversary of the foundation of Rome. It is therefore fitting that, towards the end of his speech, the orator compares the Augusti to Romulus and Remus in an address to Rome herself:12 Thus, fortunate Rome, under leaders such as these (for it is proper that we conclude this pious duty of speechmaking where we began); fortunate, I say, and much more fortunate now than under your Remus and Romulus. For they, although they were brothers and twins, nonetheless vied with one another over which would impose upon you his name, and they chose separate hills and auspices. Assuredly these preservers of yours (notwithstanding the fact that your empire is now greater by as much as the inhabited world is more extensive than the old pomerium) strive for you without envy. These rulers, as soon as they return to you in triumph, long to be conveyed in the same chariot, to approach the Capitol together, to live on the Palatine together. Use, I beseech you, the cognomina of each of your princes, since you need not choose. Now together you may be called both Herculia and Jovia.13

The comparison with the founders again demonstrates the superiority of the imperial fraternity. Whereas the twins ruled a small finite space, the emperors rule the world. Whereas Romulus killed Remus, the Augusti so wish to be with one another that they almost resemble a married couple. The implicit message of these comparisons is that the emperors are the best of brothers, and this is earlier made explicit when the orator, in describing Diocletian’s co-option of Maximian, denotes the coegit, cum nemini fateretur quem prius edidisset in lucem, pari aetatis auctoritate regnare, uos hoc sponte facitis, quos in summis rebus aequauit non uultuum similitudo sed morum. 11 REES 2002, 55–60. On the portraiture at Lyon, see RIC V/2, p. 212. CARSON 1990, pl. 36, no. 526 is a good example, which is discussed by REES 2002, 58–59. 12 LEADBETTER 2004, 260–262. 13 Pan. Lat. X (2) 13.1–3: Felix igitur talibus, Roma, principibus (fas est enim ut hoc dicendi munus pium unde coepimus terminemus); felix, inquam, et multo nunc felicior quam sub Remo et Romulo tuis. Illi enim, quamuis fratres geminique essent, certauerunt tamen uter suum tibi nomen imponeret, diuersosque montes et auspicia ceperunt. Hi uero conseruatores tui (sit licet nunc tuum tanto maius imperium quanto latius est uetere pomerio, quidquid homines colunt) nullo circa te liuore contendunt. Hi, cum primum ad te redeant triumphantes, uno cupiunt inuehi curru, simul adire Capitolium, simul habitare Palatium. Vtere, quaeso, tuorum principum utroque cognomina, cum non cogaris eligere: licet nunc simul et Herculia dicaris et Iouia.

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former as frater optimus (4.1). Other references to their brotherhood serve to strengthen this theme.14 The fraternity of the Augusti reappears in the panegyric delivered to Maximian in 291.15 Debate exists over whether the speakers in 289 and 291 are the same person, but the stylistic similarities between the speeches show that the latter orator was at least familiar with the earlier speech.16 But unlike the panegyric in 289, the speech in 291 provides a lengthy exploration of the emperors’ pietas (6-12). It is within this context that the speaker references the imperial brotherhood, beginning at 6.3, when he asks, ‘For what ages ever saw such harmony in supreme power? What full or twin brothers manage an undivided inheritance as equally as you manage the Roman world?’17 As in the panegyric of 289, their brotherhood is marked by concordia and equality, and is superior to the relationships of other brothers.18 The fact that their fraternity is compared to full and twin brotherhoods implies the fact that theirs is neither, which again suggests that a brotherhood voluntarily entered upon is stronger. Next, the orator illustrates these points. The empire is common to the Augusti, who are above feeling jealousy (6.5–6), and each emperor celebrates the victories of the other, since whatever the gods offer to one belongs to both (6.7–7.3). The panegyrist then makes explicit that this is because of their brotherhood (7.4–7): Surely all men would be astounded with admiration for you, even if the same father and same mother had impressed upon you that harmony of yours by the laws of Nature. But certainly, how much more admirable or excellent is this that camps, that battles, that equal victories have made you brothers! While you are indulging in your virtues, while you are praising in turn the finest deeds, while with equal step you strive for the highest summit of fortune, you have blended different blood by your affections. Your brotherhood is not by chance but by choice. It is known that those born to the same parents are often different, whereas the similarity of the most certain fraternity reaches up to the imperial power without interruption. Indeed, it even conquers the difference in your ages and makes older and younger equals by your mutual esteem. Now that saying is false that one cannot delight in doing things with another unless of the same age. For we understand, most sacred princes, that within you, although you are different in age, there is a twin unanimity: Neither do you seem too energetic for him nor he too slow for you, but you imitate one another, you each strive after the other’s years. Thus, you both behave as if younger, both as if older. Neither favours his own character more; each wishes to be what his brother is.19

14 1.5, 3.1, 10.6. The multiple references to the relationship and the discussion of its nature lead Rees to wonder whether the speech was broadcasting their brotherhood for the first time (REES 2002, 53–54). See also DE TRIZIO 2009, 104–105. 15 Pan. Lat. XI (3). 16 REES 2002, 193–204. 17 Quae enim umquam uidere saecula talem in summa potestate concordiam? Qui germani geminiue fratres indiuiso patrimonio tam aequabiliter utuntur quam uos orbe Romano? 18 See also REES 2002, 74–76. 19 Pan. Lat. XI (3) 7.4–7: Obstupescerent certe omnes homines admiratione uestri, etiam si uos idem parens eademque mater ad istam concordiam Naturae legibus imbuissent. At enim quanto hoc est admirabilius uel pulchrius quod uos castra, quod proelia, quod pares uictoriae fecere fratres! Dum uirtutibus uestris fauetis, dum pulcherrima inuicem facta laudatis, dum ad summum fortunae fastigium pari gradu tenditis, diuersum sanguinem adfectibus miscuistis. Non

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The excerpt is not free from scribal controversy, since the passage concerning a brotherhood of choice (7.6: sed electa … fraternitatis est) has only been found in Cuspinianus’ Vienna edition of 1513. However, not everything new in this edition is necessarily conjecture. The passage conforms to the ancient conventions regulating clausulae, and it was possibly omitted from the principal manuscript tradition by parablepsy (est germanitas ... fraternitatis est).20 Again, concordia and equality are features of the imperial brotherhood, and their relationship is especially strong and admirable because it is not beholden to nature, not in spite of this. Whereas in 289 they are brothers because of a similitudo in uirtutes, in 291 the emperors are brothers because of their shared military experience. It is nonetheless notable that within both speeches military achievement underpins their fraternity, since in 289 the brothers shared in military uirtus.21 With the co-option of the Caesares, panegyrists now had to take account of four rulers. It does not then surprise that the panegyric to Constantius in 296/7 (Pan. Lat. VIII [5]) and that of Eumenius (Pan. Lat. IX [4]) do not employ the Augustan fraternity as a theme. Regardless, neither speech was delivered before an Augustus.22 However, Constantius’ panegyrist twice alludes to the fraternity (1.3, 4.1), and further references are made in the panegyrics for Maximian and Constantine in 307 (Pan. Lat. VII [6] 8.5, 9.2, 11.4) and Constantine in 310 (Pan. Lat. VI [7] 15.6). In the last case, Maximian’s decision to return to active rule is presented as an act of impiety against the man who ‘had adopted him as a brother’ (ab eo fuerat frater adscitus).23 THE AUGUSTAN FRATERNITY IN OTHER MEDIA Interestingly, no coin produced by the regime refers to the emperors as fratres. The Jerusalem Talmud records that ‘King Diocletian’ dedicated an inscription in the marketplace of Tyre to the ‘Genius of my brother Heraclius’, and Alexandra Stefan argues that the inscription is best dated to mid-286, since Diocletian had a lengthy stay in Tiberias during this time, and the inscription does not mention other colleagues.24 This hypothesis may well be correct, but in any case, during the second

20 21 22 23 24

fortuita in uobis est germanitas sed electa; notum est saepe eisdem parentibus natos esse dissimiles, certissimae fraternitatis est usque ad imperium similitudo. Quin etiam interuallum uestrae uincit aetatis et seniorem iunioremque caritate mutua reddit aequales, ut iam illum falso dictum sit non delectari societate rerum nisi pares annos. Intelligimus enim, sacratissimi principes, geminum uobis, quamuis dispares sitis aetatibus, inesse consensum: neque tu illi uideris promptior neque tibi ille cunctantior, sed inuicem uosmet imitamini, inuicem uestros adfectatis annos. Sic uos geritis quasi iuniores ambo, ‹ambo› seniores. Neuter plus suis moribus fauet; uterque se uult hoc esse quod frater est. NIXON & RODGERS 1994, 36–37; 536. REES 2002, 76 n. 29 (parablepsy). REES 2002, 75–77. HEKSTER 2015, 306. HEKSTER 2015, 311. Avodah Zarah 1.4. See STEFAN 2015, 272–273.

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tetrarchy (305-306), frater certainly did form part of the titulature of the now abdicated Diocletian and Maximian. On the dedicatory inscription for the Baths of Diocletian in Rome, Maximian dedicated the complex ‘in the name of Diocletian Augustus, his brother’.25 Likewise, the imperial college dedicated an inscription from Tuscania to Domino Nostro Diocletiano Seniori Augusto, with Maximian listed as [Maxi]mianus Senior [Aug(ustus)] frater.26 Moreover, in 292/3, when the emperor in Britain, Carausius, was presenting himself as a colleague of Diocletian and Maximian, his mint at Colchester issued an antoninianus that represents the three emperors as brothers. The obverse depicts the jugate cuirassed busts of the three Augusti with the legend CARAVSIUS ET FRATRES SVI, and the reverse shows Pax with PAX AVGGG.27 Considering other presentations of a fraternal bond between Diocletian and Maximian, it would appear that Carausius and/or his minters deliberately used terminology being applied to those emperors to reinforce the legitimacy of the British regime. On the coin Carausius is not an outsider but rather one of the imperial brothers, and he thus coexists alongside them in concordia. The seniority of Diocletian is acknowledged in the obverse image, as he is flanked by his apparent colleagues. However, the jugate presentation of three Augustan brothers suggests a nearly equal status.28 Lactantius noted in De Mortibus Persecutorum that the Augusti were brothers, reframing their similitudo, concordia and complementarity of virtues to suit his invective against the late emperors.29 In this subversion of their fraternity, they demonstrate a twisted harmony and complementarity in their criminal natures.30 In another passage, he also implies that their fraternal representation set a pattern for later tetrarchic Augusti. When he discusses why in 305 Galerius did not co-opt Licinius as Caesar, he explains: But he did not wish to make him Caesar lest he had to call him his son, and in order that he could later proclaim him Augustus and brother in place of Constantius.31

This concludes the explicit testimony available. However, the nomenclature of the Augusti also references their fraternity. Maximian was M. Aurelius Valerius Maximianus. Diocletian’s nomenclature tended to be given as C. Aurelius Valerius Diocletianus, but Marcus sometimes appeared as his praenomen, and an inscription from Pamphylia names him M. Aurelius C. Valerius Diocletianus.32 It thus seems the case that Maximian adopted Valerius from Diocletian, who had taken power as C. Valerius Diocles, and that the Augusti shared the nomina Marcus Aurelius.33 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

ILS 646: Diocletiani Aug. fratris sui | nomine. HEKSTER 2015, 286–287. AE 1964.235. RIC V/2, p. 550, n. 1 (Camulodunum). CASEY 1994, 67; 110–111. Equality: KOLB 1987a, 99. Lact. DMP 8.1–2. Cf. Pan. Lat. X (2) 9. See also LEADBETTER 2004, 264. Lact. DMP 20.3: Sed eum Caesarem facere noluit, ne filium nominaret, ut postea in Constantii locum nuncuparet Augustum atque fratrem… 32 AE 1973.540. See KOLB 1987a, 16–17 with n. 36. 33 On the sharing of nomina, see also CARLÀ-UHINK, this volume.

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Undoubtedly, once the emperors were explicitly being presented as brothers, their shared nomenclature would have been understood as fraternal in nature. However, their names may have always been associated with brotherhood. It has been suggested that Diocletian, soon after his accession, adopted M. Aurelius to evoke the memory of the second-century emperor, and that Maximian then incorporated Valerius and M. Aurelius into his nomenclature when he became Caesar in 285.34 The only document that unambiguously dates to his Caesariate names him Aur[eli]|o Vale|rio Max|imiano.35 However, it seems more likely that Maximian was M. Aurelius before he became Caesar, and that both adopted each other’s names. No document that names Diocletian Aurelius has been shown with certainty to precede Maximian’s promotion to Augustus (end of 285/early 286).36 The aforementioned Pamphylian inscription was originally dated to 284, but more plausible reconstructions change the year of dedication to 288.37 A papyrus dated 31 March 286 would thus appear to be the first to name both Augusti Aurelius Valerius.38 Moreover, whereas Diocletian and his Caesar Galerius had the praenomen Gaius, Constantius, like Maximian, appears to have had Marcus. Both Gaius and Marcus are attested for Constantius.39 However, in 294 Aurelius Aristobulus, the proconsul of Africa, attributed Marcus to Constantius in a dedication to the tetrarchs.40 The senator had been a high-ranking ally of Diocletian since the war with Carinus in 285.41 One would expect a dedication by him to be accurate. Furthermore, Maximian’s son Maxentius was a Marcus, and possessed the name before becoming emperor.42 That Marcus was employed by Constantius and Maxentius, but not Galerius, may attest to the special importance of Marcus, and by extension Aurelius, to Maximian. It would not surprise if Maximian was born M. Aurelius. It was a common name. Families received the nomina when they were enfranchised by the Constitutio Antoniniana.43 The nature of the evidence ultimately does not permit certainty, but one suspects that Diocletian and Maximian had, in an early show of collegial concordia and symmetry, exchanged nomina. To share names was to suggest kinship, and if done in the symmetrical manner suggested, it would have accorded with a fairly equal presentation well suited to fraternity.44 However, even if the names were not shared in the scenario suggested, but rather Diocletian shared both Valerius and M. 34 KOLB 1987a, 16–17. KUHOFF 2001a, 19; 29–31. The latter suggests that Diocletian also wished to associate himself with Claudius II, Probus and Carus, who likewise possessed the nomen. 35 CIL VIII 10285. 36 REA 1984. WORP 1985, 98–99. BARNES 1996, 535–536. 37 284: LORIOT 1973. 288: BARNES 1996, 535–536. STEFAN 2015, 278–280. 38 BGU 4.1090. On the absence of Aurelius before 286, see also STEFAN 2019. 39 Gaius: CIL III 3205. VIII 10125. X 7504. ILS 649. 650a. Marcus: CIL V 8042. VIII 608. VIII 10287. VIII 15563. ILS 637. 40 ILS 637. 41 PLRE 1 Aristobulus; see also Nr. 32 in HÄCHLER, this volume. 42 ILS 666. 43 HEKSTER 2015, 277. 44 Cf. STEFAN 2019, 289, and CARLÀ-UHINK, this volume, who similarly reject or doubt that Diocletian adopted the nomen Aurelius during his sole reign but focus on the name’s potential symbolism concerning imperial lineage.

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Aurelius with Maximian, it seems to me that the sharing of names without adoption or a marriage alliance would have struck many as fraternal or something akin to fraternal regardless of the manner in which they were shared. Likewise, let us consider visual similitude in depictions of the tetrarchs. Dynastic rulers employed physical likeness as a means of demonstrating similarity between emperor and successor, and thus the hereditary claims of the successor.45 In the case of tetrarchic art, it is well known that artists exaggerated physical likeness to an unprecedented degree. In the coin portraits that post-date the monetary reform of c. 294, all portraiture features short hair, short beards, strong, square jaws, eyes staring straight ahead, thick necks, tight lips and eyebrows sternly furrowed. The new portrait style alluded to power, severity and duty, and in continuing the hair and beards of their martial predecessors, such as Aurelian, the tetrarchs maintained the image of a military imperator.46 However, variation between portraits of the same emperor coined by different mints could be more substantial than variation between portraits of different rulers issued by the same mint.47 Statues also display this likeness, most famously the red porphyry groups now located in Venice (Pl. 5) and the Vatican, which also display the potentially familial gesture of embrace.48 Considering the dynastic use of visual likeness, this employment of exaggerated similarity would have implied to audiences not only concordia but kinship.49 Based on what was already known about the tetrarchs, audiences would have linked these similarities to fraternity between the Augusti, the filiation of the Caesares, and perhaps fraternity between the Caesares.50 Art of the first tetrarchy also alluded to the Augustan brotherhood through the hero twins Castor and Pollux, the Dioscuri. Whereas Romulus and Remus were useful brothers with whom the Augusti could be contrasted, since the emperors were bound to look better next to the feuding twins, the story that Zeus’ son Pollux shared his divinity with his slain half-brother Castor, with the result that with each day they alternate between divinity and death, made the Dioscuri an ideal symbol for the imperial brothers themselves.51 Certainly, through their cyclical nature the Dioscuri had become an allegory for eternity, and they could thus advertise stability in

45 SMITH 1997, 181. 46 REES 1993, 187–189; 193. SMITH 1997, 180–182. WEISER 2006, 210–211. On the portraiture of the tetrarchs’ third-century predecessors, see BERRESSEM 2018, 133–334. 47 WEISER 2006, 210. HEKSTER 2015. 282. 48 REES 1993, 182–183; 189–193. SMITH 1997, 180–183. BOSCHUNG 2006, 349–353. KAMPEN 2009, 105–108. On the depiction of an embrace, elite sarcophagi used the gesture to demonstrate familial relations, albeit not in an identical fashion: KAMPEN 2009, 114–119. See also ŞARE AĞTURK 2018 and 2021, 54–59, on the painted marble frieze from Nicomedia depicting Diocletian and Maximian in an embrace (Pl. 8). 49 On the familial associations of visual similitude, embracing, and also clasped hands, see also CARLÀ-UHINK, this volume. 50 See below: 56, 61. 51 On the Dioscuri, see e.g., Pin. Nem. 10.55–90.

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leadership.52 Nevertheless, previous emperors had also employed the Dioscuri as symbols of fraternal pietas. For example, Augustus had associated his grandsons and then the sons of Livia with the Dioscuri, and coins and inscriptions connected the heroes with Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus.53 Whether the initiative for adopting this symbolism originated with the tetrarchic regimes, the elites who commissioned most artworks and monuments or the artisans who produced these works, the resemblance the twins bore to Diocletian and Maximian would have been clear to audiences.54 Like the Augusti, the Dioscuri enjoyed a close connection to ZeusJupiter, and the eternal bond of the twins was evocative both of the emperors’ fraternal concordia and, as with Carausius’ coin, the special status of Diocletian, since the older emperor was surely Pollux. Diocletian had shared his divine imperium with Maximian.55 Moreover, the Dioscuri were warriors who harmonised well with the military aspects of the Augustan fraternity expressed within the panegyrics.56 The paired heads of a tetrarch and a Dioscurus found at the palace in Split appear to have belonged to a statue group of dyarchs or tetrarchs with Dioscuri.57 More notably, the Dioscuri are present among the reliefs that decorate the Arch of Galerius in Thessalonica, which was erected between c. 300 and 305. The monument was possibly inaugurated in 302 or 303, respectively the decennalia of the Caesares and the uicennalia of the Augusti.58 Such a context would suggest that the Dioscuri represent longevity in imperial leadership, but this does not preclude there being additional layers of meaning. They appear on the panel of the emperors enthroned, located at eye level (Pl. 9.b).59 The Augusti are seated in the centre, Diocletian on the viewer’s left and Maximian on the right. They are flanked by Galerius and Constantius respectively, and a selection of gods surround them, including Serapis and Jupiter, who stand directly to the left and right of the tetrarchs respectively and who represent the empire’s eastern and western halves. Next to these two gods stand the Dioscuri, that is, a brother in the east and a brother in the west. They each have a crescent moon above their head, and the horses of the Dioscuri, one of which has a crescent moon on its chest strap, are led towards the Caesares by Virtus and 52 Note the coins of Maxentius that depict the Dioscuri with the legend AETERNITAS AVG N (RIC VI, p. 404, nn. 35–38 [Ostia]). POND ROTHMAN 1975, 25 discusses a group of marriage sarcophagi that depict the Dioscuri and express hope for an eternal union. 53 KOLB 1987a, 105, who thinks that Diocletian used the Dioscuri partly to invoke the Antonines. POULSON 1991, 120–136. BANNON 1997, 178–179. 54 See also POND ROTHMAN 1975, 24 (‘...the idea is that the twins are naturally appropriate companions of rulers who are coequals...’). REES 1993, 197 (‘As brothers who lived in perfect harmony, they were ideal for inclusion in Tetrarchic art.’). 55 Although she does not mention Diocletian and Maximian, BANNON 1997, 178 argues that imperial invocations of the Dioscuri exploited the fact that the brothers were in one sense equal and identical, but that this was by the grace of one brother. For Bannon, this ambiguity was considered useful for offsetting fraternal rivalry over the succession. Cf. KOLB 1987a, 104– 105; 171–172, who argues that the Dioscuri symbolised an equal connection to Jupiter. 56 The Dioscuri as symbols of military victory: POULSON 1991, 139–141. 57 CAMBI 1976. KOLB 1987a, 105. JELIČIĆ-RADONIĆ 2009, 316–317. 58 Date: KOLB 1987a, 159–162; see also STEFANIDOU-TIVERIOU 2009, 393. 59 Eye level: KOLB 1987a, 162.

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Mars, who symbolise martial valour.60 The Dioscuri also appear alongside Victories and captured spoils on the late antique column pedestals now located in the Boboli Gardens of Florence, which may be fragments of the arcus nouus Diocletiani (Pl. 24).61 This arch was erected in Rome during the first tetrarchy, again on the occasion of an imperial anniversary.62 In this context, the Dioscuri likewise project a message of eternal, stable rule, but again, the monument’s audience would likely also reflect upon the Augustan fraternity and, through the accompanying images, the emperors’ military credentials. Due to the multivalent messaging attached to the Dioscuri, anniversaries may have been the ideal occasions for associating the imperial brothers with the hero twins. Indeed, also on such an occasion, the imperial mint at Aquileia minted a gold coin for Constantius Caesar that represents the Dioscuri with the legend COMITES AVGG ET CAESS NNNN (Companions of Our Augusti and Caesares).63 Aquileia issued the coin as part of a jubilee series of gold types that included the reverse legends CONCORDIA AVGG ET CAESS NNNN, VOT(a) X CAESS, VOT(a) XX AVGG, HERCVLI COMITI AVG N and IOVI CONSERVATORI AVGG NN.64 The group constitutes a message of harmonious longevity under fraternal rulers and divine protection. The association of the Dioscuri with Constantius seems to imply that successive generations of brothers will achieve the longevity being promised. This lends credence to Lactantius when he implies that the relationship of Galerius and Licinius was represented though a fraternal framework. UNDERSTANDING THE AUGUSTAN FRATERNITY The term frater did not appear on coins of the regime, and epigraphical attestation prior to the second tetrarchy is limited to the Talmudic reference. Olivier Hekster thus makes the thoughtful suggestion that the use of frater did not originate from the regime itself, but that panegyrists referred to a fraternity because they were trying to formulate a relationship between two unrelated emperors. For this reason, they adopted the image of brotherhood, which provided an evocative rhetorical framework.65 However, without some direction from above, the panegyrical use of fraternal imagery would have been problematic. Such imagery and the closely related presentation of equality, usually inherent within concepts of fraternity, coexisted uneasily with the emperors’ theophoric signa, since Jupiter and Hercules were father and son, and enjoyed a strongly hierarchical relationship. Moreover, the 60 The horses: KOLB 1987a, 171–172; cf. LAUBSCHER 1975, 73. POND ROTHMAN 1975, 24–25 argues that the combination of the Dioscuri, Fortuna, Isis (often syncretised with Fortuna), Oceanus and Tellus constitutes an image of eternal, fated and universal rule. 61 KOLB 1987a, 122. On the uncertainty surrounding the origin of these pedestals, see KINNEY 1997, 131 n. 89. 62 Date: KOLB 1987a, 180–183. 63 RIC VI, p. 310, n. 1 (Aquileia). 64 PINK 1931, 25–26. RIC VI, p. 300, pp. 310–311, nn. 1–7b (Aquileia). KOLB 1987a, 105; 120. 65 HEKSTER 2015, 305–307; 311.

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panegyrist in 289 refers to the imperial brotherhood with frequency, and both this orator and that of 291 discuss its precise nature. Such presentations would have appeared excessive and overly specific if the administrations of Diocletian and Maximian had not already promoted the imperial relationship as fraternal, and the theme could have miscarried if it was not well understood by the audience and did not meet the approval of the emperor(s) present.66 Indeed, as noted above, the sharing of nomenclature and Diocletian’s dedication in Tyre may have already suggested an Augustan fraternity to audiences as early as 285 or 286. The absence of frater from coins, and its rarity in inscriptions of the dyarchy and first tetrarchy, would be in keeping with the absence of other kinship terms. Terms of filiation and marriage did not appear within imperial titulature on coins and inscriptions,67 and yet we know from panegyrics, Lactantius and fourth-century epitomes that the Caesares were the sons-in-law of the Augusti68 and likely also their adopted sons.69 The imperial governments appear to have sought to avoid explicit references to marriage and filiation within imperial titulature, but they still wished to use marriage and adoption to strengthen their regime and, in the case of adoption, its self-representation as a harmonious and unanimous male family.70 Likewise, while the Augusti may not have adopted frater as a regular part of their titulature, they likely sought to have their brotherhood advertised. The message was sufficiently pervasive to elicit various reactions, including from the elites and 66 For the latter point, see LEADBETTER 2004, 263–264. 67 HEKSTER 2015, 283–285. By comparison, immediately preceding Diocletian, certain inscriptions from the reigns of Carus, Carinus and Numerian label Carinus and Numerian as filius (e.g. ILS 606), the deified Carus as genitor (e.g. ILS 609), Magnia Urbica as coniunx (e.g. ILS 610), and the deified Nigrinianus as nepos (ILS 611; cf. HEKSTER 2015, 96–98). Considering how brief their reigns were, the contrast is striking. 68 On the marriages of the Caesares of the first tetrarchy, see LEADBETTER 1998a. WALDRON 2022, 78–80. Similarly, before his co-option as Caesar in 305, Maximinus married a close relation of his future Augustus Galerius (Lact. DMP 18.14), probably a daughter, despite already being Galerius’ nephew (Epit. 40.1, 18; Zos. 2.8.1). Some argue that Lactantius invented the marital connection between Galerius and Maximinus to hide their blood connection, since Lactantius wished to downplay Maximinus’ dynastic legitimacy (e.g., MACKAY 1999, 202– 205), but Lactantius did not need to invent a marital relationship to do so (BARNES 1999. WALDRON 2022, 137). Indeed, Maximinus’ son and daughter were eight and seven in mid-313 (Lact. DMP 50.6), and so it is plausible that Maximinus had married his wife in 303 or 304, with the son Maximus born in 304 or 305. This would coincide with preparations for the succession, and indeed with the oath of Maximian to abdicate made during the stay of the Augusti in Rome in November-December 303 (Pan. Lat. VI [7] 15.4, 6). On the historicity and timing of the oath, see WALDRON 2022, 127–129; 135–137. 69 On the adoption of the Caesares, see esp. Pan. Lat. VII (6) 3.3 with KOLB 1987a, 47. WALDRON 2022, 84–86. Likewise, there are hints that Constantius and Galerius adopted Severus and Maximinus respectively: Lact. DMP 39.4; WALDRON 2022, 116. On the legal approach to adopting a son-in-law, see HEKSTER 2015, 278 n. 4. Cf. CARLÀ 2012, 65–67, and CARLÀ-UHINK, this volume, where he argues that the filiation of the Caesares was fictive. 70 On the different roles of filiation and marriage within Tetrarchic media, see HUNNELL CHEN 2018, 52–53. WALDRON 2022, 86–87; 201. HUNNELL CHEN, this volume, similarly demonstrates that there was media-based, class-based and geographical selectivity in the use of the theophoric signa.

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artisans who commissioned or designed inscriptions and monumental art, acknowledged the shared nomenclature, and incorporated the imagery of the Dioscuri and the visual similitude also being produced by the imperial mints. Likewise, the minters of Carausius, Constantine’s panegyrists and the hostile Lactantius all responded to the brotherly presentation. However, one could not formally adopt someone as a brother. Indeed, a rescript of Diocletian and Maximian attests as much.71 To what extent then was this presentation an evocation of dynasty? The empire had a history of fraternal succession and collegiality, but it was a rather unfortunate one. The brothers Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus were worthy of evocation. However, Domitian, who had succeeded his brother Titus, had been regarded a tyrant, Caracalla had murdered his brother Geta, the brothers Macrianus and Quietus were short-lived in their gamble for power, Quintillus and Florian had succeeded their brothers only to be quickly overthrown, and the brothers Numerian and Carinus were casualties in the very power struggle that bestowed imperium on Diocletian.72 More importantly, if Diocletian and Maximian had only wished to convey dynastic unity through their brotherhood, why did they settle for something that might appear more metaphorical than adoptive, and which was not established within Roman dynastic practice? Previously, emperors had used marriage and adoption when appointing heirs not related by blood, and Diocletian and Maximian later enjoyed such ties with their Caesares. But Diocletian did not adopt Maximian, and there was no marital link between the Augusti until c. 300 or later, when Maxentius married Galerius’ daughter Valeria Maximilla.73 If Maximian were Diocletian’s son, this would not have prevented the former from being an active wielder of power, since Gallienus and Carinus had both served as active Augusti alongside their fathers. And yet, for most of their reigns, the kinship of the Augusti did not extend beyond the mutual appellation of frater. A presentation of dynastic unity cannot alone account for such a new approach to imperial kinship. FRATERNITY AND ROMAN SOLDIERS To discuss this issue further, let us consider military society. The decades preceding the tetrarchy had been plagued by army-supported usurpations, and Diocletian and his colleagues, like other emperors of the late third century, had risen to political power as career soldiers.74 Could it therefore be the case that the Augustan fraternity was a brotherhood between commilitones (comrades)? Fraternal sentiment was strong among soldiers. Tacitus implies as much when he recounts the mutiny in 71 CJ 6.24.7 (3 December 285). See CARLÀ 2012, 65–66, and his chapter in this volume. 72 Although it is a matter of debate, Florian was likely Tacitus’ half-brother: SAUER 1998, 174– 176. WALDRON 2022, 153. 73 Maxentius was born in the 280s and had married by 305: BARNES 1982, 34. It has been suggested that Diocletian initially adopted Maximian (e.g., REES 2002, 33), but KOLB 1987a, 44– 47 persuasively argues against this. 74 Career soldiers as emperors: JOHNE 2008b, 601–603. MENNEN 2011, 22–28.

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Pannonia at the beginning of Tiberius’ reign. According to the author, one of the inciters of the mutiny, Vibulenus, fraudulently claimed that their commander Junius Blaesus had ordered gladiators to murder Vibulenus’ brother, who had been sent by the army in Germany to debate the common interest of the two armies.75 Vibulenus’ extravagant lament provoked the legionaries to put Blaesus’ gladiators and servants in chains, and to undertake a search for his brother’s body. They were only prevented from slaying their commander when it became apparent that there had been no murder, nor a brother (23). The account implies that killing a soldier’s brother was one of the greatest transgressions that one could make against him.76 Indeed, we will see that it forms part of a broader picture of fraternal loyalties among soldiers. Not all brothers in the military were related to one another. Roman soldiers forged close bonds with their commilitones through the shared experience of hardship and danger that came with camp life and campaign. These bonds, which connected soldiers personally to their comrades and collectively to their unit, were often viewed in terms of fraternity. Just as brothers were bound by familial pietas to protect one another and their household or domus, military ‘brothers’ were expected to protect one another and the civic domus, that is, the state.77 Surveys show that fratres were often the commemorators of military epitaphs, and Richard Saller and Brent Shaw, in their study of epitaphs during the early empire, found brotherbrother commemorations to be usually more common in military samples than in civilian samples.78 But it is also well attested that some soldiers honoured fellowsoldiers as fratres despite not sharing nomina and, in some cases, despite explicitly having different fathers.79 For example, in one epitaph, M. Julius is honoured by his frater and heres (heir) M. Arruntius, in another, Bato, son of Neritanus, honours his frater Pacatus, son of Mucar, and in yet another, heres Julius Niger, son of Ittixon, is honoured by his frater and heres Dunomagius, son of Toutannorix.80 Admittedly, it is possible that these brothers shared a mother, but a dedication from Prusias ad Hypium demonstrates that non-biological brotherhood exists on military inscriptions: Val(erius) Titianus b(-) b(-), decanus | num(eri) scut(ariorum), natione Dalmata, uixit annos XXXXV, | militauit annos XXII. Fecit memoria(m) Ursus | ex numero ipso pro fraternitate. Valerius Titianus, b. b. decanus of the troop of scutariotes, of the Dalmatian people, lived fortyfive years and served twenty-two years. Ursus, from this very unit, made the remembrance by virtue of fraternity.81

75 76 77 78

Tac. Ann. 1.22. PHANG 2001, 162. BANNON 1997, 138–141; 147. SALLER & SHAW 1984, 141 n. 64. SHAW 1984a, 472 (late empire). PHANG 2001, 162 (early empire). 79 KEPARTOVA 1986. 80 M. Julius: CIL III 2715. Pacatus: CIL III 3558. Julius Niger: CIL XIII 17. 81 IK 27.101.

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The dedication professes that Titianus’ subordinates loved their commander in the manner of a brother. Moreover, legal sources suggest the intensity of both biological and non-biological fraternal relationships within military society. In a rescript to a soldier named Gallus, Gordian III ruled that the inheritance bequeathed to Gallus by his brother, who had served in the same camp, should be included in Gallus’ castrense peculium (camp property) rather than pass to their father, even though he was in his father’s potestas. Gordian justified the ruling with the following: For I am compelled to believe that hardship in living abroad, the companionship of joint military service, and the fellowship in carrying out duties not only added in some measure to his fraternal love, but indeed rendered each mutually dearer to the other.82

The rescript directly links the strength of the soldiers’ brotherly kinship to the mutual experience of military service, and because of this powerful connection between soldierly brothers, the emperor deems it fit to make Gallus’ inheritance independent from patria potestas, and instead a part of Gallus’ uniquely military property. Of course, the brothers here shared the same father, but Roman law acknowledged a connection between non-biological fraternity and inheritance. The jurist Paul states: A man who is not a brother, if he is loved with fraternal affection, is correctly instituted heir by his name with the appellation ‘brother’.83

Therefore, soldiers (and others) could use the term frater to institute an unrelated man as heir. Formally speaking, this was not fraternal adoption, but it constituted a legally significant use of the term frater. It is perhaps then related that the term frater et heres (or heres et frater) is often found on military epitaphs.84 A FRATERNITY BETWEEN COMMILITONES Since 235 nearly every emperor had been murdered by their soldiers and officers, and the need for emperors to emphasise their military credentials had substantially increased.85 One thus suspects that fraternity formed a part of Diocletian and Maximian’s strategy for confronting this issue. Moreover, it is possible that they, both 82 CJ 12.36.4: Etenim peregrinationis labor sociatus commiliti eius et obeundorum munerum consortium adfectioni fraternae nonnihilum addidisse, quin immo uice mutua cariores inuicem sibi reddidisse credendum est. 83 Dig. 28.5.59.1: Qui frater non est, si fraterna caritate diligitur, recte cum nomine suo sub appellatione fratris heres instituitur. 84 KEPARTOVA 1986, 12 records numerous examples, but note e.g. CIL III 803. III 807. III 2715. On fraternal sentiment among soldiers in law, see also PHANG 2001, 162–163. Also note CJ 2.3.19, a rescript of Diocletian and Maximian that rules that a pact made between two brothers before going into battle, in which the survivor would receive the other’s property, is legally valid. Soldiers and officers enjoyed the unique right to make a will free from formal legal requirements (see e.g. Gaius, I 2.109–110). 85 MANDERS 2012. HEBBLEWHITE 2017. BERRESSEM 2018. WALDRON 2022, 18–31.

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career soldiers, had become friends through military service. The panegyrist in 307 states that Maximian had had Diocletian as a socius (partner) for the whole of his life.86 In narrating Diocletian’s appointment of Maximian, Aurelius Victor describes Maximian as a soldier who was ‘loyal in friendship’.87 Likewise, a Byzantine tradition records that Maximian was Diocletian’s friend (φίλος) at the time of his elevation as co-emperor.88 The Historia Augusta fictitiously claims that Maximian and the author’s grandfather knew that Diocletian had always desired to reign, which again reflects the idea that the emperors had long been friends.89 Perhaps two commilitones genuinely became a pair of imperatores, or perhaps, in alluding to a long-time friendship, the sources merely reflect imperial self-representation. In either case, military rebellion and the military backgrounds of the emperors best explain their fraternal presentation. While the emperors did not claim that they were brothers to their soldiers, but instead maintained a quasi-divine aloofness through their signa and ceremonial, they were to one another brothers in the service of the state. In presenting this image, they conveyed their close bond to one another, but they expressed it in terms that would appeal to the armies. As Filippo Carlà-Uhink and Christian Rollinger note in the introduction to this volume, the tetrarchs co-opted conventional symbols and representations, but they re-purposed them and presented them in new contexts. Furthermore, Diocletian and Maximian may have used the fraternal presentation to promote their military backgrounds and credentials without publicising taboo specifics about their non-aristocratic origins, in the same way that panegyrists praised their provinces of birth without discussing their parents or early careers.90 The result was generative, as eventually media presented the Caesares as brothers as well. Successive generations of tetrarchs were represented as retaining the harmonious and comradely bond of their auctores imperii. It is perhaps then relevant that Constantius, Galerius, Severus, Licinius, and arguably Maximinus were all from military backgrounds as well.91 Of course, the likely military origins or inspiration for their fraternity has been somewhat obscured by our principal surviving sources, the panegyrics, which were intellectual works tailored to a mixed audience of courtiers, officers, aristocrats and others. But the panegyrist in 291 may be close to the truth when he avers that camps, battles and equal victories have made Diocletian and Maximian brothers.92 The Augusti were not biological brothers, but soldiers who had established their fraternal bond though shared military experience. As in the case of Gordian’s rescript, where military experience had lent a special significance to the kinship between two brothers, the shared experience of the Augusti would 86 87 88 89 90 91

Pan. Lat. VII (6) 9.2 Aur. Vict. Caes. 39.17: fidum amicitia. Sym. 86. Cedr. 297.1. HA Car. 15.1. Pan. Lat. X (2) 2.2. XI (3) 3.8–4.1. On these passages, see DAVENPORT 2016, 384–388. On the military backgrounds of the tetrarchs, see WALDRON 2022, 31–37; 78–84; 112–114; 137; 157–158. Maximinus: Lact. DMP 19.6 with BARNES 1982, 39. On the generative aspect of ideology, see the introduction to this volume. 92 Pan. Lat. XI (3) 7.5.

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have been considered evidence for a very close relationship. Indeed, we have seen that the panegyrist in 291 asserts that shared military experience rendered the imperial brotherhood much more admirable and excellent (7.5). As described in the panegyric of 289, their close brotherhood demonstrated their similarity and their shared and complementary virtues, which encouraged unanimity as well as military and diplomatic success. A military inspiration accords with other ways in which their regime was represented. Tetrarchic media introduced into imperial iconography the Pannonian cap used by soldiers.93 Natalie Kampen suggests that the mutual embrace of emperors in tetrarchic art reflects a gesture among soldiers.94 Moreover, following their abdication, a pilaster at Romuliana distinguished Diocletian and Maximian from the active emperors by depicting the former in togas and the latter in paludamenta (Pl. 23).95 Three inscriptions of the second tetrarchy honour the active Augusti as Imperatores and withhold the title from the abdicated Seniores Augusti.96 In this way, active emperors were military commanders, whereas Diocletian and Maximian were depicted as having retired from military life. Somewhat conversely, but still of relevance, the palace at Split follows the plan of a legionary camp. Diocletian and Maximian’s use of fraternal imagery was thus another way in which they drew inspiration from and preserved their regime’s relationship with the armies of the empire. We have seen that Maximian’s panegyrists also considered equality to be a feature of the imperial relationship. The inscription from Prusias ad Hypium shows that non-biological fraternity could transcend rank. But as previously noted, whereas paternity has often denoted hierarchy, the various historical uses of ‘brother’ that are not biological generally contain a notion of equality, and sometimes amount to a substitute for and challenge to hierarchy and government.97 Indeed, Constantine’s panegyrist in 311, discussing the brotherhood of the Romans and the Aedui, asserts that frater attests to ‘fellowship of love’ (communitas amoris) and ‘equality of dignity’ (dignitatis aequalitas).98 The fraternal presentation of the Augusti thus suggested equality, and in this way accorded with certain other presentations of Tetrarchic power. For example, coins alternatively show Diocletian or Maximian receiving a Victoriola on a globe from Jupiter. The idea that both Augusti enjoyed such a connection to the supreme deity suggested parity.99 Similarly, aurei from Cyzicus and Antioch show on the reverse the Augusti sitting side by side, each with globe in hand and crowned by Victory, with the legend CONCORDIAE

93 94 95 96 97 98 99

F. KOLB 2001, 150–151. KAMPEN 2009, 118–119. SREJOVIĆ 1994, 145. For possible similar examples, see F. KOLB 2001, 184; 195–196. ILS 645–646. CIL VIII 22286. NAPPO 2018, 483–484. BOSWELL 1996, 22–23. Pan. Lat. V (8) 3.1. E.g. RIC V/2, p. 246, nn. 252–258 (Siscia); pp. 255–256, nn. 321–322 (Antiochia); p. 286, nn. 575–576 (Siscia); p. 295, n. 626 (Tripolis). RIC VI, p. 581, nn. 15–17 (Cyzicus). See KOLB 1987a, 98–102.

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AVGG NN.100 This presentation bears a resemblance to the above-mentioned porphyry group in the Vatican, where all four Tetrarchs carry globes. Moreover, antoniniani from the mint at Lyon depict the patron deities Jupiter and Hercules clasping hands with the legend VIRTVS AVGG. This clasping of hands (dextrarum iunctio) is another gesture associated with the dyarchs that, under previous regimes, could symbolise familial relations, including dynastic marriage, adoption, and indeed the concordia of Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus.101 However, Diocletian enjoyed seniority over his colleague, and certain forms of media, especially in the east, acknowledged this fact. For example, in the imperial cult chamber at Luxor Temple, a fresco depicts the four Tetrarchs, but Diocletian alone appears to hold the long sceptre of Jupiter (Pl. 15-16).102 On the panel of the emperors enthroned at Thessalonica, Diocletian showily holds a sceptre to the sky, enjoys a more pronounced frontality and wears a gem-studded belt.103 In the case of the Nicomedia relief, which shows the Augusti embracing one another, Diocletian is slightly taller, holds out his arms above those of Maximian, and has the greyish-brown hair of an older man, whereas Maximian’s hair is reddish-brown (Pl. 8). The Victory hovering behind Diocletian is also located much higher than the one behind Maximian.104 A Roman could interpret the signa Jovius and Herculius as having a hierarchical significance, for it seems a natural assumption that Jovius enjoyed a unique connection to the supreme deity.105 In imperial and administrative documents throughout the empire, standard practice was maintained whereby the senior emperor was named first. Indeed, despite a tetrarchic penchant for the synchronisation of imperial honours, Diocletian retained a higher iteration of tribunician power, consulships and cognomina deuictarum gentium.106 Panegyrics delivered before Maximian and Constantius allude to the order of seniority of the Augusti through various rhetorical sequences, and when subjects came to give homage (adoratio) and both Augusti were present, it is apparent that they followed this order.107 The Panopolis papyri in Egypt, which date to the first tetrarchy, consistently refer 100 Diocletian: RIC V/2, p. 251, n. 292 (Cyzicus); p. 254, n. 313 (Antiochia). Maximian: RIC V/2, p. 290, n. 601 (Cyzicus); p. 293, nn. 615–616 (Antiochia). 101 Antoniniani: RIC V/2, p. 270, nn. 432–436 (Lugdunum). The emperors also clasp hands in Pan. Lat. X (2) 9.1, 11.1. Marcus and Lucius: e.g., RIC III, p. 277, nn. 795–803 (Roma); pp. 316– 317, nn. 1278–1296 (Roma). On clasped hands, see also CARLÀ-UHINK, this volume. 102 REES 1993, 186. 103 LAUBSCHER 1975, 69; 72. POND ROTHMAN 1975, 22; 27. REES 1993, 186. Diocletian in this panel also resembles a depiction of Jupiter in the arch’s sacrifice scene (see HUNNELL CHEN, this volume). 104 ŞARE AĞTÜRK 2018, 419–420. 105 LEADBETTER 1998b. Cf. KOLB 1987a, 88–114. 106 BARNES 1982, 17–20; 25–27; 93; KOLB 1987a, 98; 115. Eventually, Constantine undermined Diocletian’s iterative seniority when he honoured Maximian as consul X in 308: WALDRON 2020. On tetrarchic synchronisation, see KOLB 1987a, 115–127. 107 For panegyrical allusions to the order of seniority, see Pan. Lat. X (2) 11.6. XI (3) 3.2–7, 10.5. VIII (5) 21.1. IX (4) 21.2; P.Argent. 480.12–21. For the order of homage, Pan. Lat. XI (3) 11.2 mentions the ordo numinum (‘order of godheads’) in relation to a twin adoratio ceremony held by the Augusti in Milan.

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to Diocletian, when mentioned alone, as πρεσβύτερος Σεβαστός (senior-ranking Augustus).108 Whereas the panegyrics delivered before Maximian speak of an equal brotherhood, various fourth-century writers describe Diocletian as a figure of supreme influence and control.109 This alternation between messages of equality and hierarchy testifies to the fluidity in how the emperors and their subjects represented the dyarchic and tetrarchic regimes. It serves as an example of the heterogeneity within tetrarchic ideology discussed in the introduction to this volume, a constantly negotiated discursive and semiotic ‘assemblage’. Diocletian and Maximian on the one hand presented themselves as equal brothers, but on the other they employed potentially hierarchical signa. Likewise, visual depictions could present the Augusti as physically near identical, while others could acknowledge Diocletian’s seniority. A single piece of media could combine both presentations. In documents, nomenclature indicated the fraternity of the Augusti, and the sharing of victory titles among the rulers reinforced an image of fellowship, whereas the order of names and the iteration of honours pointed to Diocletian’s seniority.110 The pilaster at Romuliana depicts three pairs of tetrarchs, and while they appear nearly identical, within each pair one ruler is distinctly taller than the other. Distinguished by their civil garb, one pair represents the abdicated Augusti, in which case Diocletian must be taller than Maximian.111 This paradox is inherent within the fraternal symbolism of the Dioscuri. The twins are joined to one another by an eternal bond, but this was by the grace of Pollux. Whereas parity encouraged a sense of imperial unanimity and fellowship, as the fraternal discourse within the panegyrics demonstrates, depictions of seniority made clear which emperor overruled the others. Certainly, this amounted to a contradictory set of messages, but both presentations encouraged an image of unity and concordia, regardless of whether this was viewed through the lenses of collegial fellowship or Diocletian’s leadership. To recapitulate, the image of fraternity was originally disseminated by the emperors themselves, and in turn was eagerly adopted by panegyrists, for whom brotherhood provided an appealing framework through which to envision the relationship of the Augusti. However, in adopting this fraternal presentation themselves, the emperors Diocletian and Maximian appear to have been inspired by their own backgrounds and concerns for stability to employ a presentation of kinship that accorded with military sentiments. Whereas previous emperors had used marriage and adoption as a means of conveying dynastic unity, the Augusti instead employed an appellation that carried sentimental weight among the military. In this way, the unusual presentation was a testament to political change in the late third century. The armies were more willing to intervene in politics than they had previously been, and 108 See e.g. P.Panop.Beatty 1.54, 2.163. See also Praxagoras in FGrH 2B, 219.1 (τῶν ἄλλων πρεσβύτατος: ‘the most senior of them all’). 109 E.g., Pan. Lat. X (2) 11.6; Jul. Or. 1.7a; Aur. Vict. Caes. 39.29, 36; Jul. Caes. 315a–b; Eutr. 9.24, 10.2; Epit. 39.6. On this topos regarding Diocletian, see WALDRON 2022, 141–142. 110 On the sharing of victory titles, see HEBBLEWHITE and OMISSI, this volume. 111 SREJOVIĆ 1994, 145.

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career soldiers like Diocletian and Maximian now led the empire’s armies and served as its emperors. The fraternity of the Augusti was one of the many ways in which Roman emperorship transformed in response to these changes. Furthermore, the Augustan brotherhood, like other fraternities, carried with it a notion of equality. For this reason, it harmonised with other representations of parity and emphasised the imperial message of collegial concordia. The fact that this image of fraternity co-existed and was sometimes even combined with representations of Diocletian’s seniority demonstrates how the emperors and their subjects employed diverse and sometimes contradictory images in the promotion of imperial unity.

THE TETRARCHIC SIGNA RECONSIDERED Anne Hunnell Chen* It is well-known that Diocletian and his colleagues’ choice to adopt the theophoric signa – Iovius and Herculius – was a distinct novelty, both for the imperial participation in the nicknaming practice that gained popularity in the third century and for the unprecedented choice of the names’ divine referents.1 Despite a fair bit of scholarship devoted to the topic, the precise meaning of the names – why they were adopted and to what end – remains a debate. Provocatively, Rees has noted the absence of the signa from papyri and imperial pronouncements, and their infrequent appearance in preserved lapidary material. He has thus suggested that the emperors’ theophoric names were not a high-profile part of imperial ideology, instead used in a more informal way.2 As so often, however, modern disciplinary boundaries and preoccupations may have blinkered our view and inadvertently limited our perspective on this debate, since evidence from material culture has previously been only incompletely considered. This chapter returns to the consideration of the imperial ideological use of the signa, pointing out that previous studies have privileged the textual, papyrological, and lapidary evidence, and have considered the problem of the tetrarchs’ use of the signa rather sweepingly, paying little attention to differences in the use of the names between east and west, or to shifts in use of the names as the membership of the ruling college itself fluctuated in the years between 284–324 CE. Bringing the full range of material culture to bear on this question, this chapter identifies geographical-, medium-, and chronologically-specific tendencies for the imperial deployment of the signa during the so-called dyarchy and first tetrarchy, and suggests corresponding reasons why the signa were deemed relevant and potentially persuasive in those contexts where the emperors seem to have sanctioned their official use.

*

1 2

I am deeply indebted to Christian Rollinger and Filippo Carlà-Uhink for their helpful corrections and insightful feedback throughout this article. Their criticism has pushed the analysis presented here in productive directions. Errors and oversights that remain are, of course, my own responsibility. REES 2005, 224. REES 2005, 225 for the suggestion that the signa were perhaps considered ‘too informal and modish’ to have enjoyed the ‘high profile in official dyarchic and tetrarchic ideology’ that modern scholars often assume.

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WHAT’S IN A NAME? The adoption of the signa is situated early in Diocletian and Maximian’s dyarchy, and well before the advent of the tetrarchy.3 For more than a century, scholars have recognized Diocletian and his imperial colleagues’ curious choice to adopt the names Iovius and Herculius as a signal that the emperors were attempting to communicate something novel about their relationship to the eponymous gods. What precisely that novel assertion was and what it implied about how the emperors conceived of their own personal status as compared to that of their divine counterparts has been much discussed.4 Through all the debate on the meaning of the signa, there has been a pervading theme in the type of evidence most commonly levied in the consideration of the issue. By and large, scholars have privileged the textual and (to a lesser extent) papyrological and lapidary sources’ perspective.5 Apart from recent reconsideration of the coinage,6 visual and material evidence – even where it bears epigraphic testimony – has been demonstrably downplayed (or overlooked). This limited perspective has led scholars like Rees to conclude that the tetrarchic signa may not have been so central to official imperial ideology as once supposed.7 But what if the use of the tetrarchic signa was in fact mainstream and a formal part of imperial ideological strategy and allowed for selectivity in their deployment and ambiguity in their understanding? What if the ability to use the names, or not, was precisely the point? What if these emperors had a sense of what kinds of messages would land well with particular groups or in particular areas, but not with others? The serious reintegration of the visual and material record as it relates to the signa allows for the exploration of these possibilities. One of the key explanations for the reason why the tetrarchic emperors chose to adopt the signa is the well-known fact of the emperors’ undistinguished familial lineage. None of the four original tetrarchs, nor indeed the two successor Caesares of 305 CE, could lay claim to an ancestral record that unambiguously marked them as imperial heirs.8 Prior to this era, direct dynastic inheritance or marital alliances 3

4 5 6 7 8

It is clear that the signa were adopted during the dyarchy, but some debate still remains as to the precise moment of their uptake. It has been suggested to coincide with the accession of Maximian as junior colleague (mid-285), or rather, slightly later, with the revolt of Carausius (late 286) as a way of differentiating the co-rulers from the usurper who sought to ingratiate himself with the legitimate dyarchic rulers. For the rationale for this dating, see NIXON & RODGERS 1994, 48–50. REES 2005, 225. HEKSTER 2015, 297. For the assertion of additional historical factors that may have inspired the adoption of the signa, see below. VOGT & KORNEMANN 1933. BAYNES 1935. SESTON 1946, 223–5. SESTON 1950. MATTINGLY 1952. KOLB 1987a, 88–91. 2004. CANEPA 2009, 100–105. REES 2005, 225; contra HEKSTER 2015, 297–300. MANDERS 2012, 102–115. HEKSTER 2015, 297–300. REES 2005, 225. CHAUSSON 2007, 25–97 has argued, against the vast majority of scholarly consensus, that Constantine’s claim to familial relation with Claudius II – long accepted as an opportunistic invention of c. 310 (following Dessau) – was indeed genuine but suppressed in favor of collective tetrarchic ideological aims. This interpretation is already shaky, based as it is upon only a single

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(often coupled with adoption) had dictated the hand-over of power from ruler to ruler in all previous peaceful power transitions.9 Thus without dynastic connections or marital ties to bolster Diocletian and Maximian’s claim to power (especially as their rise was the product of usurpation), they were probably keenly aware that the lack of such kin ties could open them up to continued dispute from challengers. The implication of this explanation for the signa is that the names communicated something about Diocletian and his colleagues’ familial lines that trumped or assuaged the reality of the emperors’ real-world birth legacies and the incongruent marital ties among the first and second tetrarchies.10 Certainly, that the nicknames suggested familial ties between the co-rulers and the eponymous gods is the popular understanding of the signa implied by references in non-imperial inscriptions dedicated to the emperors11 and in textual sources both praising and hostile to this group of rulers.12 Thus, the assessment of the names’ role as disguising or distracting from reliable 4th century – but, critically, post-310 CE – source that attests to Constantius I’s relation to Claudius II and an ex silentio argument that contemporary authors would surely have called attention to counterfactual ideological ploys as they had in the case of previous emperors who deployed such tactics (i.e., Septimius Severus). For the purposes of the argument in this article, it is less important whether Constantius I was related to Claudius by blood, or not, and more important that if he was a relative of a deceased emperor that he consented to suppress this fact publicly throughout his reign. Such a choice would have been a tremendous break from foregoing tradition. Additionally, even if Chausson’s argument is correct, Constantius’ descent from a sibling of Claudius II is hardly the sort of unassailable familial relation that would have presented an unambiguous claim to dynastic right of ascent, especially in an era when military authority had firmly established a viable counter-trajectory to imperial power. 9 ‘Peaceful’ is perhaps somewhat subjective, but here refers to successions where assassination of the ruling emperor is not part of the narrative. For the primary sources establishing the familial relations of the first and second tetrarchies, and the role of the signa in disguising their undistinguished lineage, see BARNES 1982, 30–46. Despite modern assumptions (based on Christian-sympathizing ancient sources), there is no reliable evidence that both Maxentius and Constantine were ever officially considered heirs-apparent to their tetrarchic fathers in anything but public expectation; see HUNNELL CHEN 2018, 48–51. 10 On the incongruence of marital alliances in the first and second tetrarchies, see HUNNELL CHEN 2018, 51. 11 On a milestone inscription from Dyrrhachium, dated 293–305 CE, the dedicant refers to Diocletian and Maximian as ‘begotten by the gods’ (diis genitis) and ‘creators of gods’ (deorum creatoribus; in reference to their relationship to their junior colleagues Galerius and Constantius): ILS 629; CIL III 710. For additional non-imperial inscriptions using the signa see ILS, 621–3; 634; 658; 661; 8930–1. ILS 659 and 681 are imperial inscriptions that use the signa, but fall outside the chronological scope of this article. 12 For instance, the wording of the panegyrics written in honor of Diocletian and Maximian from the late 280s and early 290s CE implies that the imperial signa suggested to at least some contemporaries that familial relationships existed between the emperors and the gods Jupiter and Hercules, respectively. See Pan. Lat. X (2) 2.3–4; Pan. Lat. XI (3) 2.4; 3.2–4. Lactantius’ wording (DMP 52.3) is less precise in pinpointing the exact relationship that he, and others like him, understood the signa to imply between the rulers and the names’ divine referents, but it is clear he equated the names with imperial grandiosity. Additionally, the fact that Lactantius, the author of Pan. Lat. X (2) 13.3, and other contemporaries thought to refer to the imperial names by the designation ‘cognomen’ – despite the fact that the names did not occur in the majority of official titulature, and thus that their status as true cognomina must have been an

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the truth of Diocletian and his colleagues’ unremarkable earthly lineage is surely part of the explanation. But it is not entirely satisfactory: by the end of the third century, Diocletian and his tetrarchic colleagues were far from the first Roman emperors of undistinguished lineage to rise to the purple, and as such, they had other successful, established precedents for smoothing over undistinguished familial backgrounds upon which they could have drawn, but which they pointedly ignored. There was undoubtedly something familial going on with the choice to adopt the signa, but we have yet to fully probe the complexity of their precise meaning. As a case in point, Septimius Severus famously had himself retroactively adopted into the Antonine dynasty upon his accession and changed the names he utilized in official venues to reflect his newly-asserted fictional familial descent. Along with his adoption and name change, Severus even went to the trouble of arranging the rehabilitation and divinization of the deceased and notoriously unpopular Commodus, thus enabling him to claim – and broadly advertise – ancestry with no less than five previous rulers who had achieved divine status after death.13 The permissibility of claiming and advertising descent from apotheosized one-time rulers (as opposed to claiming relation to high-ranking traditional gods like Jupiter and Hercules) had been established and maintained in continuous practice since the reign of Augustus.14 The practice of claiming familial relation to traditional divinities, meanwhile, also had precedent in Roman imperial ideological expression, but the practice had fallen out of use for at least two centuries prior to the rise of Diocletian.15 Moreover, those emperors from the early years of the empire that made official use of such invented mythologies were always careful to project relations to traditional divinities into the family’s purported deep history (contrast Panegyric XI’s repeated reference to Hercules and Jupiter as ‘parents’16); traditional divinities

13 14 15

16

overstatement – further attests that for at least some contemporaries the names had a familial connotation. HEKSTER 2002, 186–195. 2015, 209–218. HEKSTER 2015, 42–109. After the conclusion of the Julio-Claudian dynasty, there is no solid evidence that any emperor until Diocletian made official claims to divine descent from traditional deities as part of his ideological strategy. Hekster has discussed a few literary references from the latter part of the first century under Galba, Vitellius, and the Flavians that suggest that the idea of inventing and alluding to illustrious ancestry for the reigning emperor may still have been deemed a viable method for flattering the emperor. However, none of the instances he cites indicates top-down deployment of divine lineage for ideological effect. Furthermore, it is also notable that the handful of literary allusions connecting these late first century emperors with illustrious fictive ancestors generally traced their lineage back to heroic or minor deities, rather than Olympian deities of presumably higher prestige. See HEKSTER 2015, 240–257. Pan. Lat. XI (3) 3.3 : Deinde praecipue uestri illi parentes, qui uobis et nomina et imperia tribuerunt…; 3.2: Profecto enim non patitur hoc caelestis ille uestri generis conditor uel parens. Even if there is no explicit evidence that the emperors themselves ever utilized such unambiguous familial terms in reference to the imperial-divine relationship that those seeking to honor them used, in choosing to adopt such names instead of simply maintaining the wellestablished methods for signaling divine companionship utilized by predecessors like Aurelian, Probus, or Carus, they surely knew that their subjects could (and at least in some cases did!) understand the signa to imply divine descent from powerful traditional gods. See below for the

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were never claimed as recent ancestors.17 Severus’ example, therefore, had established a viable alternative in the pre-tetrarchic period for how to circumvent undistinguished lineage without resorting to fictional claims of descent from traditional divinities. Even Constantine, in the first quarter of the fourth century, would follow this example and have himself retroactively adopted into the familial line of the deified Claudius Gothicus in order to retroject his dynasty’s lineage.18 The choice to take on names that attested to an intimate relationship between the rulers and traditional divinities is conspicuous not just for its novelty,19 but all the more striking and curious considering that after his elevation – similar to Septimius Severus – Diocletian went to the trouble of changing the entirety of his nomenclature. Previously known as Diocles, he now became Gaius Aurelius Valerius Diocletianus.20 This move was no doubt meant to provide a positive legitimizing association with two beloved preceding dynasties. But following his name-change, Diocletian made no attempt to exploit for ideological reasons the fictional connections to his newly-conominal predecessors (or any other successful previous ruling house). This latter strategy would have been consistent with tradition. There is no evidence, for instance, that Diocletian attempted to assimilate his portrait type to recall the imperial predecessors that lent him his new official name, as had Septimius Severus.21 Instead, Diocletian chose a path for covering over an undistinguished familial line with an ideological strategy that had been dormant for two centuries, and even went beyond previous precedent. Therefore, Diocletian and Maximian’s move to adopt names that allowed for the understanding that they belonged to a lineage that included divinities from the traditional pantheon, including Jupiter, the highest ranking of all Roman gods,22 must have been motivated by more than just a desire to avoid owning up to obscure heritage. So what, specifically, was it about signa rather than more traditional nomenclature that may have made such names a particularly attractive solution for the imperial needs of the late 3rd century? Throughout the history of the Roman Empire, the adoption of a divine patron or companion was a propagandistic mainstay of Roman imperial legitimizing strategy;23 meanwhile by Diocletian’s time, as previously articulated, claims of divine lineage among rulers had long since fallen out of fashion.

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argument that signa were adopted precisely because they allowed for critical interpretational slippage between divine descent and divine companionship. On the character and ideological use of imperial-divine relationships in the 3rd century CE, see MANDERS 2012, 95–154. HEKSTER 2015, 240–257. On post-Severan fictive ancestry, see HEKSTER 2015, 219–237. For the suggestion that Constantine’s familial relation to Claudius II was genuine, see n. 8 above. Prior to the accession of Diocletian, only Commodus’ ill-fated adoption of the title ‘Roman Hercules’ is comparable, although the latter name did not apparently imply Commodus’ divine descent from Hercules so much as divine patronage. On Commodus’ imperial ideological strategy, see HEKSTER 2002, 87–137. PLRE 1.253–254. HEKSTER 2015, 278 and CARLÀ-UHINK, this volume. RAEDER 1992. HEKSTER 2002, 189–195. And by extension, connection to imperial predecessors who also claimed relationships of various sorts with members of the divine realm. On imperial use of the divine in the 3rd century CE, see MANDERS 2012, 95–154.

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The persistence of claims that a ruler enjoyed a divine entity’s protection and patronage, paired with the care taken to project divine ancestors into the deep familial past in the pre-Diocletianic era and the demonstrable recent hiatus in such official claims, suggests that maintaining an acceptable level of hierarchical separation between divine benefactor and imperial recipient was a critical consideration in crafting ideological strategy leading up to Diocletian’s accession. Considering the history of signa more generally in the context of later Roman onomastic practice may provide some nuance as to the reason Diocletian and his colleagues elected to take on these names. The adoption of a signum, a self-imposed nickname formed by adding the adjectival ending -ius to a name of established form, was a popular way that late Romans claimed association with a second party. The adjectival component of the name implied a person was ‘of’ or ‘belonging to’ the party from which the name derived. Importantly, freedmen and clients were among those who adopted signa that allowed them to advertise affiliation with a particular patron, thus implying membership in the patron’s familia.24 The choice to make a statement about association with the familia of the gods through the adoption of a signum rather than a straightforward change to the more official components of the emperors’ names was, precisely because of its ambiguous meaning, an ingenious way for the tetrarchic emperors to promote the status of their rulership and claim a level of closeness to the gods that surpassed the divine attentions their predecessors enjoyed while still toeing the line of propriety. Since the signum functioned as a sort of nickname, it could be, but did not have to be, included in imperial nomenclature. This allowed for the possibility of selective employment of the imperial signa: divulging them in contexts where they were deemed to offer a benefit, and omitting them in cases where what could be understood as an implication of divine ancestry was anticipated to meet with a negative reception. Additionally, and significantly, signa were not explicit in indicating the type of relationship that bound the party who adopted the name and the individual that the name referenced. The adjectival character of the names and the fact that the onomastic form was one that could be utilized by clients wishing to advertise a connection to a patron, meant that the names Iovius and Herculius could be viably interpreted either to imply biological descent or within a more conservative patron-client model. Critically, then, the choice to adopt theophoric signa allowed the emperors to balance innovation with tradition. They could simultaneously benefit from the sense of an intensified relationship with their chosen divinities, while providing for slippage as to whether that relationship was thanks to direct ancestral relation or divine patronage. The fact that the archaeological and historical record preserves no attempt on the part of the emperors to clarify or explicitly define the precise 24 NIXON & RODGERS 1994, 44. KAJANTO 1966. SALWAY 1998. WILSON 1998, 55–58. REES 2005. RIX 2006. Rees deals specifically with the meaning and, by his estimation, the relative unimportance, of the tetrarchic signa. His assessment, however, significantly downplays much of the archaeological evidence that remains for the centralized exploitation of the names, and it is this underestimation that this article seeks to counter. For an example of a signum in the context of a patron-client relationship, see CIL V 5892 = ILS 6731 (Mediolanum, regio XI).

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character of their relationship to Jupiter and Hercules may speak to their intentional embrace of this ambiguity.25 Two final points deserve further consideration. First, why were Diocletian and his colleagues tempted to take on names at all as part of their ideological strategy? If they had no intention of allowing construal of the signa as (ambiguous) indicators of divine descent, why adopt any sort of name? Previous emperors had established successful exempla for implying divine companionship that managed to avoid the presumptuous implication of divine descent and did so without taking on theophoric names. Could Diocletian and his colleagues not have simply intensified extant strategies for conveying divine companionship if their goal was only to strengthen the impression of their particular divine protestors’ investment in their well-being and success? We should consider that there was something specifically desirable about adopting a name-element to convey the imperial-divine relationship, as much as there was an interest in communicating a heightened level of imperial intimacy with powerful divine protectors. To explore this idea, the demonstrated trend in the second half of the 3rd century toward intensified imperial-divine relation26 – a trend that the dyarchic/tetrarchic signa furthered – first requires further explicit consideration. Why, from the latter half of the 3rd century, was there a sudden need to declare a particularly close, if at times ambiguous, relationship to divine entities, thus breaking from long-standing patterns within earlier imperial practice? Here, a brief reminder of the international and domestic political context and a consideration of the variety of factors that went into shaping imperial ideological policy in the latter part of the 3rd century is useful. As suggested in the introduction to the present volume, imperial ideology is not unidirectional. Recent theoretical writing has demonstrated that the eventual manifestation of ideology that is preserved in written and material evidence is often shaped by a combination of topdown stances (imperial actors aiming to influence subjects) and bottom-up positions (multiple, sometimes conflicting, subject groups aiming to influence imperial actors).27 Less explicitly established in such theoretical considerations is the important role of what could be termed ‘lateral’ factors in the manifestation of imperial policy – that is, those influences on imperial strategy instigated by players with power approximately equal to that of the ruling body as assessed by at least a portion of the population with whom an entity interacts (subject and international). In the third century, relevant exempla of such lateral pressures are both internal and external to the empire. Internal lateral pressures in the Diocletianic era would include direct challengers to imperial power, whether wholly rejected by those in power like Carausius, or with a bumpier path to consensus like Constantine.28 Chief 25 For intentional ambiguity in official ideological contexts in the pre-tetrarchic Roman period, see HEKSTER 2003, 30–31 and n. 41, citing Gellius, NA 10.1.7. 26 Generally, on human-divine intimacy as a means to power in Late Antiquity, see BROWN 1978, 54–80. 27 HEKSTER & FOWLER 2005. 28 On Carausius, see CASEY 1994. WILLIAMS 2004. On Constantine and his rise to power, see LENSKI 2006.

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among external lateral pressures at this time is the ideological challenge mounted by the newly ascendant Persian Sassanid dynasty.29 Internal lateral challenges, since they tended to contest the sovereignty of those in power, were usually highly attuned to the specifics of any one political moment and/or ruler, and are thus left to the side for the moment. External challenges, by contrast, had the potential to persist much longer than the reign of any one Roman ruler. This latter circumstance is relevant to the impact of Romano-Persian relations on imperial ideological strategy from the latter part of the 3rd century. The Sāsānians had proved themselves to be a formidable enemy of the Romans since at least their defeat of Gordian III (244 CE) and that emperor’s contested battlefield death.30 The enmity gathered steam with their diplomatic victory over Philip the Arab (244 CE) and the unprecedented Persian capture of a Roman emperor, Valerian (260 CE).31 Canepa has demonstrated how Sāsānian monarchs utilized these victories in propaganda of the mid-3rd century to challenge the international perception of Roman hegemony. Such a profound challenge deeply shook the Roman sense of superiority and invulnerability, and thus necessitated a potent response to salvage Roman reputation. From the middle of the century, then, the need to counter the damage done by both Persian military victories and the propaganda in their wake was a prominent consideration in Roman martial and ideological design, and as a result Roman emperors began to experiment with modes of self-representation that allowed them to complete with claims the Sāsānian monarch made about his own essential nature.32 For their part, Sāsānian kings adopted official titles and had themselves visualized in ways that famously broke from some of the guiding principles that had defined imperial ideology in preceding dynasties of Western Asia, hedging much closer than ever before to the claim that the rulers were directly descended from the gods.33 Official Sāsānian art routinely represented the chief divinity in a human form (bearing considerable analogy to the portrait of the king), appropriated into royal portraits iconographic features normally reserved for divinities, and depicted king and god interacting side-by-side, at times celebrating comparable victories. Meanwhile, the standard titulature of the Sāsānian monarchs named them officially: ‘the divine Mazda worshipping King, (king) of (the) Iranians, whose seed [origin/image], is from the gods.’34 Debate remains as to precisely how the Sāsānians intended their relationship to the Zoroastrian gods to be understood.35 But despite the nuance perhaps originally intended, the Romans – reliant on 29 CANEPA 2009. 30 For discussion of the sources for Gordian III’s campaign against the Persians and the controversy over his death, see DIGNAS & WINTER 2007, 77–80. 31 On Romano-Persian competition in the later 3rd and early 4th centuries CE, see also TIPOLD, this volume. For discussion of the sources for the Persian defeats of Philip the Arab and Valerian, see DIGNAS & WINTER 2007, 77–84; 119–122. 32 CANEPA 2009, 53–99. 33 DARYAEE 2009. CANEPA 2009, 53. 34 DARYAEE 2009. 35 For a recent summary of the debate, see SOUDOVAR 2012, 30.

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meaning conveyed in translation – surely understood the Persian monarchs to claim divine descent.36 Significantly, during the reign of Šābuhr I (r. 240–270), the same ruler responsible for the victories against Gordian III, Philip, and Valerian, the king amended his imperial titulature in select contexts to explicitly name himself ‘(king) of (the) Iranians and non-Iranians.’ For our purposes, it is significant that this updated title came to feature as a standard fixture on all Sāsānian coinage only from 270 CE, and was surely intended at least in part to recall and widely propagate the Persian successes against Rome in the preceding years.37 This means that precisely parallel with the reigns of Gallienus and Aurelian, Sāsānian kings utilized their titulature – that is, the official phrasing used in the presentation of their personal names – to create an impression of the king’s unprecedented intimacy with the gods all the while declaring supremacy over their foes. Gallienus and Aurelian’s ideological strategies, along with those of the allied Palmyrene king Oedaenathus, were very much attuned to countering Sāsānian propaganda in the wake of Šābuhr’s string of victories against Rome. Oedaenathus went so far as to take on the title King of Kings,38 while both Gallienus and Aurelian’s claims to heightened intimacy with the Roman (and occasionally eastern39) gods may be understood as attempts to match the Sāsānian monarch’s own ideological claims. Further, Aurelian’s efforts to paint his victories against the Palmyrenes as triumphs over the Sāsānians were also aimed at repairing the damaged Roman reputation.40 But no Roman intervention, neither physical nor ideological, seems to have borne enough psychological weight to offset the impact of the disastrous mid-

36 The Greek phrase EK ΓENOYΣ ϴEΩN was used with regard to Sāsānian titulature in trilingual inscriptions. The statement in Pan. Lat. II (10) 6 suggests the tetrarchic rulers understood Sāsānian kings to claim divine descent. 37 Although Šābuhr I was the first Sāsānian monarch to use the extended title on rock inscriptions (i.e. the so-called Res Gestae Divi Saporis trilingual inscription at Naqsh-e Rustam) and on a gold double dinar commemorating the capitulation of Philip the Arab, this revised title was only extended to the regular silver coinage that was used for the bulk of economic activity during the reign of his son, Hormizd I (r. 270–271 CE). It remains unclear why Šābuhr did not carry the revised title over into his silver coinage, but the detail may intimate that Šābuhr was more immediately concerned about disseminating his claim to this revised titulature among external audiences and/or select internal audiences rather than disseminating the claim among the majority of the internal Sāsānian audience, considering that gold coinage was reserved for special transactions (either internal donatives or payment/gifts to allies) and that Šābuhr’s inscriptions are trilingual (Parthian, Middle Persian, and Greek). ALRAM 2008, 21. CANEPA 2009, 54 n. 8. ALRAM & GYSELEN 2012, 14; 44–45. For the trilingual text of the Res Gestae Divi Saporis inscription, see HUYSE 1999. For Šābuhr’s gold double dinar, see CANEPA 2009, fig. 8. For the suggestion that Sāsānian gold coinage was minted in the 4th century CE not for circulation in Iran but for the payment of foreign populations that were used to payment in gold, see SCHINDEL 2013, 826–827. 2014, 12. 38 ANDRADE 2018, 127–141. 39 CARLÀ-UHINK 2017, 22–24. 40 CANEPA 2009, 79–83.

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century losses to the Persians until well into the tetrarchic era.41 Upon Diocletian’s accession, competition with Persia and the events of the mid-3rd century still loomed large. In fact, as soldiers who rose to power precisely in the wake of participation in military actions against the Sāsānians,42 Diocletian and Maximian may have been particularly attuned to Persian affairs in the earliest years of their reign when they took on the signa. It is key for rethinking the signa that Sāsānian royal ideology included both a titular element and what the Romans understood as a claim to divine ancestry. Given that the rival monarch’s self-posturing remained a significant source of external lateral pressure in the 280s, it is possible that one of the functions the imperial signa were conceived to serve was as a sort of answer to the Sāsānian titular element, but one that could conveniently be trotted out or omitted as served specific circumstances. With this contextualization in mind, further attention to the media, geography, and chronology of the evidence alluding to Diocletian and his colleagues’ self-projected claims of relationship to Jupiter and Hercules presents a new opportunity to recover some sense of the emperors’ intentions with regard to their ideological aims. OFFICIAL USE OF THE IMPERIAL SIGNA As mentioned previously, the imperial signa’s absence from the predominance of inscriptions and legal contexts has led to the questioning of the extent of the role these names played in official ideology.43 I submit that such an assessment arises from an incomplete examination of the material record, and an expectation that a singular, static explanation for the phenomenon will suffice. While it is true that the signa were not widely used in all manner of official contexts, this is in and of itself an interesting phenomenon deserving of consideration and is integral in developing an understanding of what, and to whom, the emperors intended their adopted theophoric names to communicate. The goal of the following subsections, therefore, is to more accurately enumerate the instances in which these rulers asserted in official venues their novel, if ambiguous, relationship with Jupiter and Hercules, and to draw attention to notable patterns from which it is possible to draw further conclusions.

41 For discussion of the so-called Arch of Galerius in Thessaloniki as an ideological response to the Persian victories and propaganda of the mid-3rd century, see CANEPA 2009, 83–99. 42 For Diocletian and Maximian’s military careers prior to accession, see BARNES 1982, 30–33. 43 REES 2005, 225. BARNES 1982, 23.

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Imagery on Coins and Gift Objects 284–305 CE Hekster has already questioned Rees’ downplaying of the official role of the signa, rightly bringing material evidence to bear in his reassessment. As he notes, despite the near absence of explicit epigraphic attestation of the signa on imperial coinage,44 Jupiter and Hercules’ overwhelming dominance in numismatic iconography should be weighed as an imperially sanctioned attempt to formally promote the emperors’ claim to an unusually close relationship with the gods. As Hekster notes, the percentages of coin types devoted to Jupiter and Hercules in the reign of Diocletian and his colleagues goes beyond the number of coin types previously minted for purported divine protectors like Minerva under Domitian, Sol under Aurelian, or Elagabal under emperor Elagabalus.45 The choice to utilize imagery as a primary means of communicating court-sanctioned ideological policy fits well with the above discussion suggesting that the choice to adopt the signa indicates something of caution or intentional ambiguity with regard to how the emperors themselves chose to present the imperial-divine relationship to the Roman public. One of the key strengths in leveraging imagery in service of potentially controversial imperial propaganda is that, especially in the absence of unambiguous accompanying inscriptions, imagery lends itself to flexible interpretation. The legends most frequently paired with depictions of Jupiter and Hercules on coinage in the dyarchic and first tetrarchic periods associate the designated gods with the labels CONSERVATORI, INVICTO, PACIFERO, TVTATORI, IOVI VICTORI, VIRTVS/VTI AVGG, IOVI AVGG, IOVI FVLGATORI, PROPVGNAT, CLEMENTIA TEMP, CONCORDIA MILITVM, CONCORDIA AVGG, INMORTALI, COMITI, DEBELLAT, and fulfillment of decennial vows (PRIMIS X MVLTIS XX) (along with variations). The pairing of textual labels with visual material necessarily suggests the limits within which the creators intended the imagery to be popularly understood. The vast majority of the most typical coin legends associated with depictions of Jupiter and Hercules emphasized the tutelary deities’ status as defenders of their imperial charges, and secondarily emphasized the gods’ victorious, brave, and peace-bringing nature. This second group of characteristics could be leveraged to the benefit of the gods’ associated imperial beneficiaries through the implication that the god and designated emperor shared traits. Such numismatic legends were no doubt intentionally ambiguous, suggesting the special interest of a god in the fortunes of the emperors, but not explicitly 44 Exceptions prior to 309 include the rare aurei from Trier, RIC VI, p. 173, n. 86 (Treveri) and RIC VI, p. 174, n. 90 (Treveri), discussed below. Lower value coins bearing the signum Iovius were introduced in 309–310 CE at Antioch (minted by Maximinus Daia, RIC VI, p. 636, n. 134 (Antiochia); not in RIC: Triton XIII (lot 378) January 2009, now in the Robert Bernobich Collection) and in 320–321 CE at Heraclea (minted by Licinius, RIC VII, p. 547, n. 50 [Heraclea]), but fall outside the chronological focus of this article. 45 HEKSTER 2015, 300. See also MANDERS 2012, 102–121. By the reign of Diocletian, coin types across the empire had become increasingly coordinated, implying the intervention of centralized, imperially-sanctioned oversight; see RIC VI, pp. 88–93; 105–109.

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defining the relationship terms that supposedly predicated the god’s investment. Notably, it is only the designation COMITI (along with variations; understood to designate the referent god as comrade, companion, follower [of the associated emperor]) that implied equality between the imperial and divine referents, or perhaps even gestured toward imperial-over-divine hierarchy.46 On the other hand, only the legends CONSERVATORI, PROPVGNAT, and TVTORI (and variations) associated with depictions of Jupiter and Hercules more clearly implied divine-over-imperial hierarchy, and thus presented the imperial-divine relationship in more firmly traditional terms.47 Prior to 309, across the expanse of the empire, only two extremely rare aurei – related variants, and significantly, minted in Trier – made explicit reference to the signa.48 Both pair conventional obverses with extraordinary reverses inscribed VIRTVS HERCVLI CAESARIS for Constantius I,49 and VIRTVS IOVI CAESARIS for Galerius (Pl. 3.a).50 These inscriptions are unusual in the formation of the genitive forms for ‘Herculius’ and ‘Iovius’. Given the rarity of this type, and the absence of signa on any other regular coinage of the era, might this have been yet one more intentional ambiguity that allowed for misunderstanding as a much more typical allusion to the companion divinities themselves? Or, being that these are gold coins with a unique reverse type, perhaps they were minted as part of a special donative, thus making them comparable in function to the gift objects discussed below? Obverse portraits were also sometimes utilized to communicate something of the special relationship between Jupiter and Hercules and their respective imperial charges, and like the reverses, did so in a way that allowed for a significant amount of interpretational slippage. Occupying as they did a sizeable proportion of the total available surface area, obverses that ran contrary to the usual imagery on the highly conventionalized front side of Roman coins were not subtle. Unlike reverse imagery that featured tiny figures, the legibility of which varied with the age of the die, the divine assimilation declared on imperial obverse portraits would have been particularly hard to miss. Several obverse imperial portraits of the era, for instance, don the guise of the ruler’s associated divine protector. Significantly, such portraits almost exclusively feature the Herculian emperors Maximian and Constantius with 46 Importantly, this more presumptuous designation was not unprecedented by the time Diocletian rose to power. On Probus’ use of the COMES legend paired with depictions of Hercules, see MANDERS 2012, 111. Probus’ bronze medallion featuring an obverse with virtually interchangeable jugate profiles of the emperor and Sol is arguably the visual equivalent of the COMES legend; GNECCHI 1912, vol. 2, 119, no. 33. Aurelian’s ORIENS AVG coins, ambiguously implying the ‘rising’ of the emperor and his conflation with the Sun god, are also relevant as precedents in this regard; see KANTOROWICZ 1968, 119–135. 47 IOVI CONSERVATORI legends had been minted since Domitian, while Gallienus (RIC V/1, p. 149, nn. 213–215 [Rome]) and Postumus (RIC V/2, pp. 342–343, nn. 70–72 [Lugdunum]) both minted IOVI PROPVGNAT/ORI types. 48 EPPINGER 2015, 213. 49 RIC VI, p. 173, n. 86 (Treveri). 50 RIC VI, p. 174, n. 90 (Treveri).

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the attributes of Hercules, especially the lion skin and/or club. Mints at Trier, Lugdunum, and Rome issued both aurei and base metal coinage featuring rulers in Herculian guise, while the mints at Ticinum, Rome, and Trier produced medallions with comparable imagery. Establishing a pattern for the dating of these issues is more complicated.51 Since the earliest coins to feature this type of obverse – notably confined to aurei – predate Diocletian’s monetary reform of c. 294 CE, it is unclear whether this imagery was introduced under the dyarchy, or rather in the first year of the tetrarchy. The post-reform coins that use this type of obverse imagery are, interestingly, all minted from base metal, and (to judge by the relatively well-represented numbers of coins of these types to survive to the present) were a more-orless continuous part of the repertoire of these particular mints from 294–303 CE. Only a sole bronze medallion issued at Aquileia after 296 CE depicts Diocletian in the guise of his namesake Jupiter, and significantly, it was minted in the west like the issues featuring emperors in Herculian guise.52 Rare pre-reform quinarii from Ticinum53 and c. 292 CE ‘denarii’ from Lugdunum featuring obverses with jugate busts of Diocletian and Jupiter preserved a greater degree of separation between god and ruler than the guised images, but likewise worked within precedent to communicate the intimacy of the imperial-divine relationship.54 These imperial-divine jugate types also generally align with the pattern of issue for the guised types: they were issued exclusively from western mints, but this time dated only pre-reform with no known continuation after 294. The ambiguity of the guised and jugate obverse images with regard to the precise nature of the imperial-divine relationship is notable, and perhaps part of the reason for selection of this avenue for communication. Emperors in the guise of, or 51 Examples include coins of Maximian from Lugdunum, RIC V/2, p. 260, nn. 340, 341–342 (Lugdunum; gold, undated but pre-c. 294 reform), Rome RIC V/2, p. 276, n. 494 (Roma; gold, undated but pre-c. 294 reform), and for both Maximian and Constantius RIC VI, p. 182, n. 179 (Treveri; (AE1, c. 296–297 CE), pp. 185–189, n. 246; 250; 300; 310; 368 (Treveri; AE1, c. 298–299 CE), pp. 245–247, nn. 34; 49; 57; 63 (Lugdunum; AE1, c. 298–299 CE), pp. 249– 251, nn. 76; 85; 147 (Lugdunum; AE1, c. 301–303 CE). Medallions minted at Ticinum and Rome in honor of Maximian include two gold examples today in Budapest: GNECCHI 1912, vol. 1, 12, pl. 5, n. 3 and n. 7; and another in Trogir: GNECCHI 1912, vol. 1, 13; pl. 5, n. 8. Bronze medallions less commonly bear mint marks: examples with this type of obverse include one minted at Rome (GNECCHI 1912, vol. 2, 128 no. 3), and six others lacking mint marks (GNECCHI 1912, vol. 2, 127 no. 7; 128 no. 7; 129 no. 12; 129 no. 22; 130 no. 23; 130 no. 1). Medallions of Constantius I from Trier occasionally depict the emperor in lion skin: see RIC VI, p. 167, nn. 31–32 (Treveri). 52 Notably, this medallion also bears inscriptions that make use of the signa; obverse: IOVIO DIOCLETIANIO AVG, featuring Diocletian in the guise of Jupiter with nude torso, scepter, and drapery over the shoulder; reverse: HERCVLIO MAXIMIANO AVG, featuring a seated emperor and Hercules, both receiving crowns from Nike; GNECCHI 1912, vol. 2, pl. 124.1; dated after 296 CE according to NIXON & ROGERS 1994, 48–49. 53 Not in RIC: Numismatica Ars Classica, Auction 54: Roman, Greek, and Byzantine Coins, lot 601. 54 RIC V/2, p. 231, n. 112 (Treveri); compare for instance, Probus’ issues featuring the jugate busts of the emperor and Sol or Hercules: RIC V/2, pp. 45–46, n. 263; 271; 282 (Roma); p. 80, n. 596 (Siscia); pp. 108–109, nn. 829; 835 (Serdica).

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paired in closely aligned profiles with, their chosen gods could be read (by those open to such a claim) as an indication that the associated rulers claimed an unprecedentedly close relationship with their chosen divinities. Importantly, however, this imagery did not have to be interpreted as such. Emperors throughout the imperial period had allowed themselves to be portrayed in similar configurations with the apparent understanding that such portrayal was not a claim of an emperor’s divine status but a way of visually panegyrizing the emperor or communicating a hierarchically appropriate patron-client relationship between the ruler and god.55 As such, dyarchic/tetrarchic rulers wearing Hercules’ lion skin or in the guise of Jupiter, or else featured on an obverse side-by-side with a god on select coins and medallions should not have been particularly jarring for viewers by the third century. Instead, those contemporaries that may have been rankled by the idea of tradition-breaking claims to extraordinary imperial-divine relation could comfortably construe such visual choices as precedented, and therefore relatively innocuous, imperial statements of special divine patronage or a sort of visual panegyric comparing imperial and divine. Importantly, besides the notable uptick in the proportion of coins devoted to the gods with whom these emperors claimed their special relationship and the use of the signa on a pair of very rare reverses from Trier, all of the features utilized on coinage to signal the imperial-divine relationship followed foregoing precedent. Even the less-conventional, and thus incrementally more daring elements of the dyarchy/first tetrarchy’s regular coinage – like the emperors’ use of divine guises and paired imperial-divine busts on obverses or labeling Jupiter and Hercules as comes – continued experiments launched on the coinage of 3rd century predecessors.56 On their coinage then, Diocletian and his colleagues were largely working within precedent, although they increased the usage of once-extraordinary strategies developed by predecessors to suggest intimacy with the divine. But two points stand out from this analysis of the coin data. The discrepancy between the use of the Herculian and Jovian obverse imagery, whether featuring the guised emperor or jugate busts is remarkable, since mints produced for all of the co-rulers despite whose jurisdiction the particular mint fell under. Conspicuous too, is the fact that all imagery of this sort and the only explicit (if ambiguous) use of the signa on coinage prior to 309 comes exclusively from the western mints. We shall return to consider these patterns below. Inscriptions Featuring Signa on Gift Objects 284–305 CE While coins in the period 284–305 almost completely avoided the signa and confined themselves to ambiguous imagery and obscure associated legends, gift objects 55 Obverse portraits in Herculian guise had been minted under Commodus, Gallienus, and Septimius Severus; see HEKSTER 2002, 99–136; 186–196. MARSDEN 2007. ROWAN 2013, 48. On emperors in divine guise more generally, see HALLETT 2011, 223–270. 56 MANDERS 2012, 95–154.

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– including medallions and other precious objects designed for distribution to highranking individuals on special occasions – utilized the imperial nicknames with more frequency. Two gold medallions, minted at Rome and Ticinum in 287 CE, pair the obverse legend DIOCLETIANVS ET MAXIMIANVS AVGG with the reverse legend IOVIO ET HERCVLIO.57 Several bronze medallions also made explicit use of the signa. One, minted in Ticinum and carrying the same obverse and reverse legends as the gold issues, is likely of the same date as the gold multiples.58 A second, inscribed on the obverse IOVIO DIOCLETIANO AVG and on the reverse HERCVLIO MAXIMIANO AVG, was minted at Aquileia.59 The date of this particular issue can be limited to after 294 since the Aquileia mint did not open until after the tetrarchic coinage reform, and further narrowed to post-296–305 by the mintmark.60 Four additional bronze pre-reform medallions, two minted in the name of Diocletian and two for Maximian, are all related variants and thus perhaps issues from the same unspecified mint. All four of these issues feature a reverse with Jupiter seated in a temple that bears the inscription IOVIVS AVG on the architrave.61 Notably, one among this number pairs this reverse with an obverse depicting Maximian in the Herculian lionskin.62 According to the foregoing analysis, this latter alignment may suggest manufacture in a western mint. The omission of mint marks for four of the bronze medallions that utilize the signa complicates efforts to draw secure geographically-based conclusions for the names’ usage on this class of object. However, in addition to four securely mintmarked issues from the west, there are credible interpretational arguments to suggest that the remaining exempla also came from western mints. Significantly, this pattern in explicit signa use on medallions aligns with the observations–already made above – that obverses alluding to the imperial-divine relationship (emperors in divine guise and paired imperial-divine busts) and the extraordinary aurei featuring the imperial nicknames were geographically limited to western mints and especially those in northern Italy and Gaul. The chronological implications for the use of the signa on medallions are also of interest. Explicit use of the names on medallions was most numerous prior to the coinage reform, and thus most likely a specific feature of the dyarchic era. The example from Aquileia proves, however, that the signa could appear on medallions after the appointment of Galerius and Constantius I. Related to the medallions is another class of material, previously overlooked, wherein the signa appear with some regularity: personal accessories distributed as official gifts to high officials. Like medallions, dishes and fibulae of precious metal and related by weight to the currency standards likely served as imperial gifts to 57 GNECCHI 1912, vol. 1, 12 no. 3, pl. 124:1. LUKANC 1991, 191–120, nos. 4–5. MARGETIĆ 2015, 17, pl. 12–14. 58 MARGETIĆ 2015, 17 and pl. 14. 59 GNECCHI 1912, vol. 2, 124 no. 3. 60 NIXON & ROGERS 1994, 48–49. 61 GNECCHI 1912, vol. 2, 124 nos. 7–8 and 128 nos. 6–7; see also Numismatik Lanz Auction 128 (lot 779), May 2006. 62 GNECCHI 1912, vol. 2, 128 no. 7.

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high-ranking military and civil officials on special occasions, and were probably manufactured at imperial mints.63 Dating to the period between 284–324 CE are four golden fibulae,64 one bronze fibula, and a bronze belt fragment that all preserve inscriptions featuring the signa associated with the rulers of the era. Once again, however, the patterns with regard to geographical and chronological distribution are significant. One of the gold fibulae, the so-called Erickstanebrae Fibula, inscribed IOVIAVG/VOTXX, is certainly dated to the tetrarchic era, with the reference to the 20th anniversary of Diocletian’s reign placing its manufacture c. 302–303 CE.65 It was recorded as found in Scotland in the 18th century.66 The bronze fibula, inscribed IOVIORVM/EHRCVLIORV (sic) may reference either the members of the so-called first (293–305) or second (305–306) tetrarchy, but is most likely a reference to the former given the short-lived nature of the latter. This fibula was reportedly discovered in Bargone, in northern Italy.67 An additional golden fibula, discovered near Arezzo in Central Italy, was inscribed HERCVLI AVGVSTE/SEMPER VINCAS,68 and a belt fragment from an unknown location, preserving the letters HERCVLI[…],69 likely also both refer to an emperor of the dyarchy/first tetrarchy, but room must be left for the possibility that Constantine in his initial years of rule was the intended imperial referent, thus implying a date of c. 306–307.70 Given that these objects are of a type long sought after by collectors in a time before the development of modern archaeological standards regarding the recording of findspots, conclusions drawn from reported or speculated retrieval must be taken with a grain of salt. But taken together, and especially weighed with the chronological evidence of medallion manufacture featuring the signa, it seems likely that the imperial gift objects of uncertain date do in fact date to the period of the dyarchy/first tetrarchy. The extant class of imperial medallions and the unusual aurei minted in Trier that made explicit reference to the divine nicknames, concentrated 63 JOHANSEN 1994, 223–228. 64 Two of these gold fibuli fall outside the chronological scope of this article, since one securely dates to the first year of Constantine’s reign (306) and the other to the reign of Licinius (after 308). On the former, see NOLL 1974, 235–236; on the latter, see IVANOVSKI 1987. JOHANSEN 1994, 227. 65 Inscriptions recording Vota XX with regard to Diocletian are generally supposed to refer to vota soluta (fulfilled). However, it is possible that such inscriptions referred to vota suscepta (taken)—that is, vota undertaken at a numerical multiple in advance of their actual fulfillment. In Diocletian’s case, for instance, the Vota XX in question could conceivably refer to a vota suscepta undertaken in concert with the tenth anniversary of Diocletian’s reign in 293/4 CE. Either case would place the inscription within the era of the first tetrarchy. On vota coinage of this era, see RIC VI, pp. 19–21. BAUER 2011, 5–7. 66 Los Angeles County Museum, inv. A.5141.50–826 (William Randolph Hearst Collection 50.22.14). NOLL 1974, 227–229. 67 NOLL 1974, 230. 68 Metropolitan Museum of Art # 95.15.113. NOLL 1974, 232. 69 JOHANSEN 1994, 228. 70 On Constantine’s early alignments with aspects of established tetrarchic ideology, see BARDILL 2012, 11.

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as they are as deriving from western mints, and constituting a medium that is inherently more securely dateable and connected to a discernable place of manufacture due to decades of devoted numismatic assessment – circumstantially supports the assertion that imperial gift objects were also targeted for circulation in the western provinces in the period of the dyarchy/first tetrarchy. Incidentally, the fact that gift objects like fibulae and silver plate were likely also manufactured at the same mints that produced medallions and regular coinage lends further credence to the geographical and chronological conclusions suggested here.71 Beyond the geographic clustering, it is also important to draw attention to the indication of class distinctions in the emperors’ official use of the signa. Review of the numismatic and gift object evidence has demonstrated that the names were hardly ever used on coins in the period 284–305 – then only on rare gold coins – and appeared only with more regularity on gift objects intended for distribution to high-ranking individuals. Unfortunately, it is unclear whether recipients would have been military or civic officials, or both. However, the use of the imperial nicknames on both bronze and gold gift objects is notable and suggests at least two tiers of officials to whom such messaging was targeted. Arch of Galerius, c. 300 CE It is not until after the decisive Roman triumph over the Sāsānians in the Battle of Satala in 298 CE (featuring the Roman capture of the Persian king’s family) that the material evidence pointing to official tetrarchic promotion of the imperial-divine relationship appears to have inspired a departure from the patterns described above. Following Hekster’s lead that visual imagery should be considered in addition to epigraphic material when attempting to reconstruct how the tetrarchic emperors themselves promoted a message of extraordinary enmeshment with Jupiter and Hercules (whether due to implied blood relation or more hierarchically conceived patron-client means), the imagery on the so-called Arch of Galerius from Thessaloniki should be reconsidered.72 This decorative octopylon, celebrating Galerius’ victory over the Persians in the final years of the 3rd century, was situated to mark a significant crossroads of the contemporary imperial palace’s internally-determined axis with a major civic and east-west regional thoroughfare.73 Standing as a monumental entryway into the city’s tetrarchic palace, the octopylon’s decorative program was surely imperially sanctioned. It is typically the historical and allegorical subject matter of the monument’s numerous sculptural panels that has attracted scholarly attention. Far less explored, is the fact that Jupiter and Hercules’ protective interest in the tetrarchs is 71 BARATTE 1975. JOHANSEN 1994, 223. 72 The literature is extensive. The most influential perspectives include KINCH 1890. VON SCHÖNEBECK 1937. POND ROTHMAN 1975. 1977. LAUBSCHER 1975. MEYER 1980. CANEPA 2009, 83–99. 73 On the Arch of Galerius, see also GUIDETTI and TIPOLD, this volume.

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implied as virtually underlining all imperial endeavors. Despite its highly abraded surface, and the loss of at least half of the original sculpted surface, the monument as it stands today makes unobtrusive but pointed reference to Jupiter and Hercules’ role as patronly protectors of the tetrarchic reign. Clearly preserved on at least five separate reliefs peppered across the monument are small emblems referencing either Jupiter or Hercules that are tucked unassumingly into the scenes’ action. Most numerously, these visual reminders of the rulers’ special relationship with Jupiter and Hercules feature as emblems on the shields carried by Roman soldiers. In fact, the only shield emblems to feature at all on the arch, so far as discernable in its present state, are those that unambiguously reference the two gods with whom the co-rulers claimed to possess a special relationship.74 Two separate reliefs show soldiers attendant on the tetrarchic rulers carrying shields emblazoned with eagles grasping thunderbolts in their talons.75 Similarly, a standing figure of a denselymuscled Hercules, his resting left arm draped with the Nemean lion skin and holding his club in the right hand, also appears more than once as a shield emblem.76 The emblems may have corresponded to the real blazons of the Herculiani and Joviani military units raised by the tetrarchs and named for their companion deities. Since these particular units had an extraordinary relationship with the tetrarchic rulers that was analogous to that of previous emperors with the Praetorians, their inclusion on the arch is perhaps expected.77 However, the exclusion of any marker of other participant units, especially in the context of battle depictions, together with the fact that the arch overall demonstrably blended historic and ideological content 74 KINCH 1890 also mentions the presence of two additional shield emblems – a lion head (23) and a jumping lion (13–14). Neither of the supposed additional lion emblems are today verifiable, nor do historical photographs preserve traces of their presence. Especially in the case of the supposed jumping lion, Kinch may have been influenced by an artist’s drawing of the relief from c. 1781. Detailed photographs of the same scene from the late 1970s show no trace of the supposed jumping lion despite a relatively good state of preservation to the surface of this specific relief. Connection to the Nemean lion preserves the Herculian relevance of lionine imagery no matter whether these unverifiable images were in fact present or not. Compare LAUBSCHER 1975, Pl. 2.2 and Pl. 32.1. 75 Despite continued degradation of this open-air monument, this Jovian emblem can still be seen today: 1) on a soldier’s shield at the righthand side of a scene interpreted as depicting a pompa triumphalis, located on the west face of the south pier; and 2) at the rightmost edge of a relief depicting an imperial adlocutio, located on the east face of the south pier. On the subject matter of these scenes, see KINCH 1890, 13–20; 34–37. LAUBSCHER 1975, 45–48; 84–86. POND ROTHMAN 1977, 439–440; 445–447. MEYER 1980, 394–398; 426–427. 76 Located on the east face on the monument’s south pier, the Herculian emblem appears on a soldier’s shield just to the right of the emperor receiving supplicating Persians; on the south pier’s north face, a very similar Herculian emblem appears in a scene of mounted equestrian duel between Galerius and Šābuhr I. On the iconographies of these specific scenes in general, see KINCH 1890, 31–34; 17–20. LAUBSCHER 1975, 48–52; 64–69. POND ROTHMAN 1977, 442– 443. MEYER 1980, 398–400. CANEPA 2009, 93–95. 77 KINCH 1890 and ALFÖLDI 1935 noted the shield emblems, interpreting them as historic indications of units in physical attendance at the depicted events. WOODS 1995 has specifically argued that the blazons of the Herculiani and Joviani units originally featured pagan divine imagery of the type depicted on the Arch of Galerius.

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suggests that the shield emblems should be examined not just as possible historic testaments, but also for their role in advancing tetrarchic ideology.78 Additionally, the imperial sacrifice scene on the east face of the monument’s south pier further distinguished the role of Jupiter and Hercules in the tetrarchic endeavors celebrated on the monument. The whole of the sacrifice scene centered on a small square altar that once bore decorated sides. On the altar’s front-facing side, still discernable today despite heavy erosion, is an outline whose upheld right shoulder, remains of a long scepter, splayed knees and bunched-up hip mantel draped over the lower part of the left arm all point towards an identification as a seated Jupiter. A representation of a seated Hercules is also just discernable on the altar’s proper left side.79 Moreover, framing the scene at either side are victory displays that feature, once again, shields bearing the Jovian emblem. The choice to position the subtle allusions to the patron divinities on shield emblems and an altar cannot be coincidental. The emblems featuring Jupiter and Hercules suggest the gods’ favor especially in the context of military confrontation, while the emperors make offerings at an altar decorated with images of the very two divinities that the arch’s imagery has suggested have seen to the success of the Roman armies. The minor imagery alluding to Jupiter and Hercules on the 78 It is possible, though not provable, that the emblems that are today discernable on the arch are only a sample of what originally graced the now eroded surface – whether additional examples of the two themes discussed here, or unattested others. That the count of shield emblems remains incomplete is likely given that the examples mentioned here all derive from the better preserved of the two piers, that is, the South pier. Without complete preservation, sweeping conclusions about the exclusive use of shield emblems as a means to visually associate the ruling emperors with their claimed divine patrons can of course never be confirmed. The case seems plausible, however, especially given the fact that if other figures were once depicted upon the arch’s Roman shields it is highly improbable that only those depicting Hercules and Jupiter would remain preserved today. Of course, room should be left for the possibility that other shields may have been decorated with figures executed only in paint. However, if such was indeed the case, it still remains that only the shields with Hercules and Jupiter employed the dual methods of relief and painting to distinguish the figural emblem, a fact attesting that shields decorated with these two deities were set apart from other (possible) peers. 79 Historic photographs show the imagery in a better state of preservation than it appears today; see, for instance, KINCH 1890, 34–7. LAUBSCHER 1975, Pl. 40.2; 41.2. For discussion of the iconography of the offering relief see LAUBSCHER 1975, 52–57. POND ROTHMAN 1977, 440– 442. MEYER 1980, 400–406. KINCH 1890, 34–37. Apart from the altar relief, the monument’s two arguably most famous scenes, the equestrian duel and the depiction of the tetrarchic emperors surrounded by a divine host (both on the north face of the south pier), also make reference to Jupiter. However, in tetrarchic reference to divine imagery, care must be taken to distinguish between efforts to convey some unprecedented imperial-divine relationship and the ideological use of generically legitimizing Jovian imagery with a long-history of comparable deployment (as the eagle crowning the mounted Galerius in the course of the duel, or among a carefully balanced array of eastern and western divinities curated to communicate the harmony and stability of both halves of the Roman realm). For extended discussion of the iconography of these specific scenes, see LAUBSCHER 1975, 52–57; 64–78. POND ROTHMAN 1975. 1977, 444. MEYER 1980, 416–20. CANEPA 2009, 91–5. 79 On the sacrifice scene, see LAUBSCHER 1975, 52–57. POND ROTHMAN 1977, 440–442. MEYER 1980, 404–406.

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monument can therefore be understood as a way of visually communicating the idea that the tetrarchic emperors enjoy the special protection of Jupiter and Hercules, who as patrons, have ensured the positive outcomes of the military engagements celebrated on the arch, and that the tetrarchs, as grateful clients, have made the appropriate overtures to thank their divine advocates. Further, the broad parallel between Jupiter and Hercules’ seated postures as depicted upon the altar’s faces in the sacrifice scene and the senior tetrarchs’ positioning (especially that of Diocletian, on the left) in the famous enthronement scene on the north face of the south pier should be noted in this regard (Pl. 9.b). Both Diocletian and his namesake divinity are depicted as seated with splayed knees, holding comparable long scepters held upright in their arms. Such visual assimilation would surely have added to the monument’s suggestion of an extraordinary relationship between Jupiter, Hercules, and the rulers celebrated on the arch.80 The visual acknowledgement of the emperors’ protector deities on the Thessaloniki octopylon as so far discussed fell in line with the ambiguous way these same divinities were ubiquitously celebrated on dyarchic/tetrarchic coinage across the empire. However, two little-known inscriptions from the city potentially change the way we read the minor imagery embedded into the monument, specifically, and imperial ideological strategies more generally. The first inscription, stands upon a statue base found in a secondary location in the Ottoman fortress in Thessoloniki, and reads: Herculi Augusto Iovius [et Herculius] Augg(usti) et Herculius et Iovius nobb(ilissimi) Caess(ares)81

The second (lesser known) inscription is also from a comparably composed statue base found in the city: I(ovi) O(ptimo) M(aximo) Iovius e[t Herculius] Augg(usti) Herculius et Iovius nobb(ilissimi) Caess(ares)82

These inscriptions differ from others of the tetrarchic period in that they are the first lapidary inscriptions offered by the emperors themselves to make use of the imperial signa. In fact, here, the imperial awarders pointedly use only the signa to refer to themselves, thereby underlining the relationship to the honorands, Hercules and Jupiter. Since neither inscription remains in its original location, assessment as to their intended function and precise date must remain cautious. However, the similarity in compositional structure suggests the bases were a pair. Additionally, there is a relatively narrow chronological range relevant to their manufacture: at latest 80 My thanks to C. Rollinger for pointing out this iconographic parallel. 81 CIL III suppl. 2, 12310. ILS 634. LSA 377. HEKSTER 2015, 298–299. 82 IG X 2, 1, 00039.

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probably 305, and at earliest 293, but more likely associated with the larger program of imperial building that took place c. 300 in the wake of Galerius’ Persian victories (including the palace and octopylon).83 Taken together, it is highly possible these bases were originally associated with the decorative program of the octopylon itself (which featured niches that scholars have speculated once housed statuary)84, or else part of the general embellishment of Galerius’ Thessaloniki palace. If this dating of the bases is correct, this means that in addition to the material difference to the patterns thus far observed in the imperially sanctioned use of the signa, they introduce a geographical and chronological difference as well. The statuary bases in Thessaloniki seem to be the first court-approved deployment of the signa in the eastern provinces, and this usage appears to be linked to the victories over the Sāsānian in the final years of the 3rd century. In both the use of the signa in Thessaloniki and in their use on gift objects intended for high-ranking officials in the west, there seems something more pointed and intentional in their explicit deployment, as opposed to opting for more ambiguous messaging via visual means. It is to a final consideration of these specific historical contexts that we now turn. RETHINKING THE CONTEXT OF SIGNA ADOPTION AND DEPLOYMENT Diocletian’s short stint as a single ruler, combined with the fact that his chosen divine affiliate had a long history of use for general imperial legitimization makes it hard to pinpoint whether Jupiter played a special ideological role from the moment of Diocletian’s accession. Weighing the available evidence, however, scholars have generally agreed that by 286 CE the imperial affiliations to Jupiter and Hercules were in place.85 What, then, was the historical context that framed the adoption of the signa, especially given the geographic, material, and class-specific differential patterns observed above? Due to the fact that the Bagaudae revolt and the subsequent usurpation of Carausius challenged Diocletian’s power in the west in the earliest years of his reign, these events have been suggested as instigations for the adoption of the signa.86 The material record has not been previously discussed in support of this hypothesis. However, the geographical patterns and the majority of medallions bearing the signa dated to pre-294, as discussed above, certainly add weight to such an assertion. Carausius’ usurpation and claim to Britain and northern Gaul, in particular, would have presented a source of internal lateral pressure on dyarchic ideology, especially in western territories. Notably, Carausius’ own propaganda made some claim for the special protection and guidance of the Roman gods, but did so in terms that stayed within largely traditional, hierarchically-conceived patron-client modes of divine-imperial 83 84 85 86

Recently, on the palace construction see MISAILIDOU-DESPOTIDOU & ATHANASIOU 2013. POND ROTHMAN 1977, 429. See above, n. 3. HEKSTER 2015, 297.

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relation.87 Carausius’ coin obverses, for instance, occasionally featured the bust of Sol paired with the breakaway ruler’s portrait, thus implying the divinity’s special support for his authority.88 In fact, such Carausian issues were surely in competitive conversation with pre-reform issues from Ticinum and Lugdunum featuring jugate busts of Diocletian and Jupiter.89 It may not be by chance, therefore, that despite Sol’s dominance in imperial propaganda in the foregoing decades, the god seems to have played no inordinate role in dyarchic ideology. And although divine companionship was not the primary focus of Carausian reverses,90 in those instances where it did feature, divine interest in the ruler – including, but not exclusively, from Hercules and Jupiter – was communicated by naming a god as Carausius’ COMES, CONSERVATOR, or PROPVGNATOR (with variations).91 The increased imperial-divine intimacy that Diocletian and Maximian’s nicknames alleged would have allowed the emperors to surpass and differentiate themselves from their northern challenger’s claims. Furthermore, it is probably not a coincidence that not even a generation before Diocletian’s accession, these same western provinces witnessed a propaganda war that made insistent use of Herculian imagery that closely paired ruler and demigod. Between 260 and 269 CE, Postumus, the ruler of the newly-established breakaway Gallic empire, and the Senate-approved emperor Gallienus both issued medallions and coinage that insisted upon Hercules’ special protection of the associated ruler. Both were depicted on obverses in Herculian guise, with some numismatic imagery even going so far as to suggest divine-imperial conflation.92 Importantly, Gallienus’ Herculian issues were exclusively coined in his western mints, and were thus certainly intended to speak to the Gallic issues.93 The western provinces thus primed, and without apparent backlash to the more audacious claims of imperial-divine entanglement, it makes sense that this same region was one where Diocletian and his co-rulers felt comfortable explicitly promoting their adopted signa and thus the heightened degree of closeness to Hercules (and Jupiter) that they implied. The fact that the signa occurred at this time 87 On the ideology of Carausian coin types, see CASEY 1994, 45–58. 88 RIC V/2, p. 484, nn. 233–234; p. 490, n. 304; p. 493; 341 (Camulodunum); p. 507, n. 527 (S, S/C, S/P); p. 529, n. 788; p. 545, n. 1044 (unattributed). 89 See discussion and notes 52–53 above. 90 RIC V/2, p. 501, n. 440 (Camulodunum). 91 For instance, with Jupiter, RIC V/2, p. 463, n. 1; p. 467, n. 45 (Londinium); p. 483, n. 214a; p. 485, nn. 244–245 (Camulodunum); p. 502, nn. 448; 453–454 (S, S/C, S/P); p. 528, n. 766; p. 532, nn. 809–811 (unattributed); with Hercules, RIC V/2, p. 463, n. 2 (Londinium); p. 482, n. 212 (Camulodunum); p. 551, n. 3 (Londinium); with Minerva, RIC V/2, pp. 464–465, nn. 13; 20–21 (Londinium); pp. 527–528, nn. 743–745; 767 (unattributed); with Neptune, RIC V/2, p. 464, n.8 (Londinium); pp. 482–483, nn. 213–214 (Camulodunum); p. 501, n. 446 (S, S/C, S/P); p. 510, nn. 552–553 (RSR); p. 521, n. 709; pp. 527–528, nn. 746; 764–765 (unattributed); with Sol, RIC p. 466, n. 29 (Londinium); with Mars, V/2, p. 503, n. 467 (S, S/C, S/P); p. 533, n. 851 (unattributed); with Mercury, RIC V/2, p. 503, n. 468 (S, S/C, S/P); p. 533, n. 852 (unattributed). 92 MARSDEN 2007. 93 MARSDEN 2007, 67. MANDERS 2012, 114. EPPINGER 2015, 159–178.

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exclusively on gift objects manufactured in the western provinces suggests that the tetrarchic emperors expected that the high-ranking western officials that were the intended recipients would have been particularly receptive to such messaging. The prior history of imperial propaganda wars targeted to the region may also add depth to our understanding of why Hercules, specifically, was chosen as the patron deity of the western dyarchic/tetrarchic rulers, and why Herculian obverse imagery was more prevalent in the region than Jovian imagery. It is commonly recognized that Diocletian and Maximian’s choices for divine associates conveniently suggested an implied hierarchy between Diocletian and Maximian. But conceivably, that point could have been made by choosing Jupiter and a number of other gods. The region’s previous history was thus likely an additional factor in the choice and may also account for the comfort with circulating Herculian- (as opposed to Jovian-)guised imagery there in particular.94 But really, this explanation only speaks to why the dyarchic court may have anticipated that ideological messaging geared toward painting an impression of an extraordinary degree of closeness between the emperors and Hercules (in particular) would be especially effective in Italy and the Gallic provinces. In fact, it does nothing to explain why the ideologically novel move for the emperors to take on a name to create this mythical imperial-divine association was introduced as part of the strategy. Nor does it really explain why an ideological strategy implying divine descent from traditional divinities was reintroduced at this historical moment, after it had fallen out of fashion two full centuries previously. For a pair of rulers faced with the usurpation of an internal challenger whose pre-accession biography was not much different than their own, it is perhaps not surprising that Diocletian and Maximian opted to bolster their position by framing their own claim to office as a birthright their usurper foe lacked. But even if the dyarchic adoption of the signa was particularly aimed at solving the pressing issue of Carausius’ usurpation, the choice to do so with an ideological strategy that involved the adoption of non-conventional name-elements that allowed the dyarchs’ construal as descendants of traditional divinities, rather than the more traditional course of claiming divi as imperial ancestors is still curious. It is even more so because, as noted above, Diocletian did in fact change the traditional elements of his name around the same time as the adoption of the signa,95 but chose to bypass the connections that new name would have allowed him to draw to previous beloved Roman rulers. So why adopt a non-traditional name-element and resurrect the longdormant and controversial ideological claim of divine descent, in this particular historical moment? 94 Apart from Jupiter’s status as the chief Olympian, the long history of a hybridized local form of Jupiter, frequently depicted on so-called Jupiter columns in the vicinity of the Rhine frontier, may also stand as a reason that Jupiter, in addition to Hercules, would have been a particularly welcome choice of companion deity in the Gallic region. For the suggestion that Jupiter columns of the later 3rd century may allegorize the defeat over the Bagaudae, see LASSANDRO 1987. MARANESI 2018, 65. 95 P. Oxy. 3055, dated March 7, 285 would suggest that Diocles did not immediately change his name upon his proclamation. See BARNES 1982, 31.

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It is here that the persistently-present, underlying pressure from the Persian east that marked the latter half of the 3rd century may prove significant. Remember that Diocletian and Maximian came to power as soldiers recently returned from campaign in Mesopotamia. Nor did tension with Persia disappear in the early years of dyarchic rule. In 286 – the same year as Carausius’ usurpation and the date by which the signa were in place – Diocletian traveled to the empire’s eastern frontier and personally oversaw the reorganization of Roman rule and the defense system in that region, apparently to the concern of the Sāsānians.96 This moment of heightened Romano-Persian tension ended in a peace treaty with Warahrān II (r. 274–293) rather than outright conflict,97 but serves as a reminder that cross-frontier relations with the eastern power were very much current at precisely the time the imperial nicknames were adopted. It is worth considering that the lingering specter of Rome’s embarrassment at Persian hands in the mid-century, together with Diocletian’s service in Mesopotamia and the heightened Romano-Persian tensions of 286–287 may have factored into the development of ideological strategies devised to meet the pressures of the moment (i.e. both Gallic and Persian factors, together with the dyarchs’ undistinguished lineage), but that the unanticipated resolution of hostilities with Persia by treaty in 287 impacted the ways (and places) that strategy was actually put to use. In fact, very soon after the treaty concluded with Warahrān II, Diocletian diverted his attentions back to the western realm to intervene in conflict with the Alamanni on the frontier of Raetia. Meanwhile, the treaty negotiated with Persia held and tensions with the Sāsānians did not flare up again until 296 CE.98 Perhaps given the early treaty with Persia and other, more pressing conflicts elsewhere – especially in the vicinities of the Rhine and later the Danube99 – the need to overtly address Persian pressures via ideology receded in priority until the resumption of conflict under Galerius’ command in the final years of the century. Afterall, it is conspicuous that the preserved material evidence would suggest that Roman propaganda did not capitalize in any overt way on the Romano-Persian treaty of the late 280s. This despite the event’s inclusion in the panegyric of 291 delivered in honor of Maximian where it is touted as a voluntary submission of the Persian realm and thus a praiseworthy credit to the Roman rulers.100 At a minimum, whether or not some thought of the Persian ruler’s self-fashioning was part of the constellation that shaped the strategy that was cooked up to respond to Carausius’ arrogation of power, the material evidence indicates that the signa were at least eventually recognized for the benefit they could offer in the context of ideological competition with the Sāsānians. It is striking that of the fairly numerous monuments and buildings that can be tied to the courts of Diocletian and 96 97 98 99

DIGNAS & WINTER 2007, 26 Pan. Lat. X (2) 7.5; 9.2. DIGNAS & WINTER 2007, 26–28. After the treaty with the Persians negotiated in 287, both Diocletian and Maximian remained in the vicinities of the Rhine and Danube frontiers for the remainder of the dyarchic period but for Diocletian’s brief jaunt to Syria between April and July 290; BARNES 1982, 49–52: 57–58. 100 Pan. Lat. X (2) 7.5.

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his colleagues, it is only in the context of the monument that most overtly confronts Romano-Persian relations – Galerius’ Thessaloniki palace with its sculpted triumphal entranceway – that the imperial nicknames were put to official use. In fact, the assessment that the signa were utilized in this context, and moreover, that the nicknames were (at least in part) a response to the Sāsānian king’s self-display matches well with the general score-settling symbolism of the Arch of Galerius. Canepa’s work has shown that the imagery on the decorative passageway served as a forceful, imperially-sanctioned counter-statement with regard to Sāsānian propaganda.101 In this context, imperial inscriptions that emphatically called the emperors only by their signa, paired with pictorial suggestions that intimated an unprecedented degree of imperial-divine intimacy with high-ranking traditional gods, may be reasonably interpreted as one more way of assertively countering the Persian propaganda that had been recently deployed against Roman international reputation. CONCLUSION Reading material evidence back into the discussion of the dyarchic/tetrarchic rulers and their relationship to the divine, situating imperial strategy within a broader cross-cultural context, and allowing for multiplicity in official ideology has allowed new insights and opened new avenues for future inquiry regarding the signa. That Diocletian and his co-rulers chose to most robustly and consistently advertise their relationship to Jupiter and Hercules by visual means, thus allowing for ambiguity regarding the precise details of the imperial-divine relationship suggests that a claim to full-fledged, unmitigated, semi-divine status of living rulers was still a risky proposition at the very end of the third century. But equally, it seems there were certain populations that the emperors expected to be receptive to such a suggestion, or else, regions and times when the message was so important that the rulers judged the risk of backlash worth the gamble. With the close-following usurpations of Constantine and Maxentius in 306, the internal coherency of the ruling college was disturbed, and critically, a dynastic claim to imperial position based on blood relation to a former ruler was reintroduced. New internal pressures were thus introduced that inevitably shaped imperial ideology – for both established rulers and new claimants alike – going forward. For this reason, the ideological paraphernalia of the years 306–324 CE that relates to the imperial signa is most usefully discussed separately but with reference to the material here considered. Constraints of space demand that such a study, closely attuned to geography, medium, and historical context as here demonstrated, remain for the future. The uniformity of monuments like the famous porphyry tetrarchs relocated to Venice (Pl. 5) have lulled scholars into an expectation that tetrarchic ideology was singular and undifferentiated. Closer examination, however, reveals that Diocletian and his colleagues were much more attuned to regional trends and preferences than once supposed, and it is in this direction that there remains much to learn regarding the ideology of the period. 101 CANEPA 2009, 84–99.

THESE BOOTS AREN’T MADE FOR WALKING TETRARCHIC COURT CEREMONIAL AS A LANGUAGE OF AUTHORITY Christian Rollinger Shortly after the so-called ‘abdication’ of Diocletian and Maximian and the simultaneous accession of Galerius and Constantius Chlorus to the rank of Augusti, a remarkable gold multiplum was struck in Siscia, celebrating the concordia between the new rulers and their Caesares, Severus and Maximinus Daza (Pl. 2a).1 The issue is a good example of the mixture of tetrarchic innovations in imperial coinage around 300 CE. It shows Constantius in consular garb on the obverse, together with the simple inscription CONSTANTIVS P F AVG; the reverse shows the legend CONCORDIA AVGG ET CAESS encircling two imperial figures, very likely Constantius and his Caesar, Severus, both laureate and togate, both holding sceptres, and together holding a globe between them. The devil, however, is in the detail. Obverse consular busts, with the emperor dressed in a trabea, laureate and holding an eagle-tipped ivory sceptre (scipio eburneus), had first been used by Alexander Severus and Gordian III and then again by Gallienus and his successors.2 Reverse depictions of togate emperors with scipio were, by the time of Constantius, no longer novel, but this tetrarchic coinage adds a distinct touch: trabea, tunica palmata and calcei of the emperor on this gold multiplum are edged with pearls.3 Similar issues struck under the tetrarchy or thereafter would keep to this depiction and we know from later sources that the purple consular trabea of late antiquity, far removed from the relatively simple purple-striped garment of earlier emperor-consuls, was famous for being heavily decorated with gold embroidery, pearls, jewels, and glittering metal sequins, to the point that Sidonius Apollinaris describes it as ‘rattling’.4 1 2 3 4

RIC VI, p. 472, n. 148 (Siscia), ca. 305/306 CE. On the problems of calling the political act of 305 an ‘abdication’, see CARLÀ-UHINK 2019, 151–164. Cf. KUHOFF 2022. HEDLUND 2008, 141. For consular busts on coins of the 3rd century, see BASTIEN 1992 1.281–301. Sidon. ep. 8.6.6: illam Sarranis ebriam sucis inter crepitantia segmenta palmatam plus picta. Cf. Claud. IV cos. Hon. 585–609. On the symbolic importance of the trabea see DEWAR 2008 and for a visual illustration see the famous depictions of Constantius II and Gallus as consuls in the Chronography of 354. For similar tetrarchic coin types see e.g. for consular busts with trabea on obverse: RIC V/2, p. 79, n. 585 (Siscia); pp. 104–106, nn. 805–806; 817–818 (Siscia). RIC VI, p. 167, n. 33 (Treveri). RIC VI, p. 563, n. 62 (Nicomedia). RIC VII p. 517, n. 146 (Thessalonica). For togate emperors with globe, scepter and pearl-studded and/or decorated toga on reverse: RIC VI, p. 457, n. 24 (Siscia); p. 496, n. 16 (Serdica). RIC VI, p. 563, n. 62 (Nicomedia). RIC VII, p. 326, nr. 272 (Roma). RIC p. 684, n. 41 (Antiochia). RIC VII, p. 675,

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Roughly 17 years later, in Sirmium in 322 CE, another remarkable coin was struck, some ten years after the so-called last ‘tetrarchy’ had been supplanted by the uneasy and increasingly fraught arrangement between Constantine and Licinius.5 Here, under the legend CONSTANTINVS P F AVG, a bust of a cuirassed and laureate Constantine is depicted on the obverse, while the reverse shows the same emperor, cuirassed, with paludamentum and holding an imperial standard in his right hand, being crowned by the figure of Sol standing to his left; the legend identifies Constantine as SOLI INVICTO COMITI. The iconography, again, is a mixture of conventional elements resembling other tetrarchic (and earlier) emissions and innovations.6 While Sol had appeared on coins throughout the 3rd century and the legend SOLI INVICTO COMITI had first been used by the emperor Probus, the sun god had been depicted as a portrait bust.7 Similarly, while emperors had been depicted in the act of being crowned, the coronator was usually a Victory. The inclusion of a full-figured Sol Invictus, who had gained in popularity on imperial coinage from Gallienus onwards, was novel.8 What makes the Sirmian solidus particularly interesting for us, however, is, again, the figure of the emperor himself. Constantine is cuirassed and draped in the paludamentum, but instead of wearing the traditional campagia, as, e.g., in the famous tetrarchic sculpture group now in Venice (Pl. 5), the emperor is shown wearing mid-thigh boots encrusted with pearls (and, likely, jewels), with two distinct strands of pearl pendilia clearly visible, dangling from the upper part of each.9 The tetrarchic gold multiplum and the Constantinian solidus are the earliest iconographic evidence for a new kind of footwear introduced during the tetrarchy as part of a series of innovations in the realm of imperial representation and appearance. This new imperial ‘style’ is amply attested in our sources. In a well-known passage, Eutropius identifies the main elements, including costume and décor, but also performative and ceremonial innovations credited to Diocletian: He ordered himself to be adored (adorari), while all those who had come before him had been saluted (salutarentur). He adorned his clothing and his footwear with jewels. Prior to this, the

5 6 7 8

9

nn. 5–6, with unusually detailed depiction of Licinius wearing a trabea in full-figure depiction on the reverse. RIC VII, p. 472, n. 31 (Sirmium). E.g. RIC V/2, p. 234, n. 141 (Roma). E.g. RIC V/2, p. 32, n. 138 (Roma). For the more traditional iconography of a winged Victory as coronating figure, see e.g. RIC VII, p. 500, n. 11 (Thessalonica). A roughly contemporary gold multiplum (RIC VII, p. 451, n. 207 [Siscia]) traditionally dated to 326/327, shows a possible evolution of the motif from a ‘tetrarchic’ (so to speak) model: on the obverse, Constantine is now depicted with the ‘new’ jewelled diadem. On the reverse, however, a more Christianised version of the same iconography is shown: Constantine, again clad in muscle cuirass and paludamentum but also wearing both pearl-studded boots and a diadem, is standing looking to the left, holding a spear in his left hand and a vexilium in his right. The vexilium, emblazoned with a Christogram, has replaced the coronating sun deity of the older solidus. For the evolution of monetary iconography away from tetrarchic models under Constantine, see CARLÀ 2012. Cf. EHLING 2012, 72–75, n. 124, with illustration on p. 72.

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only outward sign of power had been a purple cloak (chlamys, i.e. the paludamentum), the rest being common.10

According to Aurelius Victor, he was ‘the first who really desired a supply of silk, purple and gems for his sandals, together with a gold-brocaded robe’ and also the first after Caligula and Domitian ‘to permit himself to be called dominus in public and to be worshipped and addressed as a god.’11 As has been stated elsewhere this volume, the tetrarchy should be seen as a language of imperial authority, not a system of government: a means of communication between the college of emperors and everyone else.12 Other such media of communications have been previously examined and are the subject of still further studies in the present collection.13 Strikingly, however, comparatively little effort has been made so far to understand imperial presentation and performance in ceremonial in the same context. The present chapter, as well as Fabio Guidetti’s following contribution, will rectify this by subjecting the ceremonial innovations of the tetrarchy to fresh scrutiny. It is important to clarify what exactly changed and how this change should be interpreted. But while we have evidence for this both in the literary sources and in iconographic evidence, this evidence leaves much to be desired. For one, it is focused either on very specific instances of ceremonial (as in the iconographic sources) or on generalizing judgements as to the origins and merits (but not the specifics) – of the ceremonies themselves. Thus, there remain significant questions: what changed, specifically? What role did Diocletian play in this? Why were ceremonial changes introduced and what purpose did the complication of ceremonial fulfil in the context of tetrarchic ideology? Because of the nature of our evidence, I will focus here on aulic ceremonial and on the imperial audience in particular, though similar developments are observable in other forms of imperial representation.14 10 Eutr. 9.26: adorarique se iussit, cum ante eum cuncti salutarentur. Ornamenta gemmarum vestibus calciamentisque indidit. Nam prius imperii insigne in chlamyde purpurea tantum erat, reliqua communa (transl. Bird, slightly modified). 11 Aur. Vict. 39.2: quippe qui primus, ex auro veste quaesita, serici ac purpurae gemmarumque vim plantis concupiverit. Cf. Eutr. 9.26. Hier. Chron. 226c. Zon. 12.31. 12 CARLÀ-UHINK, this volume, 46. 13 Cf., e.g., BOSCHUNG & ECK 2006. 14 To my knowledge, few articles of papers have been written on the subject specifically of the imperial audience (as opposed to individual elements of ceremonial that also play a role in audiences). Even a French anthology published in 2007 with the promising title ‘L’Audience’, includes studies on receptions at the Ptolemaic court and among the Merovingian kings, among Roman senators and of envoys in the Roman Senate – but not on those among late antique rulers. Essentially, published research has appeared in works that are generally more concerned with other matters (for example, palatine/civil administration, ceremonial per se, or Rome’s diplomatic relations), as well as a relatively small number of studies specifically on the ceremonially most important element of the imperial audience, i.e., the proskynesis or adoratio. Cf. SEECK 1894. BABUT 1916. AVERY 1940. STERN 1954. ALFÖLDI 1970, 25–79. BRAVO CASTAÑEDA 1997. A PhD thesis recently completed at the university of St Andrews by Mads Lindholmer (LINDHOLMER 2020) focuses on imperial admissions (salutationes) during the principate but also analyses some of the ways in which these admissions and their concomitant

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TETRARCHIC AUDIENCES: THE EVIDENCE There are no contemporary literary sources bar one, to which I will return later, that provide us with any detail as to what form audiences with the emperors took during the period from 284 to 305 CE. Luckily, however, in the ancient Egyptian temple to Amon, built in Luxor by Amenophis III in the 14th century BCE and transformed (perhaps15) into a legionary fortress under the tetrarchs, there survives a striking example of tetrarchic art, which is one of the few iconographic depictions of late antique ceremonies. Within the temple itself, Roman artists covered the original hieroglyphic decorations of a room that has since become known as the imperial cult chamber with plaster and an exquisite fresco.16 Though now in a dilapidated (albeit newly conserved) state, the frescoes and their spatial context can be reconstructed from the surviving elements and with the help of watercolour sketches made by John Gardner Wilkinson in 1856 (Pl. 17).17 On the eastern wall of the chamber, a procession of soldiers and horses move from left to right, in the direction of the southern end of the room; the western wall is now destroyed, with its iconography irretrievably lost. It may have mirrored the military progress on the opposite wall, but there is also the possibility that it may have shown the ‘imperial’ part of an adventus, with Diocletian (one presumes) sitting in a ceremonial chariot, as depicted on the arches of Galerius and Constantine, and on the newly-discovered reliefs from Nicomedia (Pl. 8).18 Regardless of whether or not an imperial chariot was shown or a similar military procession to the one on the east wall, they will undoubtedly have moved in the same direction, i.e. from right to left. Both processions started from the northern wall where, on both sides of the central entrance, painted military footwear has survived, pointing in the direction of the respective walls. On the southern wall of the chamber, which was the main focus of the whole complex, two pairs of tetrarchs, likely consisting of one Augustus and one Caesar

15 16 17

18

ceremonial underwent changes in late antiquity. Cf. also LINDHOLMER 2022. I thank Mads Lindholmer for allowing me to consult his unpublished work and for a helpful exchange of ideas, which improved on an earlier version of this chapter. For an in-depth analysis of audience ceremonial in late antiquity, see now ROLLINGER 2021, 177–232. BECKER 2022, 151–188. BARBAGLI 2020, 95–96 has recently argued that the structure may have been intended ‘for ceremonial functions on a provincial level’, rather than as a garrison (though he makes room for the possibility that a garrison may well have been situated there as well). For a history of the Luxor complex, s. MCFADDEN 2015a. HEIDEL & JOHNSON 2015. The foundational archaeological report and hypothetical reconstruction is still DECKERS 1979. For an exhausting analysis of the Luxor complex and the newly-restored frescoes see now JONES & MCFADDEN 2015, including high quality reproductions of the Wilkinson watercolours in the Appendix (154–168). For a computer-aided reconstruction see KARELIN & KULIKOVA 2017 and Pl. 16, this volume. There is some very circumstantial evidence for this – a pencil annotation in Wilkinson’s sketchbook reading ‘M. Monier told Mr. Harris that the name of ‘Diocletian’ was on one of the chariot wheels in this fresco.’ Cf. JONES 2015, 158. MCFADDEN 2015b, 118. For the problematic west wall, cf. KALAVREZOU-MAXEINER 1975, 238–239. See also USHERWOOD, this volume. On the Nicomedia reliefs, see ŞARE AĞTÜRK 2018. 2021. For the tetrarchic adventus ceremony, see GUIDETTI, this volume.

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each, are shown on each side of a central fresco as enthroned rulers, sitting in majesty on an elevated tribunal, while a throng of attendants in ceremonial dress congregate around and below them. The smaller central fresco (Pl. 15–16) is painted in the hemicycle of a recessed niche fronted by four columns carrying a canopy; here, four larger-than-life-size tetrarchs are depicted as gods, nimbate and naked save for purple togas, with one figure (certainly Diocletian) carrying a globe and staff. The composition is surmounted by an imperial eagle in the semi-dome of the niche, painted with outstretched wings and clutching a bejewelled crown in its talons.19 The ceremony depicted to the left and right of the central apse has been variously described as a special form of adventus, with the fresco possibly commemorating Diocletian’s own visit to Egypt and possibly (though highly hypothetically) to Luxor itself; as showing the investiture of the tetrarchs; or as a promotion ceremony.20 The latter is more likely, though the fragmentary state of the imagery makes it impossible to be sure. Arranged in two tightly serried ranks below the emperors of the left section are a number of attendants or courtiers (Pl. 14). Their dress of belted tunics (paragaudae) with segmenta and orbiculi, and official shoes (campagia) identify them as belonging to a military context, though it is far from certain that they are meant to show soldiers. More likely, we are witnessing members of the imperial comitatus (what would later become the militia palatina or militia officialis) being admitted into the presence of their rulers. Their jewelled belts and fibulated red-ochre chlamydes, which, as far as we can tell, are absent from the figures depicted on the eastern and western walls, mark them out as being of higher rank. Those figures whose portraits survive have veiled their hands (manus velatae): two figures on the left are carrying golden belts in the folds of a red ochrecoloured garment, a third one is clasping a vexillum. In the lower register to the right, fragments survive of a figure holding a staff of office in his left, equally veiled hand and wearing a fringed chlamys; both the staff and the fringed garment denote superior status, though it is unclear how to precisely interpret this.21 Generally, then, the iconography of the imperial cult chamber is that of an imperial audience in which gifts are doled out together with promotions. Only the right foot of one emperor survives in Luxor, at the extreme upper right of the fresco, purple-clad and resting on a bejewelled footstool. The suppedaneum is a common 19 See GUIDETTI, this volume, 130; BARBAGLI, this volume, 245, and USHERWOOD, this volume, 311–312. 20 KALAVREZOU-MAXEINER 1975 goes so far as to posit that Diocletian used this very room as his audience hall during extended stays at Luxor, but this is pure conjecture. For interpretations of the fresco, see HERRMANN-OTTO 2006. MCFADDEN 2015b. 21 A figure clad in military garb and leaning on an identical staff (baculus) can be seen in the famous mosaic of the Great Hunt at Piazza Armerina (L’ORANGE 1965b) and the same staff also appears on the suovetaurilia relief of the tetrarchic Decennial base (cf. HÄCHLER, this volume, 183, with Pl. 6.b). The fringed chlamys is also worn by Diocletian in the sacrifice scene of the arch of Galerius; cf. KALAVREZOU-MAXEINER 1975, 236. Notably, the two imperial figures on the Nicomedia relief of the embracing emperors are also wearing elaborately fringed paludamenta (pace ŞARE AĞTÜRK 2018, 418 n.21: ‘The elaborate fringes of the paludamenta worn by the two emperors on the Nicomedia relief are unparalleled on other tetrarchic representations.’).

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part of the iconography of enthroned emperors and this alone makes it improbable that we are dealing with an investiture ceremony, as the latter would take place in a very different setting.22 In fact, the Luxor fresco evinces remarkable similarity to a later example of enthroned emperors in Roman art: the famous missorium of Theodosius the Great, which shows Theodosius and two co-emperors enthroned under a portico and flanked by bodyguards.23 All three emperors are seated, their feet resting on decorated suppedanea. An official in dress similar to those in the fresco at Luxor (decorated and belted tunic worn under a fibulated paludamentum with segmenta and orbiculi) is accepting a codicil of appointment from Theodosius in the folds of his cloak (manus velatae).24 To reinforce the difference in social status between emperor and official, the latter is rendered significantly smaller than Theodosius (as are his co-emperors). Additionally, while both the official and the guards are depicted in the act of movement or in three-quarter perspective, the emperors are frontal and static, in order to reinforce the notion of ‘eternal’ rulership.25 Judging from the remaining evidence in Luxor, the fresco was constructed in a similar fashion, with the four tetrarchs throning in frontal and immovable serenity, and their attendants and officials moving about in procession ‘below’ them, the arrangement of the figures emphasizing both the underlying hierarchy and, perhaps, the spatial configuration of an actual ceremony. While there is no surviving evidence of a schematic portico or pediment (or indeed of any painted architecture), this is likely due to the near-catastrophic state of the fresco. Behind and slightly to the left of the imperial foot there survive traces of a painted drapery or curtain; Susanna McFadden is probably right in assuming that this belonged to a curtain fastened either to a throne ciborium or another architectural element surrounding the seated emperors, which would have served as a clearly delineated barrier between rulers and ruled (and would have echoed the actual tetrastyle ciborium in front of the central niche in Luxor).26 In his 1979 reconstruction drawing, Johannes Deckers has added armed bodyguards to either side of the tetrarchic pairs, based on iconographic parallels in the missorium of Theodosius and the Theodosian obelisk base in the hippodrome.27 22 Cf. Lact. DMP. 19.5 with ICKS 2012, 19 and see HEBBLEWHITE, this volume. 23 KIILERICH 1993, 19–26. ALMAGRO-GORBEA et al. 2000. The illustration of Constantius II in the Chronograph of 354 is also often adduced as a further iconographic parallel. However, while there are notable similarities – the symbolic portico under which the emperor sits; the suppedaneum on which his feet rest; the gold coins which the emperor is distributing – it does not strictly speaking depict an audience but rather the traditional largitio on New Year’s Day during the inauguration of the consul. Constantius is wearing the trabea and carrying the scipio eburneus in his left hand, which clearly identify him in his consular role; he is also sitting on the late antique variant of the sella curulis, a standard iconographic element of consular diptychs, and not on an imperial throne. 24 For iconographic parallels, see MCFADDEN 2015b, n.55. 25 See KIILERICH 1998 for similar iconography in other examples of 4th century art, and GRABAR 1936 for late antique imperial iconography in general. Cf. also HIRSCHFELD 1913, 674–679 for the self-descriptions of emperors of the late 3rd and 4th centuries as nostra aeternitas/perennitas. 26 MCFADDEN 2015b, 121. 27 DECKERS 1979, Abb. 34.

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Beside this singular work of art and its iconographic parallels, we have very little literary or contemporary evidence for audience ceremonial around 300 CE. Almost the sole exception to this is a passage in the panegyric of 291, which describes the upheaval and emotions of a ceremonial audience on the occasion of the arrival of Diocletian and Maximian in Milan: What a thing that was, good gods! What a spectacle your piety created, when those who were going to adore your sacred features were admitted to the palace in Milan you both were gazed upon and your twin deity suddenly confused the ceremony of single veneration! No one observed the hierarchy of deities according to the usual protocol; they all stopped still to spend more time in adoration, stubborn in their duplicate pious duty. Yet this private veneration, as if in the inner shrine, stunned the minds only of those whose public rank gave them access to you.28

Enraptured by the splendour of the two rulers and their own love for them, the participants in the audience forget all decorum. Obviously, one does not necessarily have to believe this panegyrical account in all its details. Still, the passage is important, as it captures at a relatively early stage of its development several essential aspects of the audience ceremony. Firstly, audiences take place in an enclosed space, separated from more mundane environments and thus hidden from the ‘public’. While there are descriptions of the emperors on the move in the Panegyrici Latini, and of crowds flocking to them while they were travelling, the normal setting of audiences was within the confines of the palace or whatever building served as imperial residence in any given place. Some elements stand out in particular: the general atmosphere of awe, reinforced by ceremonial silence and specific gestures intended to enhance the ‘otherness’ of the ruler and palpable in the short description by the panegyrist. To this description can be added the iconographic evidence for the physical distancing of the emperor: a prohibition of touching him directly, which was connected with the practice of receiving gifts from the emperor in veiled hands; the likely presence of curtains to restrict views of him; and his physical elevation over the attendants, achieved by placing the throne and accompanying suppedaneum on a dais.29 All of these elements are present in the Luxor freso. Secondly, the distance between ruler and ruled only intensified in late antiquity. Already under the tetrarchs, only high dignitaries were admitted to an audience (cf. the panegyricist’s quibus aditum vestri dabant ordines dignitatis). This latter point is particularly relevant, because being allowed into the imperial presence was to become an even more special privilege than it would have been previously. Only those who belonged to the inner court or retinue by virtue of their rank or office, 28 Pan. Lat. XI (3) 11.1–3: Quid illud, Dii boni! Quale pietas vestra spectaculum dedit, quum in mediolanensi palatio admissis, quis sacros vultus adoraturi erant, conspecti estis ambo, et consuetudinem simplicis venerationis geminato numine repente turbatis. Nemo ordinem numinum solita sequutus est disciplina; omnes adorandi more restiterunt, duplicato pietatis officio contumaces. Atque haec quidem velut interioribus sacrariis operta veneratio eorum modo animos obstupefecerat, quibus aditum vestri dabant ordines dignitatis (transl. Nixon/Rodgers). 29 In later times, three steps usually led to the dais, which gives an approximate notion of its height; see the late Kletorologion by Philotheos (167–169 Oikonomidés) and cf. de cer. 1.93.

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were otherwise invested with rank and dignity by the emperor, or were specifically invited to an audience, were able to gain access to the ruler. This was in opposition to the traditional virtue of accessibility, to which earlier emperors at least had to pay lip-service.30 A primary function of ceremonial around 300 CE, by contrast, was to channel access to the figure of the emperor, to regularly restrict it to those who either belonged to the itinerant court itself or who had specific business.31 We do not know if and in what shape the imperial admission, that is the traditional morning receptions of senators and aristocrats by the emperors survived the 3rd century.32 In some respects, it is hard to imagine how they could have: the salutationes were preconditioned on the close topographical proximity of the emperors to the traditional elite in Rome and at least a number of the itinerant barracks emperors of the 3rd century would have had neither the opportunity nor, perhaps, the inclination to continue the show of aristocratic parity that was the point of the salutatio. There is, in fact, no direct evidence for the admissions happening after Severus Alexander. The more usual means of interacting with the emperor in late antiquity and starting with Diocletian was the formal audience in consistorio. This audience was public in the sense that other members of the comitatus attended it, a point that sounds trivial, but is not. Access to the emperor, in the sense of courtiers or senators being able to interact with the emperors privately, seems to have been increasingly restricted under Diocletian and his successors. This very restriction also elevated the status of those chosen few who were granted access, and thus formed part of an elite within an elite. But if we take the imperial aula palatina in Trier as a (grand) model for tetrarchic and Constantinian palace architecture and imagine audiences held there, it becomes immediately clear that these were not ‘private’ audiences in any meaningful sense of the word.33 Thirdly, we learn that a strict code of conduct and ceremonial comportment was imposed on those who had gained admittance into the imperial presence. The core of ceremonial was making sure that audiences did not take place indiscriminately

30 Cf. DAVENPORT 2022. 31 TEJA 1993. 32 On these morning admissions as a regular and fundamental political ceremony, and their development into the 4th century, see now LINDHOLMER 2020. 33 Such audience rooms of vastly different sizes are also archaeologically attested in Thessaloniki, Split, and Gamzigrad, and later served as models for several buildings in the Great Palace of Constantinople. Cf. JAESCHKE 2020, 277–284. With a surface area of 1,430 m2, the aula in Trier, likely begun by Constantius or Constantine, but probably definitely finished only under Gratian, is by far the largest structure, followed by Thassaloniki (1,238 m2); the audience halls of Split and Gamzigrad were not part of residences of ‘active’ emperors and thus of significantly smaller size (Split: 356 m2; Gamzigrad: 204 m2). Several buildings have been tentatively interpreted as audience halls in Milan, especially the structures below the Via Brisa and at Via Gorani 4; however, significant doubts remain. Cf. PIRAS 2012. CERESA MORI 2018. JAESCHKE 2020, 210. The state of publication of late antique Roman buildings in Trier is deplorable; to date, no full synthesis of excavations and analyses carried out in the 20th century is published. Cf. KUHNEN 2001 for small consolation.

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or haphazardly.34 Instead, a strict protocol was to be followed, including a prescribed sequence in which reverence was to be paid to multiple emperors, if more than one was present. This was not innovative, per se. From both earlier and later sources, we can conclude that admittance and permission to salute the early emperors were also strictly hierarchical and staggered according to the social and political position of the admittees and who they were coming to see at court – this applies as much to the Julio-Claudians as it does to Justinian.35 Caracalla laid down a ceremonial order of salutation in the early 3rd century and similar, albeit more elaborated ordines survive from the 4th century, such as the ordo salutationis of the governor of Numidia in the 360s, discovered in Timgrad (Algeria).36 This inscription carefully describes rules of precedence and admittance to the provincial court, which emulated the imperial court itself. Specifically, however, the late 3rd century very likely saw the formal introduction of a new element in imperial ceremonial, one that is emblematic of imperial status and distance in late antiquity, and that has traditionally been connected to Diocletian himself. This was the famous adoratio purpurae, strikingly missing from the Luxor fresco (as it is now) but explicitly mentioned in the panegyric of 291 (quis sacros vultus adoraturi erant). THE ADORATIO AND ITS ORIGINATOR The term adoratio purpurae is easily misunderstood. For one thing, it is not ancient: William Avery introduced it into modern discourse in a still fundamental 1940 article.37 Additionally, it refers to two distinct actions that are often conflated. What we now call adoratio was the act of greeting the emperor by genuflection. While later centuries would see the introduction of complete prostration by those admitted to an imperial audience, there is no reason to suspect this for the tetrarchic period.38 Kneeling before the emperor embodied an acceptance of his higher status and a recognition of his authority; this was reinforced by the cultic and quasi-religious aspects of both the act and the term used to describe it (adorare).39

34 Cf. STRATHERN 2019, 159: ‘Royal ritual […] works by creating social situations of high arousal and high tension, in which the potential failure to conduct oneself according to strict protocol is a source of anxiety.’ 35 LINDHOLMER 2020, 18–30. 2022. DAVENPORT 2022. 36 CJ 9.51.1 and cf. SEG XVII 759, an epigraphic record of an imperial trial in Antioch under the same emperor. On the ordo salutationis from Timgrad (CIL VIII 17896), see CHASTAGNOL 1978. STAUNER 2007. 37 AVERY 1940, 66 n.2. Contra: STERN 1954. 38 LINDHOLMER 2020, 84–98. Based on Proc. SH 30.21–24, LINDHOLMER 2020, 87 has argued that the right knee was bent (γόνυ κλίναντες τὸ δεξιὸν). 39 Cf. LINDHOLMER 2020, 89: ‘Thus, the kneeling introduced in the admission mirrored the posture often adopted for religious worship and in front of autocratic rulers, and the consistent use of adorare to describe the admission strongly suggests that the elite recognized this and conceptualized the new obligatory kneeling accordingly.’ Contrast this with Pan. Lat. XI (3) 10.5– 11.2, where the emperors are compared to deities and their palace to a shrine.

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Was the adoratio introduced by Diocletian? As we have seen above, Eutropius is among the majority of late antique authors crediting Diocletian with doing so: ‘He ordered himself to be adored (adorari), while all those who had come before him had been saluted (salutarentur)’; the adoration itself was, as Eutropius bemoans, ‘a style more appropriate to the customs of kings than to Roman liberty’.40 Ammianus Marcellinus likewise states that it was Diocletian who introduced a ‘foreign and royal form of adoration’.41 For some decades now, this has increasingly been disputed by scholars, in spite of the explicit evidence of our sources. In two classic articles from the mid-1930s, which were later published as Die monarchische Repräsentation im römischen Kaiserreiche, a book which has exerted inordinate influence on later researchers, Andreas Alföldi argued that this allegedly drastic ‘orientalising’ change instituted under Diocletian was mostly an invention of our sources, all too readily believed by scholars who were quick to denounce Diocletian as the hatchet man of ‘classical’ Rome.42 Though even he is not wholly innocent of ‘orientalising’ views himself, as he interpreted the adaptation of individual elements of ceremonial (such as the kissing of the imperial purple) as originating from Persian models, Alföldi argued that these changes were instead the culmination of long-term internal developments, influenced at various times and to varying degrees by earlier or parallel models of monarchical ceremonial.43 It is indeed a significant and ongoing misunderstanding of the nature of the Roman principate and its performative aspects to think that emperors before Diocletian were unencumbered by ceremonial and that such was introduced only by that alleged harbinger of later decadence. Although Alföldi had demonstrated that ceremonial was neither an invention of the 3rd or 4th century, scholars (with few exceptions) were content to cite his work without thinking through its implications, particularly for the early principate.44 In part, this misunderstanding connects back to the history of scholarship on the topic of the Roman imperial court and to the lasting influence of 19th century models of Roman emperorship. The court itself, although the central focus of imperial power and of political decision-making, is ‘the skeleton in the cupboard of Roman history’, in the memorable words of Andrew Wallace-Hadrill, and mostly ignored by scholars of the Roman early empire.45 Its importance and relevance has only recently become the subject of more focused 40 Eutr. 9.26: adorarique se iussit, cum ante eum cuncti salutarentur … regiae consuetudinis formam magis quam Romanae libertatis. Cf. John Ant. frg. 248 (Roberto). 41 Amm. 15.5.18: Augustus omnium primus, externo et regio more instituit adorari. It should be noted that Diocletianus enim is not included in the sole extant manuscript of Ammianus, but is traditionally inserted based on textual parallels between Ammianus and Eutropius and the 1533 edition of Sigismund Gelenius, which in turn incorporated a now lost manuscript of the text. 42 ALFÖLDI 1970. The original publications are ALFÖDI 1934 and 1935. 43 ALFÖLDI 1970, 62: kissing the purple is ‘eine alte persische Gewohnheit’. Far from being adaptions from Persian (meaning: Sāsānian) models, it is in fact more likely, as Matthew Canepa has argued, that the Sāsānian rulers incorporated Roman ceremonial elements into their own court ceremonial (CANEPA 2009, 149–153). 44 But see SUMI 2011. ROSSIGNOL 2018. 45 WALLACE-HADRILL 1996, 93.

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and determined studies after a century of being relegated to the side-lines of Sittenund Kulturgeschichte in the tradition of Ludwig Friedländer.46 Together with the pretensions of panegyrists such as Pliny the Younger, who was at pains to depict Trajan as the ideal type of a civilis princeps while at the same time matter-of-factly addressing him as Domine in his letters, and the ceremonial restraint exercised by the Antonines, this has led scholars to underestimate the importance of ritual and performance during the principate, when they were really absolutely essential to both court and emperors. Where ceremonial and representational experimentation was discussed, it was mostly in the context of ‘bad’ emperors and thus situated firmly in ancient (and modern) discourses about the nature of rulership, tyranny, and freedom. In this fashion, ancient tropes were perpetuated without due regard for the social importance of aulic ceremonial. Should we follow Alföldi, then, in assuming that Diocletian did not in fact introduce elements into court life that were increasingly and significantly more ceremonial than previous circumstances had been? He is certainly right in pointing out the extant evidence for adoratio/proskynesis (i.e., genuflection) from earlier centuries. 2nd and 3rd century authors such as Herodianus and Plotinus do not give the impression that genuflection or even, in highly individual and circumscribed cases, prostration before the emperor was all that unusual.47 But these were spontaneous, disorderly and individual ritual acts of supplication, described in our sources as personal decisions by the people involved. A distinction must be made between such individual and isolated gestures and the expected comportment in the context of a formal, regulated ceremony.48 Kneeling in front of a political or social superior, kissing their hand or their feet while begging a boon was a time-honoured tradition, observable from Homeric Greece to the Roman Republic as a personal gesture of supplication. As Caillan Davenport has recently pointed out, such ‘performances occurred regardless of whether the emperor encouraged them or not’.49 It was not unusual for petitioners and supplicants to genuflect before the ruler, even under the Julio-Claudians and even including persons of rank. In this (and only in this) sense, adoratio/proskynesis at court predated Diocletian. It was not, however, a requisite behaviour in regular interactions with the emperor.50 To the imperial and senatorial aristocracy, who clung to the old-fashioned notion of sharing in the rule of the 46 Foundational works include WALLACE-HADRILL 1996. 2011. WINTERLING 1998. 1999. See also PANI 2003. PATERSON 2007. BANG 2011. SCHÖPE 2014. MICHEL 2015. KELLY & HUG 2022 is the latest milestone. For court studies as part of 19th century Kulturgeschichte s. FRIEDLÄNDER 1919–1921 and TURCAN 1987. 47 Hdn. 3.11.8. Plotin. Enn. 5.5.3. Cf. Ael. Arist. or. 35.19. Alföldi’s mention of RIC V/2 p. 359, nn. 276–277 (Colonia) as additional proof of proskynesis is less convincing; as the coin’s legend makes clear, the iconography refers to an imperial indulgentia, that is a special act of imperial generosity; neither is it at all clear what the kneeling figure on the left of the reverse is supposed to depict and it is equally possible that what we are seeing is a kneeling or supplicating personification. Cf. STERN 1954, 185, contra ALFÖLDI 1970, 58. 48 A point also made by LINDHOLMER 2020, 91 and DAVENPORT 2022. 49 DAVENPORT 2022, 306. 50 STERN 1954, 184–189. Cf. ALFÖLDI 1970, 45–65.

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empire and who held up the notion of civilitas as prime imperial virtue, it would have been anathema. Obviously, then, the habit of genuflecting before the emperor did not appear out of nowhere under Diocletian, but neither can we deny the novelty and significance of it now being systematically enforced. There is an added complication: in Avery’s coinage, the term adoratio purpurae refers not only to genuflection, but also to the act of kissing the imperial purple. In our sources for the late 3rd and early 4th century, however, the terminology of greeting – adoratio and its Greek equivalent, προσκύνησις – are mostly used to indicate a simple genuflection and, from context, do not always include actual kissing of the purple. This is somewhat surprising, as salutation and kissing had always been closely connected – a kiss on the mouth, the cotidiana oscula of Suetonius, was the traditional greeting between emperors and senators51 – and one possible etymology of the term proskynesis may be the verb ‘to kiss’ (κυνεῖν).52 In fact, even in late antiquity, kissing did not disappear completely from imperial salutations, although it was to become exceptional by the late 4th century, reserved for imperial relatives and those of patrician status until the reign of Justinian, and only then abolished.53 But even the emperor of the principate, in any case, traditionally owed it only to members of the senatorial class, as it was a public acknowledgement that emperor and those receiving it were of a common background, were members ‘of the same aristocratic community, whereas the proffering of body parts, such as the hand, signalled the emperor’s superiority.’54 There was thus an observable process of restricting the recipients of this more intimate and prestigious form of greeting. I would argue that this restriction and the introduction of the adoratio purpurae were two sides of the same coin. If we assume, as is likely, that the adoratio involved kissing a specific part of the imperial garment, i.e. a specially decorated or somehow accentuated segmentum/tablion of the purple chlamys, which, under Diocletian at the latest, became a main signifier of imperial status, it is only natural to connect the introduction of this ritual to the same emperor who, as our sources unanimously attest, also introduced an especially lavishly decorated imperial costume.55 True enough, the purple paludamentum or chlamys appears as an imperial symbol of note already in Herodian’s account of 3rd century emperors.56 There are some additional hints in our less reliable sources, circumstantial evidence at best, that 51 Suet. Tib. 34.2. 52 LINDHOLMER 2020, 93. 53 Proc. SH 30.21–24. Cf. ALFÖLDI 1970, 40 f. Cf. KÜHN 1987. BANG 2011, 105 n.6. LINDHOLMER 2020, 93–94. 54 DAVENPORT 2022, 304. 55 Contra LINDHOLMER 2020, 95 who speculates that kissing the purple was introduced only under Constantius II, partly based on the first proof of such a ritual in P. Abinn. 1.8 (early 340s). However, from this letter by Flavius Abinnaeus, a Roman officer writing to the emperor, it is clear that the adoratio purpurae was by that time a long-established ritual. For adorants taking up a portion of the imperial purple, see Amm. 15.5.18. Chrysos. ad pop. Ant. 11.14. Cf. AVERY 1940, 67 n.15. STERN 1954, 187–188. 56 Hdn. 7.5.3.

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emperors before Diocletian had already adopted several of the outwards signs of imperial majesty whose creation is traditionally credited to the latter. Tantalizingly alone among the 4th century epitomators, the anonymous author of the Epitome de Caesaribus writes that it was in fact Aurelian who introduced gold- and jewel-encrusted clothes, as well as the diadem, into imperial costume.57 This is doubtful and it is the near-unanimous opinion of scholars that it was Constantine who introduced the diadem as a formal insignium of emperorship. And yet, we should perhaps not dismiss the possibility out of hand.58 There is some iconographic evidence, that the late antique imperial diadem itself was not ‘invented’ out of whole cloth by Constantine; in a medallion struck in Milan in 260, for instance, the emperor Gallienus is wearing a simple exemplar of diadem, while John Malalas attests that Aurelian was in the habit of wearing a more elaborated version with a central star decoration.59 A similar decoration is visible on a medallion of Numerianus, minted in Ticinum.60 We know of other roughly contemporary emperors who also may have attempted to increase the visual majesty of emperorship in similar fashion: in the case of Gallienus, it was the dress and equipment of his bodyguard, not of the emperor himself, that had become ‘gilded’. Here, too, however, the source material is more than uncertain, as this equipment is only attested in the 4th century Historia Augusta, which may project the appearance of contemporary guards on an imagined past.61 Still, the existence of precursors notwithstanding, it appears indisputable that modes of monarchic representation and specific forms of aulic ceremonial were further developed and modified during the rule of the tetrarchs. Our sources from the 4th century onwards amply attest to changing and changed societal norms and notions, and to the fact that imperial ceremonial was both intended to ‘remove’ the emperor from his subjects and perceived as doing so. For the most part, however, scholarship of recent decades has agreed with Alföldi and it has become commonplace to view Diocletian’s contribution to the development of aulic ceremonial as being more along the lines of a systematisation, an ordering of several earlier, synchronous but divergent trends.62 One consequence of this is naturally that the role of Diocletian himself has been called into question. Alföldi depicted him as the victim of a source tradition that was bent on casting him as an ‘eastern’ despot and thus ascribed ‘Persian’ ceremonies to him personally, but it is beyond any serious doubt that changes to the manner in which emperors both presented themselves to and interacted with their courts and the populace at large occurred across the second half of the 3rd century and the first half of the 4th. Virtually all of our sources agree in crediting Diocletian with most of them. This is in itself meaningful, as in the 4th century, as John Matthews has pointed out, Romans 57 Epit. de Caes. 35.5: iste primus apud Romanos diadema capite innexuit, gemmisque et aurata omni veste, quod adhuc fere incognitum Romanis moribus visebatur, usus est. 58 ALFÖLDI 1970, 264–267. SMITH 1997. 59 John Mal. 13.20. For Aurelian cf. Epit. de Caes. 35.5, quoted above. 60 DELBRUECK 1932 (esp. 14 with Abb. 9); 61 HA Gall. 8.1–6. For earlier examples see e.g. Hdn. 2.13.10. Cf. ROLLINGER in press. 62 LÖHKEN 1982, 48–53. F. KOLB 2001, 38–41. SCHÖPE 2013. 2014, 38–57. The predominant modern view is now sketched out briefly in CARLÀ-UHINK 2019, 118–124.

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themselves believed two things of these new forms of imperial representation and performance: that they were introduced by Diocletian, and that they had ‘eastern’ (i.e. Persian) origins or associations.63 In my view, scholars have underestimated Diocletian’s decisive influence on the imperial style of late antiquity and we should follow our sources in viewing him as a more significant innovator than has been the case for the last half century. Genuflection in front of a Roman emperor was obviously not unheard of before Diocletian, but it now became the rule and was combined with the adoration of the purple, which is not attested previously.64 This conclusion, however, forces us to explain what the purpose of these innovations was and this, in turn, will lead us back to the question of ‘eastern’ influences. THRICE-GORGEOUS CEREMONY: EASTERN INFLUENCES OR BASE MORALITY? In their analysis of the alleged role of Diocletian as a decadent protos heuretes of the ‘orientalising’ later emperorship, scholars of the 19th and early 20th centuries adopted negative tropes already present in the ancient sources. That such judgements should have been readily accepted by scholars such as Jacob Burckhardt or Alfred von Domaszewski is hardly surprising, given the times, but they can still be felt in scholarship even of recent decades. For Jacob Burckhardt, late antique ceremonial as (allegedly) created by Diocletian was ‘Eastern’ and Alfred von Domaszewski concluded in his 1909 monograph that Diocletian grafted Sāsānian ceremonial onto the mores of a Roman military camp: ‘Eine groteske Mischung, die man eben byzantinisch nennt.’65 In his 1997 monograph, Stephen Williams judges this ‘mummery’ equally harshly: ‘All these theatrical devices were now used by Diocletian to elevate the four rulers permanently into towering, godlike monarchs, beings of a different order …[were] far more reminiscent of Eastern Hellenistic, not to say Pharaonic concepts of monarchy.’66 As recently as 2014, Umberto Roberto posed the question as to how such an ‘orientalising’ trend in ceremonial could be countenanced by a man of soldierly stock, devoted to Roman traditions and

63 MATTHEWS 2007, 245. Cf. already HA Alex. Sev. 18.3, which refers to Severus Alexander allegedly abolishing a practice instituted by Elegabalus of being adored in the manner of the kings of the Persians (adorari se vetuit, cum iam coepisset Heliogabalus adorari regum more Persarum). As the Historia Augusta was likely written at the very end of the 4th century, this may in fact be the earliest instance in Latin literature of a conscious connection between the adoratio and the Persians, as argued by LINDHOLMER 2020, 128. See also (but with no explicit reference to the adoratio) Lact. DMP 21.2–3. Leon Gramm. chron. 82.6–12 (Bonn). 64 AVERY 1940, 70–79. 65 VON DOMASZEWSKI 31909, II 320. For Burckhardt’s views, see now LEPPIN 2004. 66 WILLIAMS 1985, 111–112.

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costumes, and while he eschews the simple explanation of ‘character’ or pure ‘orientalising’, the way in which he poses the question is significant in and of itself.67 The two main ingredients of the noxious cocktail that was mixed by scholars with regard to Diocletian’s influence on the later Roman empire are already present in our sources: an alleged personal love of pomp and luxury that was connected to his lowly origins, and foreign, un-Roman (i.e. Persian) influences coupled with a base instinct for tyranny, which tied into the discussion of the late Roman emperor as a ‘Zwangsstaat’.68 Both of these alleged motivations are attested in our best sources, who look for reasons within the man himself – with predictably mixed results. Thus, Eutropius describes the emperor as callidus, sagax and a diligentissimus tamen et sollertissimus princeps and immediately afterwards connects this (by a simple et) to the regiae consuetudinis formam magis quam Romanae libertatis, which he attributes to him. Given Eutropius’ 4th century background, it is not immediately apparent to me that this should be taken as a negative.69 Aurelius Victor, on the other hand, attributes the changes in imperial representation and ceremonial to flaws in Diocletian’s character and explains them as a nouveau-riche love of luxury and adulation that stemmed from his lowly origins: He was a great man, yet he had the following characteristics: he was, in fact, the first who really desired a supply of silk, purple and gems for his sandals, together with a gold-brocaded robe. Although these things went beyond good taste and betrayed a vain and haughty disposition, they were nevertheless trivial in comparison with the rest. … From these indications … I have concluded that all men from the humblest backgrounds, especially when they have attained exalted positions, are excessive in their pride and ambition.70

Later authors have mostly followed Aurelius Victor. Thus, Zonaras also attributes ceremonial reforms to the emperor’s hybris.71 George Cedrenus adds that this ‘natural’ disposition was fuelled by Roman success against the Persians and by the return of Galerius from the East, laden with jewels, pearls, and foreign ideas about monarchy.72 Lactantius also alludes to the pejorative influence of the eastern victories on the Roman state, though, as always, he blames Galerius rather than Diocletian.73 67 ROBERTO 2014, 70: ‘Come spiegare questa deriva “orientalizzante” del cerimoniale da parte di un uomo altrimenti abituato alla dura vita del soldato, devoto alla tradizione e ai costume dei padri?’ 68 Now definitively debunked by MEIER 2003b. 69 Eutrop. 9.26. 70 Aur. Vict. 39.2–4: … magnus vir, his moribus tamen: quippe qui primus, ex auro veste quaesita, serici ac purpurae gemmarumque vim plantis concupiverit. Quae, quanquam plus quam civilia tumidique et affluentis animi, levia tamen prae ceteris. … quis rebus … compertum habeo humillimos quosque, maxime ubi alta acesserint, superbia atque ambitione immodicos esse (transl. Bird). 71 Zon. 162.5–16 = 12.31. 72 Cedr. 299.1 (Tartagli). Cf. Leon Gramm. 82.7–12. See TIPOLD, this volume, for the eastern campaigns of the tetrarchs. 73 Lact. DMP 21.2. Notably, the Historia Augusta, in its Life of Alexander Severus (HA Sev. Alex. 17.4–18.4), alleges that Elagabalus had ordered himself to be adored ‘in the manner of the king of the Persians’ as well. This is surely fictitious and LINDHOLMER 2020, 121–123; 128–131 has

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This pejorative view of Diocletian’s character is at times connected with his alleged wish to be ‘addressed like a god’, as Aurelius Victor writes.74 Such quasireligious or cultic motives are present in most of our extant sources. Alföldi has pointed to the religious and cultic origins of late antique ceremonial gestures and their purpose of performatively transforming the audience hall of the ruler into a cultic room, an adyton, which is particularly evident in the passage from the panegyric of 291 quoted above (haec quidem velut interioribus sacrariis operta veneratio).75 This is often connected to a ‘new’ theology of imperial rule, in which the emperor figured as a divinely sanctioned monarch, imbued with divine numen and authority, equipped with theophoric signa, and in which everything connected to the emperor became itself ‘sacred’ – including the palace and court itself, which became known as the sacrum palatium and sacer comitatus respectively.76 However, scholars have rightly and forcefully pointed out that this religious foundation of imperial rule was by no means specific to late antiquity. In fact, in a Roman imperial context, the emperor’s household had become the domus divina and the emperors themselves sanctissimi Augusti by the Severans.77 Solar ideology had played an increasing part under Gordianus III, Probus and Aurelian in particular, before Jupiter and Hercules became the comites of choice for tetrarchic emperors.78 And while deistic aspects of imperial legitimation were present through Roman history and were used by the tetrarchs, we should nevertheless be careful in our conclusions. In our sources, the allegedly religious pretensions of Diocletian are always connected to the adoratio and the ceremony of imperial greeting. This apposition of adoratio with salutatio is present in Eutropius, according to whom Diocletian ordered ‘that he be worshipped underfoot, while before him all [emperors] were only saluted’ (invexerit adorarique se iussit, cum ante eum cuncti salutarentur).79 Significantly, Jerome in his Chronicle writes: ‘Diocletian was the first to command that he be worshipped like a god, whereas all previous emperors had themselves greeted like a governor (in modum iudicum salutarentur).’80 We find a similar reference to the greeting of iudices in Ammianus Marcellinus.81 This opposition makes clear that the discourse about ceremonial changes and innovations in the tetrarchic

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convincingly argued that it is a reflection of 4th century imperial ceremonial, the period in which the Historia Augusta was created. Elagabalus’ alleged introduction of the adoratio furthermore only serves as a means of elevating the positive aspects of Severus Alexander’s reign, as it is mentioned exclusively in the context of Severus Alexander forbidding it. Aur. Vic. 39: adorari se appellarique uti deum. Pan. Lat. XI (3) 11.3. Cf. ALFÖLDI 1970, 29–38. Ibid. and cf. LÖHKEN 1982, 49–53. For the question of tetrarchic signa, see HUNNELL CHEN, this volume. TREITINGER 1956, 50–52. STRAUB 1964, 76–133. ALFÖLDI 1970, 186–255. MATTHEWS 2007, 245. F. KOLB 2001, 35–37. See JOHNE 2008b on the evolution of emperorship during that period. Eutr. 9.26. Hier. Chron. 2312: Primus Diocletianus adorari se ut Deum iussit […], cum ante eum omnes imperatores in modum iudicum salutarentur. Amm. 15.5.18 adds that this was an adoption of externo et regio more. Amm. 15.5.18.

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period, rather than solely being a question of a ‘god-like’ status of the emperors, revolved particularly around the modalities of interaction between emperor and elite (i.e. senators), since, in the idiom of late antique administration, iudices were high officials and governors. Just as access to the emperor was a boon that not everyone, not even every courtier or official, was entitled to, so too was adoratio restricted.82 In the panegyric of 291, only those ‘whose public rank gave them access to you’ (quibus aditum vestri dabant ordines dignitatis) were astonished by the sight of the quasi-divine emperors.83 The right to adore was both highly coveted as a privilege and external sign of rank, and strictly controlled by the government as a public sign of imperial favour. Violations of all kinds were punished severely, both in terms of the unlawful usurpation of the adoratio and the unlawful exclusion from it.84 On the other hand, the withdrawal of this prerogative was understood a bitter setback, akin to earlier emperors renouncing their amicitia with individual senators or refusing to greet them with a kiss.85 In practice, the right to adoration was tied to court offices and dignities, which in turn arose from service at the imperial court or in the imperial administration in general. In his description of the honours paid to the body of Constantine after his death, Eusebius gives us an indication of who was allowed to adore the purple in the late 330s: the highest echelons of the army and the court, the comites, some senators and other dignitaries (οἵ τ᾿ ἐπ᾿ ἀξίας πάντες).86 Strikingly, two almost identical but often neglected or ignored passages in later sources – the 12th century Epitome Historiarum of Zonaras and the 9th century Chronographia of George Synkellos and Theophanes87 – show that Diocletian’s ceremonial reforms were addressed primarily to the senate and, by implication, to the new administrative elite of the bureaucracy: Diocletian, when he had become elated and arrogant as a result [of success], no longer tolerated being addressed by the senate as before, but made it a custom to receive obeisance, adorned his clothing and shoes with gold and precious stones and pearls, and introduced greater extravagance into the imperial insignia.88

The emphasis on Diocletian’s preference for golden and purple cloth, for shoes studded with pearls and robes weighted down with jewels, is conventional, as is the reference to Diocletian’s hubris.89 But, importantly, the innovations are explicitly

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KELLY 2004, 25–26. Pan. Lat. XI (3).11.3: quibus aditum vestri dabant ordines dignitatis (transl. Nixon/Rodgers). See for instance CTh 6.24.4; 7.1.7; 8.1.13; 8.7.16; 12.1.70. Amm. 22.9.16. Eus. VC 4.67.1. Cf. AVERY 1940, 68. See TORGERSON 2022 on the complicated and misunderstood history of the latter work. Zon. 162.5–16 = 12.31 Banchich: οἷς ἐπαρθεὶς ὁ Διοκλητιανὸς καὶ μέγα φροήσας οὐκέτι προσαγορεύεσθαι παρὰ τῆς γερουσίας ὡς πρῴην ἠνείχετο, ἀλλὰ προσκυνεῖσθαι ἔθέσπισε, καὶ τὰς ἐσθῆτας ἑαυτοῦ καὶ τὰ ὑποδήματα χρυσῷ καὶ λίθοις καὶ μαργάροις ἐκόσμησε, καί πλείονα πολυτέλειαν τοῖς βασιλικοῖς παρασήμοις ἐνέθετο (transl. Banchich). Cf. BLECKMANN 1992, 310–312. 89 Cf. Aur. Vict. 39.2–4.

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mentioned in the context of Diocletian’s relationship with the senate. The same point is made by Theophanes: Exalted by these successes [i.e. the Persian victory] Diocletian demanded that the Senate make obeisance to him and not merely salute him as protocol had previously required.90

Apart from the conventional reference to ‘eastern’ influences, this, then, was the goal of Diocletian’s reforms, as understood later: the rulers changed the outward form of their interaction with the highest representatives of the state, including and particularly for senators. In this context, the change was rather more significant than Alföldi assumed.91 A parallel instance of innovation in a later century, that I have already briefly alluded to, may illustrate this point. Famously, Procopius describes in his Secret History how Justinian and Theodora introduced a humiliating novelty into the audience ceremonial in the 6th century: where senators had previously genuflected, they were now obliged to prostrate themselves; where they had previously been privileged to kiss the imperial chlamys, Justinian now demanded that they kiss his – and, worse still: the empress’ – purple-shod feet. Significantly, patricians, who had hitherto apparently been privileged, were now also forced to prostrate themselves.92 As is the case with Diocletian’s ceremonial, this well-known passage has been variously taken as proof of ‘Byzantine’ extravagance and theocratic despotism; of Justinian’s strictly hierarchical model of emperorship, which exalted the ruler by abasing everybody else; of his personal arrogance; of Theodora’s nefarious influence. But Procopius is subtler than this: what he criticizes is not the ceremonial as such, but the fact that it is now demanded not only in the presence of the emperor, but of the empress as well; and that status differences between patricians – the very apogee of late Roman aristocratic society, the highest of the high – and other senators were elided by forcing them to participate in the same ritual.93 As I have argued elsewhere, what he is preoccupied with, then, is not so much the communication of subordination to the emperor, but the impossibility of communicating higher relative status among the elite.94 By the same token, the moralising judgement of our sources on the subject of Diocletian’s introduction of a ‘modern’ rite of adoratio obfuscates the point. The ceremonial innovations reflect neither delusions of godhood, nor a base morality of a nouveau-riche barracks emperor, but rather the beginnings of a process of amalgamation between the traditional aristocratic elite and a new functional nobility, with its concomitant changes in status display and communication. As Nikolas Hächler has argued in his contribution to the present volume, Diocletian was both ‘a representative and catalyst of a new meritocracy which

90 Theoph. Conf. AM 5793: ἀρθεὶς δὲ ὑπὸ τῆς τῶν πραγμάτων εὐροίας Διοκλητιανὸς προσκυνεῖσθαι ὑπὸ τῶν συγκλητικῶν καὶ οὐ προσαγορεύεσθαι κατὰ τὸ πρότερον σχῆμα ἀπῄτησεν (transl. Mango/Scott). Cf. BLECKMANN 1992, 310–312. 91 Cf. LÖHKEN 1982, 48–53. 92 Proc. SH 30.21–24. 93 Cf. PAZDERNIK 2009, 66–77. 94 ROLLINGER 2020, 63–66.

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originated from the equestrian order’.95 The creation of a true imperial bureaucracy, itself a function of tetrarchic reforms of provincial administration and taxation, saw a significant increase in the number of persons directly serving the emperors in the various departments and subdepartments both in provincial cities, residences and moving with the imperial comitatus. Concomitantly, social honours and privileges, previously jealously guarded by the ordo amplissimus, were expanded to larger groups of civil servants, with membership of the equestrian order growing particularly rapidly in the late 3rd century. But while recruits for this civil service were originally mostly homines novi, that is from non-senatorial, equestrian (or even lower) stock, membership of the imperial senate and individual status as senator was later linked to civil service. Thus, while not all senators served in the imperial administration, all high functionaries of the administration were soon to become senators. We do not know exactly when this practice was established, except to say that it happened by the first half of the 4th century. Nikolas Hächler has shown that Diocletian did not significantly change the traditional senatorial cursus honorum and that senatorial disengagement from political involvement seems to have been a consequence of long-standing processes and developments, rather than individual imperial decisions.96 Thus, the origins of what has been called the ‘new imperial nobility of service’ of the 4th century lie in the 3rd century, with emperors such as Gallienus and Diocletian. This new nobility of service was recompensed with honours and material rewards, certainly, but also by being made ceremonial equals of the viri clarissimi in the presence of the emperor. It was also, as Henrik Löhken has put it, an outward sign of the ‘emancipation’ of Roman emperors from the traditional nobility, who no longer felt bound to the traditional farce of the principate and ‘updated’ the performative elements of monarchical rule to better fit new realities and to ceremonially enact the underlying ideology of their regime.97 The new ceremonial normal under Diocletian was accepted both by his courtiers and by the senate, though, notably, allowances were made and continued to be made within the context of the imperial city of Rome. Here, senators were still granted the traditional reverence due to them, both by Diocletian and the tetrarchs and by later Roman emperors until the 5th century.98 Outside the bounds of the urbs proper, however, and particularly within the sacred palace of the emperors, matters were different.99 Senatorial ambassadors to Diocletian and Maximian during their stay at Milan in 291 were received in the by now normal ceremonial and adored the imperial purple together with the courtiers and, from their perspectives, the arrivistes. They genuflected together: though they may have resented it, they had no other choice.

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HÄCHLER, this volume, 192. HÄCHLER, this volume (passim), and cf. HÄCHLER 2019. LÖHKEN 1982, 54. Cf. SCHMIDT-HOFNER 2012 and the papers assembled in MCEVOY & MOSER 2017. See the conclusion of GUIDETTI, this volume.

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THE POLITICAL FUNCTION OF PERFORMANCE Of all the innovations and reforms attributed to Diocletian, rightfully or not, some proved to be more long-lived than others. The ceremonial superelevation of the emperor, to paraphrase Wolfgang Kuhoff, was one of these, and this applies to aspects of ideology (e.g. the tetrarchic signa), as well as the material of décor and costume, and performative dimensions of monarchical expression. To be sure, historically contingent developments such as the rise of Christianity shaped the further evolution of the performance of emperorship, but the direction of imperial representation and ceremonial was clear: the emperor was to become ever more remote, ever more distant, ever more elevated. In attributing significant changes to Diocletian and in interpreting them as signalling larger and more profound changes in conceptions of authority and the nature of emperorship in the later empire as a whole, scholars have, for the most part, followed the literary evidence and, to various degrees, the ‘official’ court version of the ‘imperial idea’.100 Two separate strands of thought can be identified here. For one, imperial ceremonial has been interpreted as a true representation of a quasi-‘official’ late antique political ideology; a performance, in other words, of what the emperors, the court, and, to some degree at least, the populace believed.101 On the other hand, it has been argued from the point of view of Realpolitik that this was a conscious effort on the part of emperors such as Diocletian to stabilize their rule by surrounding themselves with the trappings of autocracy in order to ‘domesticate’ both the aristocracy and the court.102 Implicit in this distinction is the notion that performance and Realpolitik are separate entities. In the final sections of this chapter, I will argue against this artificial separation and in favour of understanding tetrarchic ceremonial as part of an assemblage of imperial ideology that would come to dominate late antiquity, as both expression of authority and means of exercising it. To put this in terms of assemblage theory as developed by Manuel De Landa, the interpretation of ceremonial as representation would conform to what he termed elements playing an ‘expressive role’ (i.e. expressive of the legitimacy of emperorship and specific emperors), while the view of ceremonial as Realpolitik could be seen as a ‘material’ element, that is one which helped ensure obedience to the ruler on the part of the ruled.103 De Landa’s categories are ideal types; they are not mutually exclusive. In the context of court ceremonial, the missing link is a better understanding of what political rituals (i.e. ceremonies) actually are. Based on foundational scholarship from ethnologists and anthropologists such as Clifford Geertz, historians of the medieval and early modern period have been studying cultural practices in historical polities through the lens of ritual theory.104 Political rituals 100 E.g. F. KOLB 2001, 38–54. Cf. KALDELLIS 2015, 32–62 for the significant issues that this tradition entails. 101 This view is particularly dominant in TREITINGER 1956. 102 WEISWEILER 2015. Contra: ROLLINGER 2020. 103 DE LANDA 2006, 68. 104 GEERTZ 1980. BELL 2009. Cf. REXROTH 2003 for medieval Europe and STOLLBERG-RILINGER 2005 for the early modern period.

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have thus been reinterpreted in the past decades: no longer mere representations or expressions of ideology, they are now predominantly seen as following a specific, performative and creative logic. ‘Creative’ here takes on the sense of actually creating political realities; this is most readily observable in ceremonies of ruler accession or coronation. Rather than expressing a legal reality, accession rituals in antiquity (and the medieval period and early modern period) create a political reality: in a very real sense, the monarch is made by ceremony.105 The same applies, in principle, to the audience ceremonial that is our primary concern here. In the words of Geertz, adapted from the original context of Balinese kingship, the performative aspects of emperorship under Diocletian – the adoratio, the lavish costume – were an argument for his position as emperor and as chief of the imperial college, ‘an argument, made over and over again in the insistent vocabulary of ritual’.106 It has become conventional to ascribe the development of an ever more hierarchical, even hieratic ceremonial, which continued unabatedly under Christian rulers, not only to general societal processes within the empire, which emphasized hierarchical relationships and authority, but also to an effort on the part of emperors such as Diocletian to ‘immunize’ themselves against usurpations and upheavals, not least after the traumatic experiences of the 3rd century.107 This may be true, as far as it goes, but not in the sense that is most commonly meant. As Anthony Kaldellis has rightly argued, the belief (regardless of how widely or not it was shared) that the monarch was chosen and crowned by God is not in itself an explanation for how the monarchy as such functioned, why the ruler was obeyed, how this shaped ‘subject-ruler interactions in real time’.108 Declaring oneself the Chosen of the God(s), singular or plural, has never stopped a single monarch from being deposed, attacked or intrigued against, if circumstances warranted it; the most impressive ceremonial is hardly a defence against either a bodkin in the night or a guillotine in the marketplace. It is important to note, then, that while changes in ceremonial often were reflective of a change in official ideology, they were not necessarily reflective of changes in belief or reality. Ceremonial, I would argue, is a language, a way of expressing authority in the sense of communicating it and entering into a dialogue with those to whom ceremonial is addressed, thus negotiating hierarchy and authority in a multidirectional exchange of symbolic gestures, both horizontally and vertically. In the case of late antique aulic ceremonial, the addressees were the social and political elites, i.e. both the traditional senatorial class as well as the members of the imperial comitatus and the ‘new’ aristocracy. Roman emperors in late antiquity were more remote than their predecessors of the principate, more exalted, more removed from purely ‘human’ contexts, albeit 105 See TRAMPEDACH 2005 and now ROLLINGER 2021, 266–336 for accession rituals of late antiquity; cf. ROLLINGER in press and DAVENPORT 2022, 309–312 for the principate; and NELSON 1976 for the early medieval period. 106 GEERTZ 1980, 102. Cf. LINDHOLMER 2020, 11–12 for the uses of Geertz in analysing Roman ceremonies, and for the quote. 107 Cf. MARTIN 1997. MEIER 2003a. 2016 (though with a focus on the 6th century). For Diocletian in particular, see ROBERTO 2014, 70. 108 KALDELLIS 2015, 5.

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we should be careful not to take this too far. They were human, still, and were seen as such. They were fallible and subject to the same virtues and vices as the courtiers, and they were seen as being subject to them. Ceremonial introduced by Diocletian and developed and perfected by his successors was, in a sense, a performed ideology of imperial rule. And yet, it served a specific communicative purpose. As Claude Cheynet has written about the emperors of later, Christian centuries: ‘We are too often impressed by the image which Byzantine rulers constructed of themselves and passed: that of their omnipotence after the manner of God himself. All of them spent most of their time trying to accomplish the task of governing by traditional methods, founded on a necessary agreement between the sovereign and his people.’109 The ‘people’, in this case, included the members of the imperial comitatus, the indispensable servants of a now-necessary bureaucracy, as well as the members of the traditional elite. The social and functional integration of these groups later pursued by Constantine and largely achieved by his immediate successors was begun, on a ceremonial level, by Diocletian.110 In her 2015 article on the Roman fresco at Luxor, Susanna McFadden emphasizes that the image of the emperors depicted in the imperial cult chambers ‘were illustrations not of reality, but how the late Roman state wished its rulers to be perceived.’111 While the latter is certainly true, I see no reason why the former should be. What we find presented in Luxor quite accurately reflects the circumstances and processes of an imperial audience ceremonial, albeit the intangible, even ineffable elements were by necessity depicted in symbolic fashion. The ceremonial alluded to in the Luxor frescoes, as all imperial ceremonies, performed and visualized power structures on the one hand and the participation of the court and other guests signalled general acceptance of imperial rule on the other. Through their presence at receptions and audiences, the members of the sacer comitatus performed their own acceptance of the state and imperial ideology and of the social and court order made visible and symbolically communicated in the ceremonial. Through their participation in the ceremonial exaltation of the emperor, they inserted themselves into a living image of the ideology propagated by the tetrarchy of a divinely-sanctioned rule of brothers and assumed the subordinated positions assigned to them. This acquiescence into a divinely ordained order, the subordination to the ruling college emperors, was nowhere more conspicuous than in the ritual of adoratio. This is true in a figurative, but also – and importantly – in a literal way, and the relevance of this point has been shown in the works of adherents of the so-called ‘practice approach’ to rituals.112 As Catherine Bell has put it: ‘required kneeling does not merely communicate subordination to the kneeler. For all intents and purposes, kneeling produces a subordinated kneeler in and through the act itself.’113 The 109 CHEYNET 2003, 137. 110 On this process of amalgamation see ARNHEIM 1972 (esp. 39–73). LÖHKEN 1982. MOSER 2018. For the incorporation of this new nobility into imperial ceremonial, see ROLLINGER 2020. 111 MCFADDEN 2015b, 121. 112 LINDHOLMER 2020, 12–13. 113 BELL 1992, 100.

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senator kneeling in front of the tetrarchic emperor is, in a way, a reification of the tetrarchic and late antique claim to authority. CONCLUSIONS: CEREMONY AS COMMUNICATION In Shakespeare’s Henry V, the titular English king spends the night before the decisive battle of Agincourt in a state of sleepless anxiety, musing (inter alia) on the fate of monarchs and the necessity of the pomp and ceremony by which they are surrounded: ‘And what art thou, thou idol ceremony? … O ceremony, show me but thy worth!’114 It is a reasonable demand, one with which the historian sympathizes, and which he must attempt to answer. The ‘worth’ of ceremonial in late antique imperial contexts is multifaceted: ceremonial regulated court life, both relatively mobile (as under the tetrarchs and 4th century emperors) and sedentary (from Arcadius onwards), and channelled access to an emperor that was in near-constant danger of being overwhelmed by the demands made of him; it was a symbolic representation of imperial status and authority, both to domestic and foreign audiences; it was also a source of symbolic authority, a means of delineating and reinforcing the separation between this ultimate figure authority in the realm and everyone else; most of all, however, it was a means of communication. Communication, by definition, is multi-directional. Emperors such as Diocletian and Justinian could grant or revoke imperial privileges to exalt the most loyal or important of their subjects, or to degrade them. They could use ceremonial innovations to further their agenda, to reify changes in imperial style and ideology, as with the introduction of adoratio, when both ‘old’ senators and members of the new functional elite were obliged to greet the emperor in similar fashion. This was certainly intended to strengthen the symbolic position of the ruler; but it may very well also have been intended to further the integration of old and new nobility, by relegating them to the same level of subordination relative to the figure of supreme power. Emperors could and would use ceremonialised interactions to communicate with the court, the army, and, particularly from the 5th century onwards, when emperors became immobilized in Mediolanum/Ravenna and Constantinople, with the populace of their place of residence. Conversely, however, ceremonial was also a form of communication on the sub-imperial level, that is: among the courtiers and subjects, who jockeyed for influence and prestige. The court, after all, was the place to see and be seen to enjoy imperial favour.115 Frequently, the emperors made use of this competition, as is observable in a short passage of Ammianus’ account of the usurpation of the magister militum Silvanus against Constantius II. When news of the usurpation was brought to the imperial palace in Milan, Constantius II took council with his advisers and decided to act. Ursicinus, a general who had been out of favour with the emperor for some time, was now summoned into the imperial presence. Ammianus Marcellinus, who 114 Henry V, Act 4, Sc. 1. 115 ROLLINGER 2020.

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was to be attached to Ursicinus’ staff and was likely an eyewitness to the events he describes in his Res gestae, recounts how he was invested with his mission and the aspect he focuses on is telling: Summoned by the master of admissions, which is the more honourable way, and having entered the consistory, he was offered the purple much more graciously than before.116

Ammianus’ typically dense and multilayered expression ingresso consistorium is not easy to translate as consistorium here means a number of things simultaneously: Ursicinus was likely summoned to a specific room of the palace at Milan which served as a reception hall, and which may have been called the consistorium, as was the case in Constantinople. But ingresso consistorium also refers to the ideological and personal setting of the occasion, in that the formal setting of an audience is here precisely circumscribed as a gathering of the sacrum consistorium. The consistory of late antique emperors has been variously described as an imperial council, a ‘Staats’- or ‘Kronrat’, a more formal and institutionalized development of the concilium principis of the principate. John Crook, one of the main proponents of this view, defined it as being ‘what the consilium had never been, a regular, acknowledged organ of the constitution, a privy council in the fullest sense’, composed of a ‘fixed group of comites intra palatium’, the ‘heads of the civil service who are the permanent policy-makers’.117 However, in the only monographic treatment of the consistorium to date, David Graves traced its development from Diocletian to the 6th century and showed that this is a rather simplistic view. He argues that a truly institutional affiliation to the consistorium was a very late development and that this alleged late antique ‘crown council’ retained a noticeably ad hoc character well into the 4th century.118 It was only that administrative and political decisions became the main focus of the consistorium, although even then the autonomy of decision-making postulated by Crook was never absolutely the case. The comites consistoriani never became real ‘ministers’, just as the consistorium never became a council of ministers. In fact, our sources attribute three main functions to the sacred consistory, none of which was that of a ‘cabinet’. It was firstly the place to discuss domestic and foreign policy developments, mostly in the guise of diplomatic audiences with ambassadors and envoys. Secondly, it served as the highest court of the empire, whose members drew up and promulgated laws and edicts, but also heard charges, e.g. of treason. Lastly, and most relevantly for us, it provided a formal and appropriate setting for acts of state, which generally included audiences, diplomatic receptions, the distribution of gifts and promotions, and probably other ceremonies; panegyrics were also recited in the consistorium.119 In his analysis, Graves laudably pays attention to these ceremonial aspects of the consistory, in addition to the matters of administrative and legal history which strongly dominated research on the 116 Amm. 15.5.18: et per admissionum magistrum – qui mos est honoratior – accito eodem, ingresso consistorium offertur purpura multo quam antea placidius. 117 CROOK 1975, 101–102. The consistory is treated by CHRISTOPHILOPULU 1954; KUNKEL 1974; WEISS 1975. 118 GRAVES 1973, 49–119. Cf. AMARELLI 1995, 187–188. 119 KUNKEL 1974, 432. Cf. CHRISTOPHILOPULU 1954, 83. On panegyrics see OMISSI 2018, 59 f.

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imperial court in the 1970s. Indeed, he saw ceremonial as the main and original function of the consistorium domini, which coexisted for many years with the more informal consilium and other, possibly more spontaneous or ad hoc advisory bodies. Discussions or decision-making was not the actual purpose of the consistorium. Rather, precisely because decisions were made elsewhere, it served as a ceremonial framework for communicating them once they had been made. The audience granted to Ursicinus illustrates this quite nicely: prior to summoning the general, Constantius had assembled his consilium and only after the choice of general to be sent against Silvanus had been made, was a consistory called. We also learn from Ammianus how nuanced the ceremonial was in its application, that there were more and less honourable ways of being summoned into the imperial presence, as well as gradations in the interaction with the imperial figure itself. Probably, even among members of the court, the right to adore the imperial purple (as opposed to the expected genuflection) was likely not granted to everyone. Ammianus explicitly states that Ursicinus was treated in a particularly honourable manner (quid mos est honoratior). In context, this means two closely related things: he was admitted into a formal consistory (i.e. an audience) instead of being called to participate in the deliberations beforehand, and he was now being offered the purple ‘more graciously’ than before (offertur purpura multo quam antea placidius), which may be nothing more than Ammianus’ impression, but which also might denote a ceremonial nuance that we cannot retrace (e.g. his being allowed to ‘adore’ a different section of the imperial costume?). This was presumably intended to have a twofold effect on Ursicinus, who had been out of the emperor’s good graces for some time: for one, it served to reinforce the message that he was being honored by acting as emissary of the emperor, but remained a subordinate. Kissing the purple in a formal consistory was a declaration of loyalty. On the other hand, it may have been also meant to placate the magister, who had been damaged by earlier court intrigues, and who was, after all, being send away to deal with a rival claimant to the throne who would certainly try to win him over to his side.120 By admitting Ursicinus to a higher ceremonial honour, Constantius may have been attempting to show his confidence and bind the general closer to him. Just as the imperial kiss had once been an important mark of favour within court circles, with the manner in which the emperor did or did not allow it precisely observed by courtiers and favourites alike, so, too, was the right to adore the purple. Even if this description of events dates from more than half a century after the time of the tetrarchy, it is still informative and relevant to our purposes. Interestingly, Ammianus’ description of the scene offers a counterpoint of sorts to the panegyrist’s account of the Milan audience of 291. Ammianus’ text is primarily concerned with the politics of the ceremonial, as opposed to the aesthetic and quasi-cultic aspects, but even in Ammianus’ brief description, it is evident that ceremonial served to performatively and ideologically exalt the figure of the emperor. This happened in different ways and by different means: a preference for ‘collective’ audiences with a concomitant restriction of access in terms of ‘private’ 120 Amm. 15.5.18.

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audiences, and an ostentatiously splendid and performative ceremonial including the ceremonial performative aspects that I have discussed in this chapter. During audiences, such as the one Ursicinus was summoned to attend, members of the court and bodyguards would have lined the walls, while the emperor’s throne would have been set up in or in front of an apse and slightly elevated; curtains would have hidden him from view until the appropriate moment. The general was made to appear in front of the emperor and his advisory body, and was situated in a ritual locus of imperial ceremonial. To ceremonially declare and officially communicate the emperor’s intentions and to entrust Ursicinus with his new task was the superficial purpose of this consistory. Its deeper purpose was twofold: to demonstrate his position in the social and political hierarchy of the Roman empire both to Ursicinus himself and to the rest of the court, and to exalt the emperor as a figure of unassailable authority. Ceremonial innovations under Diocletian, then, were simultaneously more subtle than our sources attest and late 19th/early 20th century scholarship surmises, and more significant than Alföldi and subsequent scholars have tended to assume. Its individual elements, such as the adoratio or the emphasis on material splendour in dress and adornment, may not have been completely novel, but the ceremonial framework into which they were weaved – or, indeed, in which they were assembled – was. Most scholars would likely subscribe to the view that these changes in comportment and etiquette signalled larger and more profound changes in the nature of monarchical rule in the later empire as a whole.121 This is true, as far as it goes. But I would argue that it misses an important point. Ceremonial is seldom only a top-down imposition of imperial representation or ‘propaganda’; it was primarily a (multidirectional) means of communication.122 What changed was not the actual configuration of emperorship so much as the language used by the central authority to express (by now) more or less traditional authority, and by the imperial subjects of all social strata to reify acquiescence and consent. Additionally, as with all instances of ceremonial innovation by individual emperors, it is crucial to take account of specific circumstances and to ask who the principal addressees of any given ritual element likely were. In the case of Diocletian, aulic ceremonial was introduced on the one hand to regulate access to the emperor and interactions within the court but was also addressed to a specific social group that, for the most part, was excluded from the comitatus: the traditional elites. Their incorporation into new ceremonial frameworks, in which they were, for the most part, no longer privileged in comparison to the non-senatorial service nobility, was part of the process that would see the emergence of a new imperial nobility in the 4th century, in which senatorial status was connected to service and in which a fierce competition for status continued on a new playing ground.123

121 F. KOLB 2001, 38–54. 122 VAN NUFFELEN 2012. 123 ROLLINGER 2020.

PUBLIC RITUALS AND PERFORMANCE THE CEREMONIAL STAGING OF IMPERIAL AUTHORITY UNDER DIOCLETIAN Fabio Guidetti* The emperor Diocletian is credited by several ancient authors1 with important innovations regarding the insignia of supreme power, as well as the conduct of imperial audience ceremonies. These innovations have been traditionally interpreted as reflecting a fundamental change in the nature of emperorship, and marking the beginning of new notions of authority.2 Less attention has been devoted to the development of a highly ritualised style of political communication of the emperors with the wider public, which was characteristic of the late Roman world and remained an essential element of rulers’ self-representation in the Byzantine Empire and the post-Roman successor states. Ideas of rulership were conveyed and visualised outside the court through the organisation of complex public ceremonies, which in ritual terms staged the relations of the emperors with one another and with the other elements of the Roman state – the Senate, the army, the bureaucratic elite, the provincial aristocracies, and (last but not least) the common citizens. The repertoire of ceremonies inherited from earlier periods underwent profound changes and was filled with new meanings, coherent with those expressed by the new insignia and audience etiquette. Several textual and visual sources provide a glimpse on some of these ceremonial events: those which, thanks to their intrinsic importance and/or privileged setting (usually the city of Rome or one of the imperial residences), made their way into the Romans’ cultural memory through literary works, as well as official or private monuments. These sources allow us to appreciate such performative changes and grasp such essential features of imperial self-representation as they were staged for, and viewed by, the inhabitants of the most important cities of the Empire. The result of these innovations was not only to emphasise the physical presence of the emperor in front of the citizens, but also to isolate him from the members of his retinue, enhancing the hierarchical element in the staging of imperial authority. This increased attention to hierarchy and its display is a general phenomenon in late Roman society,3 which also resulted in a new way of appropriating urban *

1 2 3

I am grateful to Nicola Barbagli, Fraser Gray, Gavin Kelly, and the editors of this volume for their advice and stimulating discussions. Of course, the responsibility of any mistake or inexactitude is entirely mine. Aur. Vict. Caes. 39.2. Eutr. 9.26. Hier. chron. p. 226.10–15 Helm. See F. KOLB 2001, especially 38–54, and ROLLINGER, this volume. See the contributions in TOMMASI, SOARES SANTOPRETE & SENG 2018, especially GUIDETTI 2018a.

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public space, the traditional privileged place of political interaction. One of the most striking, if not yet fully appreciated, new phenomena of late Roman urban life was the exceptional burst in the use of animal-drawn vehicles for formal purposes, which intensified from the late third century. Representational open carriages (carrucae), in the shape of a throne-like seat installed on a wheeled platform, were commonly used as signs of rank and power by state officials and aristocrats on the public highway. This custom provided the most convenient opportunities for display, thanks to its unique conditions of privileged visibility: the open carriage, employed in an urban or suburban context, attracted the attention of the passer-by with its shiny metal revetment and gave its occupants the possibility of being seen by everyone, raising them above the crowd and showcasing their importance and social status. The most vivid description of this phenomenon is provided by the historian Ammianus Marcellinus with reference to the Western senatorial aristocracy at the end of the fourth century. After deploring the use of imposing chariots and luxurious clothes as means to flaunt one’s wealth,4 Ammianus describes at length the impressive corteges accompanying the most influential Roman senators during their urban and suburban trips, crowded with dozens of servants and clients running in front and at the rear of the vehicle.5 Imperial self-representation was fully integrated in this semantic system and helped to increase its complexity and define its standards, both by providing an authoritative model to be imitated by officials and aristocrats, and by regulating the latter’s self-representation through legislative provisions.6 It would be incorrect, however, to interpret the spread of this phenomenon simply as the imitation of imperial ceremonies by the upper classes: in fact, the earliest sources showing Roman aristocrats using open chariots for private journeys in urban and suburban contexts are dated to ca. 270–280,7 whereas the same arrangements are not attested in imperial self-representation before ca. 290. While this impression may well be a consequence of the poor preservation of the sources (we are not well informed on imperial ceremonies under, for example, Aurelian or Probus), it is nonetheless tempting 4

5 6 7

Amm. 14.6.9: alii summum decus in carruchis solito altioribus, et ambitioso vestium cultu ponentes… (‘others find their ultimate glory in abnormally tall carriages and in ostentatiously decorated clothes…’). Ammianus’ text is quoted according to the edition by CLARK 1910– 1915; I am very grateful to Gavin Kelly who allowed me to use his unpublished English translation. Amm. 14.6.16–17. The most important piece of legislation on this subject is the constitution De honoratorum vehiculis, enacted by Theodosius in 386 and addressed to the urban prefect of Constantinople (CTh 14.12.1). Some 35 sarcophagi lids from Rome, dating ca. 270 to 350, depict the deceased (usually a couple) travelling to their suburban villa on board an open carriage, accompanied and welcomed by servants. The depiction is commonly interpreted as part of a group of scenes describing the leisure activities typical of the villa lifestyle: other images displayed on these sarcophagi include hunting scenes and open-air banquets. The earliest example is a fragmentary lid dated ca. 270–280 (Roma, Museo Nazionale Romano, Terme di Diocleziano, inv. no. 8942). On these sarcophagi see AMEDICK 1991, 46–55 and GUIDETTI 2017, 411–419, with references to earlier literature.

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to see a parallel development in aristocratic and imperial self-representation, with the emperors of the late third century choosing to adopt a non-military style of staging their presence in the public space, similar to that used by the urban elite. Starting from this moment and throughout the late antique period, the imperial carriage served as the most important symbol of the ruler’s authority whenever he entered the urban space. Accordingly, this object is a major focus of attention in the textual and visual sources relating ceremonial events involving the emperor. In the following pages I analyse three episodes when the contemporary presence of two emperors is attested: thanks to their rather exceptional nature, such events are better documented in the extant sources than those featuring only one emperor. Moreover, examining the different ways in which the interaction between two Augusti, or between an Augustus and a Caesar, was staged in front of the army and the citizens will prove extremely useful in reconstructing how Diocletian chose to advertise his model of shared rulership. MILAN 290/291: THE HARMONY OF THE IMPERIAL BROTHERS The first case study is provided by the fragments of more than 30 marble relief panels, discovered between 2001 and 2016 in İzmit, the ancient Nicomedia, Diocletian’s principal residence.8 The fragments, which show well-preserved traces of polychromy, were once part of a monumental frieze, ca. 50 m long. According to the preliminary publication, several blocks depicted ‘an adventus featuring standard bearers, Roman soldiers leading Germanic captives with bound hands, and spectators including deities, personifications, and togate Roman citizens. The procession approaches from both the right and the left, culminating at the center with the meeting and embrace of the two emperors.9 The reliefs feature two rulers represented as equal in rank: the absence of any reference to junior emperors in the whole frieze supports a date between 1 April 286, when Maximian was elevated to the rank of Augustus, and 1 March 293, when Constantius and Galerius were co-opted into the imperial college. The depiction of Diocletian and Maximian embracing one another can probably be interpreted as the focal point of the whole frieze (Pl. 8). The figure on the left, slightly taller and with grey hair, can be identified as the senior Augustus Diocletian; whereas the slightly shorter figure on the right, with reddish-brown hair and directing his gaze upwards to meet his colleague’s eyes, shows the short, flat nose which was a physiognomic characteristic of Maximian.10 The two emperors wear the same ceremonial costume, basically describable as a variation of the usual outfit of a high-ranking army officer, manufactured with the most precious materials. It 8

See ŞARE AĞTÜRK 2018, especially 417–420 for a description of the relief. The Nicomedian discoveries have now been published as a monograph with extensive catalogue in ŞARE AĞTÜRK 2021. 9 ŞARE AĞTÜRK 2018, 417. 10 SMITH 1997, 181.

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comprises a long-sleeved white tunic, girded by a purple belt and decorated with gold bands at the hem, shoulders and wrists; purple trousers with horizontal gold bands; purple shoes; and a fringed purple paludamentum. The scanty remains of two wings on the background of the emperors’ heads attest to the presence of two flying Victories behind them. To the left and right of the central scene, the emperors’ ceremonial vehicles were arranged symmetrically: the two depictions complete one another allowing us to supply the missing details. Diocletian’s chariot (on the left) is now completely lost, and only its four horses are preserved: the one in the foreground has a parade harness decorated with vegetal motifs and a series of hanging ornaments (only one is visible, shaped like a head of Medusa). In the background, at least two officers were depicted: one, wearing a cuirass and paludamentum, carries a round shield and probably a spear, while of the second one only the shield is extant. By contrast, Maximian’s chariot (on the right) is almost fully preserved: it is a four-wheeled carruca, whose platform is decorated with vegetal motifs similar to those of the horse’s harness; the platform and the seat are completely painted in purple, while the wheels are painted in gold. In front of it, the legs of at least three horses are preserved, indicating that this, too, was originally a quadriga. In front of the two chariots are the remains of two small attendants, clad in long cloaks: each of them holds the reins of the horses with his left hand. The position of the two carriages, in close proximity to the focal point of the whole frieze (namely the two embracing emperors), underlines their importance as imperial insignia. As the main symbol of emperorship in the public place, the ceremonial carriage was especially important for Diocletian and his colleagues, whose style of government was characterised by its high mobility: the Augusti and Caesares were constantly travelling throughout the Empire, wherever their presence was needed, regularly entering cities in more or less elaborate ceremonies.11 In this relief, the presence of two vehicles allows us to interpret the frieze as depicting two separate processions, heading towards the same destination and culminating with the emperors’ embrace. In other words, the relief commemorates the ceremonial staging of a meeting between Diocletian and Maximian, taking place after each of them has performed his own adventus. As Şare Ağtürk recognised, the most plausible identification for the ceremony depicted in the frieze is the meeting which took place in Milan, Maximian’s city of residence, in winter 290/291.12 The uniqueness of this event (the only attested meeting of the two Augusti between the beginning of their rule and their joint triumph in 303) justifies its empire-wide resonance, which is attested especially at the two imperial courts. In fact, the depiction of this meeting in the monumental frieze from Nicomedia is matched by its commemoration in Panegyrici Latini 11, an official discourse pronounced at the court of Trier for Maximian’s birthday in 291.13 The interpretation of the frieze as referring to the same event narrated in the panegyric is ensured by a striking similarity of themes 11 GUIDETTI 2018b. 12 ŞARE AĞTÜRK 2018, 422–423. 13 NIXON & RODGERS 1994, 76–103.

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and motifs between the two sources. For example, the scene in which the anonymous orator conjures up the personification of Rome, advancing to Milan together with a delegation of the Senate,14 is exactly matched by another relief of the Nicomedia frieze, depicting the personification of Rome witnessing the emperors’ encounter together with a group of senators and the Genius populi Romani.15 Clearly the rhetorical image of Rome itself coming to Milan to get a look at the event, prompted by the actual presence of a senatorial delegation, enjoyed some success in the political discourse of the time, and found its way into literary and visual commemorations as a means of adding to the unique importance of the meeting. The panegyric is particularly informative about the ceremonial aspects of this event. In order to highlight the emperors’ pietas, and especially their brotherly love16, the orator describes at length their haste to see each other, which made them cross the Alps in the middle of winter, and their affectionate behaviour during their stay in Milan17. The author provides no description of the emperors’ double adventus leading to their meeting, to be directly compared to the Nicomedia frieze; but, after referring to the adoratio ceremony performed within the palace, he relates the joint procession of the two Augusti through the city of Milan on board the same carriage: Yet this private veneration, as if in the inner shrine, stunned the minds only of those whose public rank gave them access to you. But when you passed through the door and were carried together through the middle of the city, the very buildings, I hear, almost moved themselves, when every man, woman, tiny child and aged person either ran out through the doors into the open or hung out of the upper windows of the houses. All cried out for joy, then openly without fear of you they pointed with their hands: ‘Do you see Diocletian? Maximian, do you see him? They are both here! They are together! How closely they sit! How amicably they converse! How quickly they pass by!’ No one’s eyes were equal to their desire for looking, and while they eagerly marvelled at each of you in turn, they were able to see enough of neither.18

14 Pan. Lat. XI (3).12.1–2: Ipsa etiam gentium domina Roma immodico propinquitatis vestrae elata gaudio vosque e speculis suorum montium prospicere conata, quo se vultibus vestris propius expleret, ad intuendum cominus quantum potuit accessit. Lumina quidem senatus sui misit beatissimae illi per eos dies Mediolanensium civitati similitudinem maiestatis suae libenter impartiens, ut ibi tunc esse sedes imperii videretur quo uterque venerat imperator (‘Even Rome herself, the mistress of nations, in a transport of extravagant joy at your proximity and after attempting to get a glimpse of you from the summits of her own mountains, in order to sate herself with your countenances from a closer distance advanced as near as she could to get a look in person. Indeed, she sent the leaders of her Senate, freely imparting to the city of Milan, most blessed during those days, a semblance of her own majesty, that the seat of imperial power could then appear to be the place to which each Emperor had come’). The Latin text of the panegyric is quoted from the edition by MYNORS 1964; the translation is based on NIXON & RODGERS 1994, with some changes. 15 ŞARE AĞTÜRK 2018, 413, fig. 4. 16 On the brotherly relationship between the two Augusti see WALDRON, this volume. 17 Pan Lat. XI (3).8–12 18 Pan. Lat. XI (3).11.3–5: Atque haec quidem velut interioribus sacrariis operta veneratio eorum modo animos obstupefacerat quibus aditum vestri dabant ordines dignitatis. Ut vero limine egressi per mediam urbem simul vehebamini, tecta ipsa se, ut audio, paene commoverunt, omnibus viris feminis parvulis senibus aut per fores in publicum proruentibus aut per superiora

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With a skilful rhetorical artifice, the orator narrates the ceremony through the reactions of the people of Milan to the extraordinary experience of seeing the two emperors together. Indeed, their exclamations are a perfect counterpart of the ritual language of imperial ideology: the consessus vehiculi19 highlighted the close proximity between the two emperors, sitting side by side in a limited space, and therefore their harmony. This ostentation of familiarity was further enhanced by their being engaged in an intimate conversation: the alliteration quam concorditer conloquuntur conveys the idea of an indistinct chattering, made inaudible by the cries of the people and the noise produced by the chariot itself while moving on the uneven stones of the road. Just as the embrace in the relief from Nicomedia, this ritual was highly significant as a means of political communication, visualising the core values of imperial ideology by staging in front of the citizens the harmony of the two emperors. SYRIA 297: CONCORD AND SUBORDINATION Some historiographical sources of the late 4th and early 5th century relate a rather puzzling episode concerning Diocletian and his Caesar Galerius, taking place in Syria in 297. Eutropius and Festus in the early 370s, and after them Jerome’s Chronicle (ca. 380), Ammianus (around 390), and Orosius (after 410) describe Galerius as running or marching in front of (or alongside) Diocletian’s chariot, while still clad in purple; this is interpreted by these authors as a humiliation inflicted on him by the Augustus as punishment for his defeat against the Persians.20 William Seston saw in this story the misinterpretation of a specific ritual of the Diocletianic period, aimed at staging the relationship between an Augustus and his Caesar in the public aedium lumina imminentibus. Clamare omnes prae gaudio, iam sine metu vestri et palam manu demonstrare: ‘Vides Diocletianum? Maximianum vides? Ambo sunt! Pariter sunt! Quam iunctim sedent! Quam concorditer conloquuntur! Quam cito transeunt!’. Nemo studio suo par fuit oculis ad intuendum, dumque vos alterna cupiditate mirantur, neutrum satis videre potuerunt. I accept Livineius’ emendation lumina for the transmitted limina at the end of § 3 (which has probably been influenced by the preceding limine). 19 The expression is borrowed from the historian Ammianus Marcellinus. At 16.10.12, as evidence of Constantius II’s haughtiness, Ammianus points out that he per omne tempus imperii, nec in consessum vehiculi quemquam suscepit, nec in trabea socium privatum adscivit (‘through his whole reign, he never invited anybody to sit in his carriage with him, and he never enlisted a private citizen as his colleague in the consular robes’). This remark, however, is contradicted by what the historian himself says about Julian’s proclamation as Caesar in Milan on 6 November 355 (Amm. 15.8.17): after the ceremony, Julian was susceptus … ad consessum vehiculi by Constantius and carried back to the imperial palace; evidently, the passage at 16.10.12 refers to Constantius never bestowing such an honour to a private citizen. By contrast, Julian was generally willing to share his carriage, e.g. with his old friend Celsus, the governor of Cilicia (Amm. 22.9.13). The historian describes again the same ritual in relation to Valentinian’s proclamation of his brother Valens as Augustus on 28 March 364 (Amm. 26.4.3): in this case, too, after the ceremony the two emperors returned to Constantinople sitting together on board the same carriage. 20 Eutr. 9.24. Ruf. Fest. 25.1. Amm. 14.11.10. Hier. chron. p. 227.7–8 Helm. Oros. hist. 7.25.9.

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space, in front of the army and the citizens.21 Seston’s idea has been accepted and developed especially by Frank Kolb,22 whereas other scholars preferred to retain the interpretation found in the late fourth-century sources.23 In my view, a new solution to the problem can be proposed, which accounts for the political and ceremonial significance of Diocletian’s choice, at the same time explaining the reasons behind the interpretation provided by the later authors. Compared with the short passages devoted to the anecdote by the other historiographical sources, the version found in Ammianus’ Res gestae provides more details to the discussion. The historian mentions the episode in the context of some letters written in 354 by Constantius II to his Caesar Gallus with the purpose of convincing him to return to the Augustus’ court: And while these unmeasurable anxieties wore him down, he kept receiving constant letters from the Commander-in-chief, requesting and warning that he come to him, and disingenuously showing that the state could not and should not be divided but that it was everyone’s duty to bring it aid when it was tottering (a reference of course to the devastation of the Gallic provinces). To this he added an example that was not so old: that for Diocletian and his colleague, their Caesars used to show obedience in the manner of assistants, not staying put but hastening this way and that; and that in Syria, Galerius had gone before the carriage of his angry Augustus for about a mile on foot, still dressed in the purple.24

Ammianus has Constantius introduce the anecdote as an exemplum of the correct relation between an Augustus and his Caesar, inviting Gallus to show him the same obedience that Galerius showed Diocletian. It is interesting to note that Ammianus’ description of the episode differs in detail from that found in all other sources: the historian says that Galerius, clad in purple, ‘had gone for about a mile … on foot’ in front of Diocletian’s carriage, whereas Eutropius and all the other authors portray the Caesar ‘running for some miles’.25 The image of Galerius marching on foot in front of Diocletian’s carriage agrees very well with the idea, expressed by Constantius immediately before, that the Caesares used to obey their Augusti ut apparitores (‘in the manner of assistants’).26 Indeed, the match between the ritual performed by Galerius and his role within the structure of government epitomises the function of 21 22 23 24

SESTON 1940. KOLB 1987b, 28–51. E.g. CASTRITIUS 1971. LEHNEN 1997, 172–175. BINSFELD 2022. Amm. 14.11.9–10: Inter has curarum moles inmensas, imperatoris scripta suscipiebat adsidua, monentis orantisque ut ad se veniret, et mente monstrantis obliqua, rem publicam nec posse dividi nec debere, sed pro viribus quemque ei ferre suppetias fluctuanti, nimirum Galliarum indicans vastitatem. Quibus subserebat non adeo vetus exemplum, quod Diocletiano et eius collegae, ut apparitores Caesares non resides sed ultro citroque discurrentes, obtemperabant, et in Syria Augusti vehiculum irascentis, per spatium mille passuum fere pedes antegressus est Galerius purpuratus. 25 Eutr. 9.24: per aliquot passuum milia purpuratus tradatur ad vehiculum cucurrisse. Cf. also Ruf. Fest. 25.1: per aliquot milia passuum cucurrerit purpuratus. Hier. chron. p. 227.7–8 Helm: purpuratus cucurrit. Oros. hist. 7.25.9: per aliquot milia passuum purpuratus ante vehiculum eius cucurrisse. 26 The apparitores were public officials of lesser rank attached to the service of a magistrate: see DAVID 2019, with references to earlier literature.

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state ceremonial as the privileged way to advertise power relations and social hierarchy.27 The detail of Galerius wearing the imperial attire (purpuratus), the slowpace movement expressed through a compound of the verb gradior (‘to walk’), the specification of a well-defined distance (one mile), and most of all the mention of the emperor’s vehicle, all contribute to create the impression of a ritualised action, specifically linked to the circumstances of an imperial adventus. Ammianus, and Constantius, seem well aware of this ceremonial context. By contrast, the idea of Galerius ‘running for some miles’, as found in the passages by Eutropius and Festus, has invited some readers to associate the event with a fast deployment of troops during a military campaign. This interpretation, however, results from a false impression: in fact, no version of the anecdote explicitly denies the ceremonial context, which in my opinion would have been clear to every reader by the simple mention of Diocletian’s vehicle and Galerius’ purple attire. Indeed, the expression ad vehiculum currere refers to a well-defined Roman social ritual, which was typical of the relationship between patron and client in the public space. Especially significant from this point of view is Eutropius’ retelling of an anecdote told by Suetonius about the emperor Augustus. While speaking about Augustus’ relations with his friends, the biographer says that several allied kings (reges amici atque socii) frequently came to him, both in Rome and when he was travelling through the provinces, not in their capacity as foreign leaders, but in that of Roman citizens paying homage to their patron, as clients usually do (more clientium).28 When relating the same episode in his own historical work, Eutropius drops the explicit mention of the patronage relationship existing between Augustus and the allied kings: perhaps influenced by Suetonius’ reference to the emperor travelling, the late antique historian expresses the same idea by describing the kings running besides Augustus’ horse or vehicle (ad vehiculum vel equum ipsius cucurrerunt).29 This passage allows us to understand Eutropius’ depiction of Galerius running at the side of Diocletian’s carriage in similar terms, as the staging of a client/patron relationship:30 in this way, the historian offers his own interpretation of 27 See GUIDETTI 2018a on late antique ceremonial as means for the visualisation of social hierarchies and cosmic order. 28 Suet. Aug. 60: saepe regnis relictis non Romae modo sed et provincias peragranti cotidiana officia togati ac sine regio insigni more clientium praestiterunt (‘often, leaving their kingdoms, they performed to him the daily duties in the manner of clients, clad in the toga and without the emblems of royalty, not only at Rome, but also while he was travelling through the provinces’). The English translation is my own. 29 Eutr. 7.21. 30 Suetonius also recounts a similar episode in his life of Gaius (Suet. Cal. 26.2), only in this case the protagonists are not allied kings but Roman senators. To please the emperor, some senators would humiliate themselves by running alongside his vehicle dressed in togas (ad essedum sibi currere togatos per aliquot passuum milia) and standing next to him during banquets with their tunics girded (cenanti modo ad pluteum modo ad pedes stare succinctos linteo), as servants would do. By attributing to these two scenes the exact same meaning without taking into account an essential element such as the difference in clothing (togatos vs. succinctos), BINSFELD 2022, 171–177 erroneously interprets the custom of running alongside the chariot, too, as a ‘typically servile activity’ – apparently without knowing the corresponding passage of Suet.

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the anecdote, capturing the essential message of a state ritual by associating it to a more familiar situation of Roman social life. Eutropius, however, seems to consider this mode of representation inappropriate to an imperial ceremony, and explains it as a consequence of the Augustus’ lack of moderation (insolentia). If my reconstruction is correct, the episode refers to a joint adventus of Diocletian and Galerius, taking place somewhere in Syria (perhaps in Antioch?) in 297. During this ceremony the Augustus paraded on board his ceremonial carriage, while the Caesar walked in front of the chariot, staging himself as the assistant of the commander-in-chief (according to the interpretation Ammianus attributes to Constantius). Eutropius’ version, followed by the other later authors, according to whom Galerius ran next to the imperial carriage, must be considered as a reinterpretation of the anecdote, modified in some details in order to associate it more closely with a practice common in Roman client/patron relationships. As is well known, the difference in power and authority between the Augusti and their Caesares was essential for the functioning of the government31 and was highlighted in both their visual depictions and their ceremonial appearances, not only when they were seen together. The official art of this period expresses very clearly the difference between the two levels of imperial dignity. The decoration of the arch erected between 298 and 303 in Thessaloniki, Galerius’ city of residence, to celebrate his Persian campaigns includes a scene which may be interpreted as the best visualisation of the Diocletianic structure of rulership (Pl. 9.b).32 The Augusti, each crowned by a Victory, are enthroned above the personifications of Heaven and Earth, a manifest symbol of cosmic sovereignty; at their sides stand the Caesares, each helping a kneeling province to get up. The message is clear: the Augusti rule the world, while the Caesares take direct action to protect the provinces of the Empire. In the background, the gods and goddesses watch over the prosperity of Rome and the stability of its government. The difference in status between the Augusti and the Caesares, clearly portrayed in this manifesto of Diocletianic ideology, was conveyed not only by means of such symbolic depictions, but also through the ceremonial staging of the imperial presence and its visual representations. Of course, when no Augustus was present, the Caesares could not appear ‘in the manner of assistants’: but their insignia immediately conveyed their inferior rank. The Arch of Galerius includes two Aug. 60 in which this gesture is explicitly associated with the behaviour of clients (more clientium), not of servants. In ancient Rome, both servants and clients accompanied the vehicles of the aristocrats on foot; in the two passages by Suetonius, however, the toga worn by the protagonists points unequivocally towards the second interpretation. The narration of the episode involving Diocletian and Galerius is surely reminiscent of the Suetonian passages about Augustus and Gaius, and, just like these, should not be mistaken for an example of Sklavennarrativ. 31 On the different powers of Augusti and Caesares in the Diocletianic system see PORENA 2018, with references to earlier literature. 32 Thessaloniki, Arch of Galerius, relief B II 21: LAUBSCHER 1975, 69–78. MEYER 1980, 416– 421. KOLB 1987a, 162–174. RAECK 1989. GUIDETTI 2018a, 14–16. The reliefs are identified according to Laubscher’s numbering.

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variations on the adventus theme, whose peculiarities have not been adequately explained so far, but which in my opinion can shed more light on this differentiation. The first one, located exactly in front of the aforementioned symbolic scene, is now badly damaged: however, the outline of a large four-wheeled vehicle is recognisable, pulled by four horses and driven by a coachman sitting at the front (Pl. 10.b).33 On the throne-like seat of the carruca sits the emperor: although his figure is now almost completely defaced, it is possible to recognise the typical late Roman military costume, with short tunic, trousers, and paludamentum, identical to that worn by the emperors on the relief from Nicomedia discussed above. The left half of the relief shows several cavalrymen on galloping horses escorting the imperial carriage, whereas on the right some figures on foot (men, women, and children) walk towards it with their right hands raised: they can be identified as local inhabitants going out of their city to meet the approaching emperor. The central section of the panel, now very damaged, has been convincingly reconstructed by Laubscher, who proposed to see a female figure with a mural crown, interpreted as the personification of the city which the emperor is entering, offering him a small Victory.34 The scene refers to the initial moment of the adventus ritual, the so-called occursus, when the inhabitants of a city come out to meet the imperial cortege and pay their homage to the emperor, before escorting him into the city in procession.35 A similar scene is depicted on another relief of the arch, located on the same pillar as the symbolic scene described earlier, in the top register (Pl. 10.a).36 It depicts the journey of an emperor from a city to another, combining in one scene the traditional iconographies of imperial profectio (departure) and adventus (arrival). The relief, framed by two niches symmetrically occupied by Victories holding cornucopiae, depicts the emperor, dressed in his usual military costume, travelling on a chariot escorted by galloping horsemen with spears, shields, and banners. Two walled cities are depicted at the two sides of the panel: the emperor has departed from the one on the left heading for the one on the right, whose garrison goes out towards him with banners, candles, torches, and laurel branches. In the background, a local god peeps out of the door of his temple to welcome the arrival of the emperor. The imperial carriage is a two-wheeled carruca pulled by two horses, much smaller than the previous one; it is not driven by a coachman, but led by an attendant walking next to the horses and probably holding their reins. In this relief, the better state of preservation allows us to appreciate the sculptor’s attention to detail in rendering the shape and decoration of the vehicle. Even more than in the frieze from Nicomedia discussed at the beginning of the chapter, the structure of the carruca is clearly recognisable: the imperial carriage is built as a veritable moving throne,

33 Thessaloniki, Arch of Galerius, relief A II 7: LAUBSCHER 1975, 36–38. MEYER 1980, 384–385. GUIDETTI 2018b, 238–239. 34 LAUBSCHER 1975, 37–38. 35 On the different stages of the adventus see LEHNEN 1997, 128–180, especially 128–156 on the occursus. 36 Thessaloniki, Arch of Galerius, relief B II 19: LAUBSCHER 1975, 61–64. MEYER 1980, 407– 414. PENSA 2005, 127–135. GUIDETTI 2018b, 239–240.

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installed on a platform provided with wheels. The platform, the seat, and the harnesses of the horses are decorated with geometric and vegetal patterns. In a previous article I proposed that the use of two different carriages, attested by these two reliefs, could be interpreted as evidence for the existence of two rituals of adventus: a more elaborate one for the most important ceremonial occasions; and a simpler version, used for less formal events and especially during military campaigns.37 While different cities surely staged the adventus in different forms, according to the importance of the occasion and the resources of the local elites,38 now I am more inclined to interpret the two reliefs as depicting two different ceremonies: namely, the adventus of an Augustus and that of a Caesar. The use of a four-wheeled vehicle pulled by four horses for the adventus of an Augustus is confirmed beyond any doubt by the frieze from Nicomedia discussed above, as well as by the relief on the eastern side of the Arch of Constantine in Rome, depicting the emperor’s entrance into the capital on 29 October 312, after the battle of the Milvian Bridge.39 By contrast, no unquestionable depiction of the adventus of a Caesar is preserved: but it is not implausible that their difference in status from the senior emperors was made clear to the viewers through their being provided with less elaborate insignia, for example a smaller vehicle. Therefore, it is tempting to identify relief B II 19 as depicting the ceremonial arrival of the Caesar in some city along the eastern frontier, during his campaign against the Persians. If my reconstruction is correct, then the reliefs on the Arch of Galerius illustrate two separate situations during which an Augustus and a Caesar, respectively, performed a public ceremony alone, in their full capacity as senior or junior emperor. We may ask ourselves, then, how the relationship between an Augustus and a Caesar was staged when the two were taking part in a public ceremony together. In general, we may assume that such a ritual had to convey two major messages: harmony within the imperial college, and the hierarchical difference between the supreme ruler and his subordinate. In order to get a clearer picture of this phenomenon, we may contrast the scanty sources surviving from the Diocletianic period with some later examples. If we broaden our analysis to fourth-century evidence, we notice that a different ceremonial option was available: as we have seen, Ammianus describes the ritual of the consessus vehiculi on the occasion of Julian’s proclamation as Caesar by Constantius II, on 6 November 355.40 The panegyric of 291 attests that this practice was used already in the late third century when two Augusti were involved; while Ammianus’ passage shows that, at least in the mid-fourth century, 37 GUIDETTI 2018b, 240. 38 See GUIDETTI 2018b, 236–237 (with references to earlier literature) for lesser forms of adventus, including those not involving carriages: for example, coins showing imperial adventus on horseback continue to be struck well into the fourth century. On local responses in minor centres, I shall just mention the case of Diocletian’s arrival in the city of Panopolis in Egypt, when the local elite practiced a form of passive resistance, refusing to pay for the accommodation of the imperial retinue. The negotiations between the local councilmen and the state administrators are preserved in P. Panop. Beatty 1–2 (TM 44881–44882). 39 GUIDETTI 2018b, 241–242, with references to earlier literature. 40 Amm. 15.8.17. See above, note 19.

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this honour could be granted to a Caesar too. The ritual chosen for Julian’s proclamation highlights the concord between senior and junior emperor, as well as their shared power and responsibility. This contrasts significantly with the fact that, according to Ammianus, Constantius was generally very keen to emphasise the hierarchical distance between himself and his Caesares, whom he viewed as mere assistants (ut apparitores) drawing precisely on Diocletian’s example.41 In this particular case, we may speculate that the consessus vehiculi was chosen as the best way to express the Augustus’ confidence in his new Caesar in front of the army. It seems quite unlikely, however, that the relationship between an Augustus and a Caesar could already have been staged in such a way fifty years earlier: judging from the surviving sources, in this period the focus was rather on the visualisation of the sharp hierarchical distinction between the two levels of authority within the imperial college.42 This is attested not only by reports of public ceremonies (such as the abovementioned episode involving Diocletian and Galerius), but also by artistic representations. The reliefs of the Arch of Galerius, as we have seen, clearly differentiate between the Augustus’ imposing carriage, four-wheeled and pulled by four horses, and a smaller chariot provided with only two wheels and two horses, which it is tempting to assign to the Caesar; the famous relief B II 21 of the same monument, depicting the whole imperial college, makes its internal hierarchy manifest by depicting the Augusti enthroned and the Caesares standing next to them (again, ut apparitores). By contrast, the images painted in the niche of the sanctuary of the imperial cult in Luxor (Pl. 15) depict all four emperors standing, but in this case their differentiation is made clear through their garments. The idealised Greekstyle mantles of the Augusti contrast with the paludamentum worn by the Caesares, which may be interpreted as referring to their direct involvement in military action to protect the Empire.43 The famous porphyry groups now preserved in the Vatican and in Venice (Pl. 5), surely the most iconic depictions of the Diocletianic structure of rulership, reiterate the motif of the embrace between two emperors which we found already in 41 Besides the passage referring to Constantius’ letters to Gallus (Amm. 14.11.10) quoted above, Ammianus uses the word apparitor twice with regard to Constantius’ tight control over Julian’s activities. See Amm. 17.11.1: erat enim necesse, tamquam apparitorem, Caesarem super omnibus gestis ad Augusti referre scientiam (‘for it was requisite that the Caesar, like an assistant, sent reports on all that he had done to the Augustus’ knowledge’); and Amm. 20.8.6, in the context of a letter sent by Julian to Constantius: potestate delata contentus, currentium ex voto prosperitatum, nuntiis crebris (ut apparitor fidus) tuas aures implevi (‘satisfied with a delegated authority, like a trustworthy assistant I filled your ears with frequent announcements of successes coming one after another according to our wishes’). 42 Contra, BINSFELD 2022, 173–174 tries to use Ammianus’ passages referring to Julian and Valens sitting in the same carriages with Constantius and Valentinian respectively (quoted above, note 19) to argue that Diocletian’s treatment of Galerius in 297 was ‘uncommon’ (‘ungewöhnlich’). However, the passage on Valens does not provide a valid comparison since Valens was an Augustus, and the one episode about Constantius and Julian cannot be used as evidence about how the hierarchical relationship between an Augustus and a Caesar was typically understood and staged more than fifty years earlier, in Diocletian’s time. 43 BARBAGLI 2020, 104–112.

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the Nicomedia frieze: but, whereas in the latter this motif is part of a narrative scene, the porphyry groups transform it into a symbolic display of the harmony within the imperial college.44 This harmony, however, is based on a rigid distinction of rank: the Vatican group depicts two separate embraces, one between the two Augusti and one between the two Caesares. The difference between the two couples is expressed through their belonging to different age groups, while individual features (such as Constantius’ characteristic hooked nose) are also recognisable: by means of the clear separation between senior and junior emperors, the Vatican group conveys a message of harmony and hierarchy at the same time, stressing the concord and equality in rank within each couple of rulers. It is safe to assume, then, that a similar message was expressed by the Venice porphyry group, although in this case the difference between senior and junior emperors is less easily detectable. In both couples, the emperor on the left has a beard incised by means of irregular scratches, very different from the short regular incisions found in the Vatican group and other porphyry portraits. This technical difference, together with the absence of incisions on the hair of the figures (which has the shape of a smooth, helmet-like cap), invites us to interpret these beards as a later addition. The comparison with the figures in the Vatican suggests that, in the Venice group too, all four emperors originally had beards: these, however, were not rendered three-dimensionally, but probably just painted. In other words, both porphyry groups originally advertised the harmony and equality in rank between the two Augusti on the one hand, and between the two Caesares on the other hand; at the same time, they explicitly separated the junior emperors from the senior emperors, in what has been termed a ‘double duality’ of the imperial images of this period.45 The anecdote about Diocletian and Galerius discussed above fits well within this representational context, in which the hierarchical distance between the Augusti and the Caesares was apparently a very important theme. Theoretically, other ways to visualise the junior emperor’s subordination may have been enacted during public ceremonies: for example, the Caesar could parade on board his two-wheeled chariot, preceding the more imposing vehicle of the Augustus; or he might ride on horseback in front of, or next to, the imperial carriage. The first option, through the use of a vehicle (albeit a second-rank one), would advertise the Caesar’s membership of the imperial college, of course in a subordinate position; while the second one, by adopting the traditional means of military self-representation, would rather stage him as an army officer of the highest rank. Both the smaller chariot and the parade on horseback are attested for the Caesares in the Diocletianic period: the two-wheeled chariot is found in relief B II 19 of the Arch of Galerius, which I propose to interpret as a depiction of the Caesar’s adventus; while the most famous example of an adventus on horseback is provided by the multiple of 10 aurei celebrating Constantius’ entry into London in 296, after the defeat of the usurper 44 BERGMANN 2016, with references to earlier literature. See also, by the same author, the entries in the Last Statues of Antiquity database: LSA 840 and LSA 841 (Vatican), LSA 4 and LSA 439 (Venice). In particular on the Venice group cf. also EFFENBERGER 2013a. 2013b. 45 HEKSTER et al. 2019, 626–633.

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Allectus.46 Admittedly, no visual depiction of a joint adventus of an Augustus and a Caesar is preserved from this period: but, given the scanty surviving evidence, it would not be safe to assume simply that these options were never used, or could not be expected by the viewers, when a senior and a junior emperor performed such a ceremony together. Undoubtedly, the ritual attested for Diocletian and Galerius in 297 was particularly effective in emphasising the Caesar’s subordination: by ordering Galerius to march on foot in front of the imperial carriage, Diocletian showed that he regarded the Caesar as his assistant – or, to borrow the word Ammianus attributes to Constantius, as his apparitor.47 This practice, however, is by no means unattested for late antique imperial ceremonies: for example, in the aforementioned relief B II 19 on the Arch of Galerius the Caesar’s vehicle is accompanied by an attendant walking at its side and probably holding the reins of the horses. It is important to stress that, far from being a humiliating task, this role actually implied high honour and responsibility, as well as the emperor’s complete trust: one may argue that the officer accompanying the imperial carriage was glorified, in the viewers’ eyes, by his very proximity to the ruler. At the same time, he was also in the position to intervene most rapidly, should the emperor’s safety be in danger: indeed, later sources suggest that this task was customarily entrusted to the highest-ranking military officials, such as the magister equitum or the commanders of the imperial bodyguard.48 Therefore, we can safely conclude that Diocletian’s choice of having Galerius accompany on foot the imperial vehicle highlights at the same time both the rigid hierarchy between the two levels of imperial authority, and the Augustus’ unconditional trust in his Caesar’s loyalty. Moreover, it clarifies that the concord within the imperial college derives from the Caesar’s obedience and sense of duty towards the Augustus as much as (or perhaps more than) from shared goals and personal harmony. From the point of view of its ideological significance, as we have seen, this focus on hierarchy looks perfectly coherent with the messages conveyed by contemporary visual representations of the imperial college. This picture, of course, seriously undermines the interpretation proposed by later authors, who saw Diocletian’s choice as being dictated by haughtiness or anger towards his Caesar. It is true that Galerius had suffered a severe setback against the 46 Arras, Musée des Beaux-Arts. RIC VI, p. 167, n. 34 (Treveri). 47 It is worth noting that Ammianus also uses the term apparitor for Valens (Amm. 26.4.3), in order to show that, although formally an Augustus, he did not behave like an equal of his brother Valentinian. 48 See for example Soz. HE 9.12.5: in a very theatrical scene, the magister equitum Allobichus is executed while proceeding in front of the emperor Honorius during a public ceremony, ‘as was customary’ (ὡς ἔθος); note, however, that in this case the emperor is said to be on horseback, not sitting in a vehicle. Cf. also Const. Porph. de cer. 2.51 (p. 700.18–19 Reiske): the commanders of the imperial bodyguard (comites scholarum) march on foot on both sides of the emperor’s carriage, with their hands on its ball-shaped pommels (called μῆλα, apples); I thank Christian Rollinger for drawing my attention to this latter passage. One such pommel is recognisable in the adventus relief of the Arch of Constantine, at the extremity of the armrest of the vehicle.

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Persians, and in such a context Diocletian’s focus on hierarchy could have seemed a calculated way of reasserting his own role as the commander-in-chief. But ultimately the Augustus left Galerius in charge of the war, and the final great victory was attributed in large part to him. In light of this, the retrospective interpretation of Diocletian’s choice as the consequence merely of his arrogant personality or a fit of rage seems largely unsatisfactory: on the contrary, I believe that this ritual was meant to convey a specific message, whose target was in the first place not Galerius himself, but his soldiers. The Caesar had commanded them until then, and would command them for the rest of the war. But while Diocletian was present, Galerius’ army was expected to obey the Augustus as their leader: Galerius’ public behaviour as Diocletian’s assistant, blatantly staging his submission and acceptance of the hierarchical distance between himself and the Augustus, was meant to avert discontent and possible insubordination among the soldiers, who, being accustomed to follow the Caesar, might have resisted Diocletian’s orders if the chain of command was not clearly stated and enforced. In sum, the surviving evidence about the staging of power relations within the imperial college in the Diocletianic period proves that Seston’s intuition about Galerius’ alleged ‘humiliation’ was fundamentally correct. Now it remains to explain for what reason, and with what purpose, the interpretation put forward by the later sources was developed. It is important to stress that none of these authors explicitly doubts the ceremonial context of the event: however, their attempts to offer a psychological explanation of Diocletian’s behaviour show that they judge it rather unusual from the ritual point of view. Their explanations, of course, need first of all to make sense in their respective contexts. The depiction of an ‘arrogant’ or ‘insolent’ Diocletian for example, put forward by Eutropius and Orosius, primarily serves to strengthen the internal coherence of their own historical narratives, contrasting Galerius’ ‘humiliation’ after his defeat with the great honour bestowed on him after his final victory.49 Ammianus’ emphasis on Diocletian’s ‘anger’ is more sophisticated, and must be interpreted within the context of Constantius’ letters to Gallus: the anecdote is introduced by Constantius as a rhetorical exemplum of good relationship between an Augustus and a Caesar, and as a foreshadowing of his own wrathful reaction in case Gallus does not show him the respect and obedience that his position demands. Needless to say, no source will ever allow us to grasp Diocletian’s inner feelings on that day in Syria: the historian’s task is rather to reconstruct the political message conveyed through that public ceremony. Given the scarcity of extant sources, it cannot be excluded that different representational choices were available: if this was the case, we may suppose that the final decision about the organisation of the ceremony ultimately resided with the Augustus, who was free to choose whether he wanted the Caesar to be seen as a junior member of the imperial college, a high-ranked army officer, or his own subordinate assistant. A 49 Eutr. 9.24 tanta insolentia … exceptus; 9.25 ingenti honore susceptus. Oros. 7.25.9 arrogantissime exceptus; 7.25.11 plurimo honore susceptus. The strong verbal similarities between the two authors clearly show their dependence on the same source, which probably already exploited the narrative potential of Diocletian’s change of heart.

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Caesar was, in fact, all these at the same time: therefore, at least theoretically, all these possibilities were perfectly legitimate, and corresponded to an authentic aspect of the relationship between senior and junior emperors. But it must be borne in mind that the only representational mode explicitly attested by the surviving evidence, both in visual depictions and in the descriptions of ceremonial events, is the one emphasising the Caesares’ subordination and the hierarchical distance between them and the Augusti. At the same time, the reinterpretation of the anecdote by authors writing in the second half of the fourth century suggests that their expectations regarding imperial ceremonies may have been quite different from those of a late-third century viewer. If this is true, the ritual of the consessus vehiculi attested for Julian’s proclamation as Caesar in 355 may not have been an isolated incident, but rather reflect a more general change in the staging of imperial authority. If, at a certain point during the fourth century, the custom developed of showing the Augustus and the Caesar in a way that emphasised their shared responsibilities more than their hierarchical distance (for example, through their sitting in the same vehicle during public ceremonies), then it is easy to understand why later authors failed to interpret correctly the late third-century ritual and put forward psychological explanations for a choice which they perceived as bizarre. In my opinion, the suggestion of a change in ritual by the mid-fourth century can not only justify the misinterpretation of the anecdote by later authors, but also offer a plausible context for the reworking of the Venice porphyry group: at some point, two of its portraits were modified with the addition of a beard, so that each couple combined an older bearded Augustus and a younger beardless Caesar. This restyling transferred to the relationship between senior and junior emperor the intimate gesture, and the associated values of concord and unity, originally used to express the brotherly relations between the two Augusti, and between the two Caesares. Once refashioned in this way, the group highlighted the harmony between rulers belonging to different ranks within the imperial college, at the expense of the rigid distinction between two levels of authority which characterised the original images. The comparison with the ritual attested for Julian’s proclamation as Caesar in 355 and the expectations of later authors concerning imperial ceremonies, made clear by their misunderstanding of the episode involving Diocletian and Galerius, point to the period ca. 330–360 as a plausible date for the reworking of the Venice porphyry group, perhaps in connection with its reuse in Constantinople. ROME 303: OLD AND NEW RITUALS The third example I would like to discuss is the celebration of the vicennalia of the Augusti which took place in the city of Rome in 303, involving the emperors’ adventus into the city and their triumph. The joint adventus, in particular, is attested by an exceptional document: a round terracotta mould found during the excavations of 1999-2001 in the port of the Sardinian city of Olbia, probably intended for the

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production of souvenirs of the event (Pl. 4).50 Despite the small scale (19.4 cm in diameter), the tondo shows a remarkable level of detail. The large central space, delimited by two groups of soldiers on foot, accommodates an imposing carriage pulled by four elephants and occupied by two emperors in military costume. The vehicle has the typical shape of the late Roman carruca: the usual throne-like seat, whose back is supported by colonnettes, is installed on a platform decorated with garlands. Twelve figures clad in long mantles march in two rows in front of the carriage, while two horsemen, one of them holding a banner, follow behind, preceding a host of soldiers on foot. In a lower register, perhaps to be understood as the head of the procession, a war elephant precedes three carriages loaded with captives: the third of these carries three figures dressed in Persian costume, one with a Phrygian cap and two wearing a pointed headdress. Along the lower edge of the tondo the viewers of the procession are depicted, crammed in two rows behind a line of soldiers. The contemporary presence of two emperors on the same hierarchic level, as well as the emphasis on the theme of victory over an Eastern enemy (as testified by the war elephant and the prisoners with Persian headdresses), allow us to associate this object with the celebration of Diocletian and Maximian’s triumph over the Persians. However, from the strictly ritual point of view the ceremony depicted on the tondo cannot be identified as a triumph, since the vehicle and costume of the two emperors are incompatible with what we know about this ceremony. The triumph of 303 was the last one in the history of Rome to be celebrated according to the traditional ritual: but neither the emperors nor the Senate, who authorised and organised the ceremony, could anticipate the religious revolution which caused Constantine and his successors to abandon the ancestral custom. The triumphal ceremonial required the victorious commander to parade within the city of Rome wearing the toga picta and standing on board a currus, the traditional two-wheeled chariot open on the back: and there is no reason to suppose that in 303 there was any change to the traditional performance of the ceremony. Diocletian and Maximian are depicted wearing the toga picta, and standing on board a currus pulled by four elephants, on the gold medallions issued by the mint of Rome in 287 to celebrate their joint consulate (Pl. 2.b).51 This shows that the traditional triumphal insignia were still in use in the late third century – or, at least, that they were expected to be used: in fact, these medallions depict a ceremony which in reality did not take place, since the two emperors were never seen together in Rome before 303. The imposing two-wheeled carriage depicted in another relief of the

50 Olbia, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, inv. no. 69510. GUALANDI 2011. GUALANDI & PINELLI 2012. GUALANDI 2013. GUIDETTI 2018b, 254–258. See especially GUALANDI & PINELLI 2012, 16–18 against the traditional interpretation of this category of objects as moulds for the production of festive cakes. 51 Multiple of 10 aurei: Firenze, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, Monetiere, inv. no. 238604. GNECCHI 1912, vol. 1, 12, no. 1. Multiple of 5 aurei: Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Münzkabinett, inv. no. 18200802 (https://ikmk.smb.museum/object?id=18200802). GNECCHI 1912, vol. 1, 12, no. 2. On Roman triumphs in the third century see HAAKE 2017.

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Arch of Galerius52 is also a triumphal currus: it is pulled by four elephants and decorated with images of Victories, and is brought to the emperor by a goddess or female personification (probably Roma) as prize for his military achievements. These images show that in the Diocletianic period the triumphal imagery was still very much dependent on the traditional way of celebrating this ritual. What kind of ceremony, then, are the two emperors performing in the scene depicted in the terracotta mould? They are not standing on board a currus but sitting in a carruca; they do not wear the toga picta, but the military costume with long tunic and paludamentum. Both the type of carriage and the imperial garments find their best comparisons in the adventus scenes depicted in the reliefs of the arches of Galerius and Constantine. At the same time, the presence of a war elephant, barbarian prisoners, and captive enemy leaders in a processional scene points undoubtedly towards a triumphal context. This tension can be solved, in my opinion, in two different ways. On the one hand, we could assume that the artist did not depict a real scene, but merged together some elements of the adventus ceremony, such as the two emperors sitting on board the carruca, with others taken from the triumphal procession. Another possibility, which I am more inclined to believe, is that the scene actually depicts a moment of the adventus, and that the elephants, booty, and prisoners had in fact been used to boost the grandeur of the imperial arrival into Rome, before becoming part of the triumphal procession within the city. This hypothesis can be strengthened by taking into consideration the ritual topography of the city of Rome and its unaltered importance for the staging of political and religious celebrations. The comparison of several adventus representations in written and visual sources shows the remarkable inertia of some features of this ritual topography from the first century well into late antiquity.53 The triumphal procession, in particular, always remained an urban event, carried out entirely inside the pomerium, the ritual boundary of the city of Rome: in imperial times, its starting point was the sanctuary of Fortuna Redux, located in the Campus Martius where the Via Flaminia crossed the pomerium as extended by Vespasian in the late first century.54 Of course, the northern Campus Martius had been intensively urbanised in the meantime and had been included within the Aurelian walls: but, from the ceremonial point of view, it remained an extra-urban area until the end of antiquity. Later fourth-century sources, such as the depiction of the emperor’s entry into Rome on the Arch of Constantine and Ammianus’ description of Constantius II’s arrival in 357,55 confirm that the processional approach to the City, up to the crossing of the pomerium, was not staged with the traditional ritual machinery of a triumph: it was technically an adventus, an extra-urban ceremony, which therefore required a different carriage and a different costume. If interpreted considering this ceremonial context and on the background of these and similar sources, the terracotta mould actually provides the only evidence for the staging of a joint adventus 52 53 54 55

Thessaloniki, Arch of Galerius, relief B III 23: LAUBSCHER 1975, 80–82. GUIDETTI 2018b, 248–253. LIVERANI 2005. 2007a. SOBOCINSKI 2009. Amm. 16.10.4–17.

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for Diocletian and Maximian, preceding the celebration of their triumph. We are not informed whether the adventus and the triumph took place in two different moments, or were consolidated into one ceremonial event: if this is the case, the emperors, after parading along the Via Flaminia on board a carruca and wearing their military costumes, would have changed garments and carriage at the sanctuary of Fortuna Redux before moving forward towards the Capitol on board the triumphal currus and wearing the toga picta. It is certainly significant that the craftsman who made this terracotta mould chose as his subject not the triumphal procession itself, but rather its preceding extra-urban stage. This choice highlights the extraordinary importance gained by the adventus in this period, as the consequence of a style of government which advertised the emperors’ mobility as an essential element of the effectiveness of their rule. Since most ceremonies of imperial self-representation were now taking place in cities other than Rome, one may suggest that the adventus replaced the traditional rituals of the ancient capital (such as the triumph) as the main occasion for the visualisation and display of the emperors’ power. The nature of the object on which this depiction is found is also highly remarkable: as its editors rightly pointed out,56 the presence of such an image on a terracotta mould, presumably used for the production of souvenirs of the event, should be interpreted as evidence of the appropriation of elite motives by popular culture, and of an interest in the memory of state rituals by non-elite buyers. This phenomenon shows the effectiveness of such ceremonies on their primary intended audience: not those senators and public officials who actually took part in the adventus procession, but the common soldiers and/or citizens who might or might not have the opportunity to be present on such a unique occasion. Imperial visits to Rome were a once-in-a-lifetime experience in the late antique period: and a depiction of such an event, even in a poor medium such as earthenware, could work as a memory aid for those who were there, and as a substitute for those who did not have the opportunity to attend. This object, in other words, is an exceptional witness to the interest and enthusiasm which state rituals could elicit in popular culture, and ultimately confirms the success of these ceremonies in reinforcing the Roman identity of the common citizens and their sense of belonging to a shared political and cultural environment. CONCLUSION The examples of public rituals analysed in these pages show some possible variants of ceremonial practices in the Diocletianic period. The most important feature common to all of them is their focus on the emperors’ carriages as the main symbols of imperial authority: the rulers’ splendid isolation on board their vehicles, high above their retinue, bodyguard, and senior officials, contrasts sharply with the traditional modes of self-representation commonly used in earlier periods, when the emperors typically took part in state rituals proceeding on foot among their fellow senators, 56 GUALANDI & PINELLI 2012, 16–18.

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or on horseback amidst other army officers. This new ceremonial had the effect of distancing the emperors from all other high-ranking magistrates and military leaders, advertising their exclusive sovereignty and the sacredness of their power. If we keep in mind that the use of such imposing carriages is attested from the last decades of the third century for both imperial and aristocratic self-representation, then a parallel can be drawn between these two contexts: namely, this way of staging the ruler’s presence in the public space suggested a new relationship between the emperor and his retinue, now expressed in a similar way to that between aristocratic patrons and their servants and clients. As a result, the traditional image of the emperor as the leader of a more or less cohesive group (the army, or the ruling elite) was replaced by a new attention to hierarchy and distinction of rank.57 The highest authorities of the Roman state, including the Caesares, were now publicly seen in a position which made them look like clients of the Augusti: Eutropius’ representation of the joint adventus of Diocletian and Galerius through the conventional language of patron/client relationships further strengthens this impression, showing that indeed the rituals of state ceremonial were understood in such a way by at least some of the viewers.58 The only exception to this new practice were the ceremonies taking place within the city of Rome, which continued to be celebrated according to the old rituals of the Republican period: but what happened outside the capital (i.e., from the ritual point of view, outside the pomerium) was heavily influenced by a series of ceremonial practices never attested in earlier periods. This is especially exemplified by the celebrations of the imperial vicennalia in 303. The choice of depicting the joint adventus of the two Augusti, and not their triumph, on souvenirs of the event such as those produced through the Olbian terracotta mould is certainly most remarkable: it seems that the adventus was celebrated with such a grandiose ceremonial that it probably outdid the triumph itself in the memory of the viewers. Moreover, whereas the significance of the triumph was specifically linked to the city of Rome and its ancestral institutions, the adventus was the most common context in which people living all over the Roman world could see the emperors: therefore, this ceremony was probably more likely to elicit their sense of belonging. Outside Rome, and especially in the new imperial residences, where there was no strong ritual precedent, state ceremonies were probably characterised by a much higher degree of accommodation to individual circumstances: the emperors had greater freedom to decide how to stage the representation of their power, for example regarding the role of the Caesares and their relationship to the Augusti. Whereas all the sources agree in treating the imperial carriage as the most important ceremonial attribute of the senior emperors, the rituals involving the Caesares are described in a variety of 57 GUIDETTI 2018a, 30–32. 58 It may be interesting to note that Suetonius censures precisely this behaviour in his biography of Gaius, who apparently accepted that high-ranking senators ran besides his carriage in the manner of clients (Suet. Cal. 26.2, quoted above, note 30). Gaius’ style of self-representation, soon considered intolerable by a senatorial audience, anticipated an idea of the imperial power which became more easily accepted in late antiquity.

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different ways. Their public appearances covered a spectrum of possibilities, depending on what aspect of their political role needed to be highlighted. This ritual flexibility confirms the complex role of the Caesares within the system of government: the right to use their own, smaller carriage represented them as legitimate members of the imperial college, albeit on a lower rank than the Augusti; by contrast, when entering a city on horseback they appeared as victorious military commanders. In addition, the joint adventus of an Augustus and a Caesar could be used to express some of the core values of Diocletianic ideology, such as the unity of the imperial college based on the junior emperors’ obedience to the Augusti. Finally, non-official depictions of state rituals such as the Olbian terracotta mould show that the staging of these events achieved its objective very successfully. The production of souvenirs of the vicennalia celebrations for non-elite buyers demonstrates the popular interest in such grandiose ceremonies: these rituals succeeded in building a strong sense of participation and belonging among their viewers, as well as among those citizens who, not having the opportunity of experiencing the events personally, bought their commemorative depictions as a sort of surrogate. In the light of these social and psychological mechanisms, the emphasis on public ceremonies in the Diocletianic period can be seen as a conscious power strategy: the continuous staging of imperial authority contributed to enhancing its prestige, reinforcing a sense of shared identity among all levels of society which was essential to the rebuilding of the Empire after decades of instability.

THE MONUMENTAL BUREAUCRACY OF DIOCLETIAN Monica Hellström INTRODUCTION This study aims at understanding how an emerging monumental idiom of statehood exploited, and affected, local power negotiations. The material to be treated consists of monuments to Diocletian and his co-emperors, raised and inscribed by provincial governors and other imperial officials.1 I examine them from the local point of view, treating them as an instance of the relation between the bureaucrats who raised them and the locals who experienced them. The role of the emperors was secondary to this relation, but nonetheless important: while they were neither authors nor primary audiences of the officials’ monuments, the emperors facilitated them and set the terms for their erection. Ultimately, monuments by imperial officials served the dual purpose of giving physical shape to the restructured and professionalised imperial administration (along the lines laid out by Luke Lavan for provincial praetoria),2 and boosting the position of representatives of this administration in their interactions with local elites (as examined by Daniëlle Slootjes).3 To use the editors’ terminology in the introduction to this volume, governors’ monuments represented a new mode of communicating and shaping imperial ideology, by redeploying traditional means of negotiating local hierarchy. In the first part I examine imperial monuments by governors in relation to local honorific exchanges involving the emperor’s image, which had a long history as markers of local prominence. This is followed by a discussion on imperial monuments by imperial bureaucrats in general, and how these manifested ongoing transformations of imperial authority. The study has been limited to the reign of Diocletian, for two reasons. Firstly, this is when the phenomenon of imperial monuments by governors and other imperial officials first becomes ubiquitous, but still before it becomes assimilated to local practices. Caillan Davenport has argued convincingly that governors in the ensuing decades raised imperial monuments on their own initiative with the aim to enhance their personal status locally4, much like local elites had done for centuries. The incentive for the first spate of governors’ 1 2 3 4

Seeing the period to be treated, ‘the reign of Diocletian’ is a more accurate term than ‘the tetrarchy’. This does not mean that I view Diocletian as the author behind centrally made decisions. All dates are CE. LAVAN 2001. SLOOTJES 2006, passim, esp. 1–6, 181–183. She notes the neglect of the locals in scholarship on the provincial administration (4) and underscores the mutual dependency of governors and local elites (181–183). DAVENPORT 2014, esp. 47–49.

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monuments is less clear, and for a number of reasons (to be treated below) I would accord a larger role to central government. Finally, to understand this role it is useful to consider one administration rather than account for handovers of power, information, and aims, especially considering the political crises that arose in 306. GOVERNORS, LOCALS, AND EMPERORS Governors’ monuments to emperors are a common feature of Diocletian’s reign. For this study I have identified more than fifty items empire-wide, spread in accordance with local epigraphic habits. Although there are reasons to suspect that the policies that generated them should be attributed to Carus’ dynasty (on which more below), I have not encountered any clear-cut earlier example.5 Diocletian’s era thus ushered in real change in how provincial governors used the imperial image. Yet, their monuments have received few treatments. When mentioned at all it is usually in the context of propagating the rulership of four. This is the position (or rather, premise) of Werner Eck’s treatment of imperial monuments in Diocletian’s era, which is the most comprehensive to date, and the idea is so widespread as to be almost axiomatic.6 However, several of the monuments predate 293, in all regions.7 Others seem too late for promoting the arrangement, such as the many monuments raised in 301, when rulership of four had been a reality for seven years, and was neither new nor ripe for renewal. No governor’s monument can be associated specifically with the year 293. While multiplicity was an important part of the presentation of Diocletian’s reign for half of its duration,8 it does not explain why governors began raising imperial monuments. Here follows a brief survey of such monuments by governors as I have encountered to date. I have added monuments by duces, and by urban prefects in Rome, as well as monuments ostensibly raised by emperors but presented as executed by 5 6 7 8

The closest case is a tetrapylon in Lepcis Magna whose inscriptions mention two proconsuls (CIL VIII 13. IRT 523. MÜHLENBROCK 2003, 208). However, the texts state that it was raised by locals, and the governors likely authorised and/or officiated over the dedication ceremonies. ECK 2006; see also the introduction to the volume (BOSCHUNG & ECK 2006) and several articles. The notion is widespread, e.g., DAVENPORT 2014, 62–63 or THIEL 2006. See below. Among examples are dedications at Lambaesis, Cuicul, Sitifis, Tarraco, Augusta Vindelicorum, Athens, Fons Timavi and Florentia. See chapters on several brands of art in BOSCHUNG & ECK 2006. The concept is generally assumed to be unwelcome, in need of monumental support. However, it is doubtful that a perceived negative was broadcast in this manner, and it seems more plausible that the arrangement was exploited for its positive connotiations. This emphasis is clear for instance in the oration by Eumenius to Constantius I in 297/8 (Pan. Lat. IX [4] 20.2–21.3), describing a portico with images of the four emperors as victorious on four fronts. The concept of propaganda has different meanings in different scholarly contexts; I personally subscribe to the definition outlined by Filippo Carlà-Uhink (CARLÀ 2010), treating it as top-down persuasion with the aim to underscore virtues. For a discussion see HEKSTER 2020 and RUSSELL & HELLSTRÖM 2020, specifically for Diocletian’s reign MAYER 2002 passim. 2006, 142, for imperial monuments FEJFER 2008. HØJTE 2005. BURRELL 2004.

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named governors. Rather than iconographic content (which is lost in most cases) I note aspects such as location, genre, and socio-political context. I will only provide the minimum of information, seeing that I intend to analyse the monuments as a class rather than focus on individual items. There are a lot of monuments, and I apologise for the tedium, but it is partly the point: governors’ monuments to emperors became so common in Diocletian’s reign that contemporary audiences in any reasonably important town would have come to expect them. The most imposing example of the genre to survive (and which will be discussed further below) is the pillar of Diocletian in Alexandria (Pl. 12), raised by the prefect of Egypt Aelius Publius around 300.9 Also in Egypt, a tetrakionon was raised at Luxor by the praeses of the new province of the Thebaid, Aurelius Reginus, between 300 and 302.10 Continuing clockwise around the Mediterranean, in 301 (probably) a pillar monument to all four emperors was raised at Arae Philaenorum on the border between the new provinces Libya Pentapolis and Tripolitania by a praeses, most likely of Tripolitania seeing the Latin of the inscription.11 The best candidate is C. Valerius Vibianus Obsequius, the first governor of the province.12 At its other border at Tamesmida an altar was raised to the genii of the four emperors by Mucius Flavianus, praeses of the likewise new province Valeria Byzacena.13 In the latter two cases the choices of locations were obviously motivated by the administrative rather than urban topography. The Arae Philaenorum in particular testifies to this, situated in a barren, uninhabited location but towering over important land and sea routes. Also in Africa at Lambaesis, monuments were raised on four occasions by three different praesides of Numidia: by Flavius Flavianus to Diocletian and Maximian in 286/7, by Aurelius Diogenes to Maximian, as well as to Diocletian and Maximian jointly, at some point before 293, and finally by Aurelius Speratianus between 293 and 305.14 Another fragmentary dedication is very likely by a governor, judging by the phraseology.15 Flavius Flavianus also dedicated to Maximian at Cuicul, again in 286/7,16 and another praeses of Numidia, Aurelius Maximianus, dedicated to Diocletian and Maximian at Cirta.17 In 301, monuments were raised at Thamugadi by Valerius Florus, praeses of the new province Numidia Militana, to the tutelary deities of the emperors; of interest for the discussion on the correlation of gods with 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17

See below. Aelius Publius’ tenure began in 298, and his earliest successor is attested in 302; see THIEL 2006, 256 n. 12. MCKENZIE, GIBSON & REYES 2004, 99 n.125. AE 1934.9. For this and another tetrastylon raised in 308–309, THIEL 2006, 291–292; see also relevant chapters in JONES & MCFADDEN 2015. AE 1954.184a-b; GOODCHILD 1952. LAUBSCHER 1999, 222. THIEL 2006, 304–310. A statue identified as him (LSA 2136) has been retrieved in Lepcis Magna. CIL VIII 23179. AE 1916.21 (Flavianus), CIL VIII 2573. VIII 2574–5 (Diogenes). VIII 18259 (Speratianus). The latter may possibly be a building inscription. I have not included the re-dedication of the groma in the legionary camp to Diocletian and Maximian; CIL VIII 2571a. CIL VIII 18262; see n. 92 on ‘official’ formulas. AE 1916.18. CIL VIII 7003.

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emperors in this era is that Mars is presented as the comes of Galerius, by an individual who presumably was in the know.18 In 286/7, a monument was raised to Diocletian at Sitifis by Flavius Pecuarius, praeses of Mauretania Caesariensis.19 Fewer inscriptions survive from the West and North, but a plaque from Emerita testifies to a dedication by G. Sulpicius …us, praeses of Lusitania at some point between 293 and 305.20 Likewise in Lusitania at Ossonoba, a dedication was made by the praeses Aurelius Ursinus to Diocletian or a co-emperor,21 and in Tarraco a monument was raised to Diocletian in 288/9 by the praeses of Hispania Citerior, Postumius Lupercus.22 In Trier, a statue of Constantius Caesar was raised by the dux Valerius Concordius,23 and in 290, Septimius Valentio praeses of Raetia raised a monument to Diocletian at Augusta Vindelicorum.24 At Teurnia, a praeses of Noricum Mediterraneum by name of Septimius raised a monument to one of the Maximiani, whose name was later erased.25 The Hellene regions are more prolific in epigraphy, and also in governors’ monuments. In Athens, the corrector of Achaea L. Turranius Gratianus dedicated to Diocletian sometime before 290,26 at Corinth the praeses of the same province, L. Sulpicius Paulus, raised dedications to Diocletian and one of the Maximiani,27 while at Sparta an anonymous praeses et corrector dedicated to one emperor of Diocletian’s college.28 The first praeses of the new province of the Aegean Islands, Aurelius Agathus Gennadius, raised a dedication to Diocletian on Kos, where he also made a dedication to Mars Gradivus in Diocletian’s name, sometime during the first tetrarchy.29 He also raised the imposing tetrapylon in Mytilene on Lesbos described by Cyriacus of Ancona.30 In Ephesus, bases carrying statues of Diocletian, Galerius and Constantius I were erected on the Embolos by the proconsul Iunius Tiberinus,31 and another dedication to Diocletian was set up by the proconsul L. Artorius Pius Maximus.32 At Ilion, a monument was raised to Diocletian or Maximian by the proconsul Aurelius Hermogenes, and in the same town the emperors themselves donated silver statues of Zeus and Asclepius to the sanctuary of Athena, executed and dedicated by the proconsul of Asia Epiphanius jointly together with the praeses 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

CIL VIII 2345–7; ECK 2006, 333–334. CIL VIII 8474. CIL II 48. KOLB 1997, 43 treats it as an arch, dating it to 296. CIL II 5140; on the date, see Christian Witschel, LSA 2016. CIL II 4104. CIL XIII 3672. CIL III 5810. AE 1995.1191. The rest of his name is lost. CIL III 6103. Corinth 8.2.23 and 25. A dedication to Galerius Caesar by an unknown author may represent another statue group; Corinth 8.2.24. SEG XI 887, a title only attested under Diocletian. Segre 1993 EV 258; 363. EV 284. VALLARINO et al. 2011. These are the last dedications to emperors on Kos. CIL III 450; Vita Cyriaci auctore feliciano, Cod. Tarvisium fol. 86. AE 1967.479, of which Maximian was later replaced by Theodosius; ECK 2006, 332. CIL III 14195.27.

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of the new provice of the Hellespont.33 Similarly in Didyma, Diocletian and Maximian dedicated statues of the gods of Didyma through the agency of the proconsul of Asia T. Flavius Festus, sometime before 293.34 A monument to the genii of the tetrarchs together with Jupiter Optimus Maximus was raised at Halicarnassos by Aurelius Marcellus, praeses of the new province Caria.35 The praeses of the likewise new province of Phrygia dedicated monuments to Diocletian and Maximian (probably) at Laodicea ad Lycum,36 and in the same province a proconsul or praeses by the name of Priscus dedicated to Maximian in Docimium.37 The praeses of the new province Cilicia, Aemilius Marcianus, raised a column-shaped monument at Zephyrion on the road to Tarsus,38 and in Perge the praeses of Pamphylia, M. Ulpius Urbanus, set up dedications to the two Caesares.39 In Gortyn on Crete, the proconsul Aglaus dedicated to Diocletian and Maximian (styling them the ‘bright lights of the world’), and columnar bases were raised to Maximian and Galerius by M. Aurelius Byzes, praeses of Crete.40 On at least three occasions between 293 and 305 the governor Antistius Sabinus raised monuments in Salamis on Cyprus.41 In Tyrus, L. Artorius Pius Maximus raised two separate dedications to Diocletian when he was legatus of Phoenike,42 and he also dedicated to Diocletian at Heliopolis.43 At Caesarea Maritima, the praeses of Palestine Arbaeus Africanus raised a monument to Maximian,44 and the governor of Palestine, Aufidius Priscus, raised three to Maximian, Galerius and Constantius between 302 and 304.45 The dux Aurelius Valerianus dedicated to Galerius (most likely) at Bostra,46 and a whole slew of dedications were made at Gerasa by praesides of Arabia: Aurelius Antiochus to one unknown emperor; Iulius Aurelius Antonius to Maximian; Aurelius Gorgonius to Constantius I; and Domitius Antonius on one occasion to Maximian, on another to Diocletian.47 Furthermore, Aurelius Felicianus raised or rebuilt the southern 33 LSA 274 (Hermogenes); I.Ilion 96 (Epiphanius) and 97 (praeses). DMITRIEV 2001, 483–484 and n.116 treats them as contemporary, but the phraseology is different, and they may refer to two distinct events. 34 Didyma 170–1, to Zeus, Leto, and Apollo. 35 CIL III 449. 36 GUIZZI 2018 nos. 5–6. The suggestion by Guizzi that the temple in which they were found had been restored by the emperors themselves is, however, not supported by the dedicatory inscriptions. 37 CIL III 14191. 38 CIL III 223; ECK 2006, 337. 39 AE 2004.1478–9. 40 AE 1933.101 (Aglaus); LSA 63 and 89 (Byzes). 41 ISalamis 130–1, columnar bases in the theatre; ISalamis 39 and 40; ECK 2006, 332–333. 42 AE 2006.1586–7. 43 AE 1939.58. 44 CIIP II 1213 = AE 2000.1506. 45 CIIP II 1268. 1271. 1272. 46 ILGSyr. XIII 9062; for the date see ZUCKERMAN 1994, 83–84. 47 AE 1966.1602 (Antiochus), AE 2008.1562 (Antonius), AE 1930.105 (Gorgonius), AE 1966.1602, AE 1897.127 (Antoninus); ECK 2006, 330–331.

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tetrapylon in Gerasa and embellished the surrounding plaza, dedicating the monument to Diocletian and his three co-emperors.48 A tetrapylon was also raised in Palmyra, aligning the camps with the main colonnade of the town. It was ostensibly the work of the emperors, but was carried out by the praeses Sossianus Hierocles.49 In Italy, finally, the praeses of Sardinia dedicated to Galerius in Turris Libisonis,50 and two correctores Italiae dedicated to Diocletian: Acilius Clarus in 286 at Fons Timavi,51 and T. Aelius Marcianus in 287 at Florentia.52 Another corrector Italiae, Paetus Honoratus, made a joint dedication with the corrector of Venetia and Histria, Isteius Tertullus, to Diocletian and Maximian at Patavium.53 In Rome, the urban prefect L. Turranius Gratianus – earlier dedicating in Athens – raised a statue to Maximian in the Basilica Iulia in 290/1,54 and the urban prefect Nummius Tuscus raised statues to Maximian and Constantius I in 302/3 by the building site of the new baths (with which he had no doubt been involved as curator aquarum).55 The most important point to make about these monuments for the present purposes is that they existed, and in plenty. As mentioned, they date to the whole of Diocletian’s reign. Their spatial distribution goes beyond what is known of the emperors’ presence or activity, extending to regional centres in general. They are especially common in newly created provinces, and their chronology and geography correspond to administrative measures rather than events in the lives of the emperors. The same is the case for the inscriptions, which do not mention any such events. Many are very brief, but this should not be taken to imply that the monuments they belonged to were humble; the column of Alexandria and the tetrapylon at Gerasa both had very unassuming (not to say shoddy) inscriptions. The typology is varied, ranging from statue bases to imposing landmarks, but the choices are not entirely random. There is a notable tendency towards tetrapyla and pillars, and for locations associated with passage, borders, and administrative compounds. As such, they made the administrative territory visible, and helped integrate it with the physical fabric of the towns. AGENTS AND MONUMENTS This in itself was not new: it had been customary to raise imperial monuments on major routes and borders since the first century, and the types (including tetrapyla)

48 AE 1939.254. Cf, MÜHLENBROCK 2003, 111; 236 and THIEL 2002, who treats Felicianus’ structure as the original one. 49 CIL III 133. MÜHLENBROCK 2003, 251–252. 50 AE 1948.178. 51 CIL V 8205. 52 CIL XI 1594. 53 CIL V 2817–18. 54 CIL VI 1128. 55 CIL VI 31378.

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were well established.56 What is novel is their frequency, and that provincial governors raised them. Moreover, they did so exclusively: no other category of patron is attested as raising a tetrapylon or a pillar monument in this era. This is worth keeping in mind when discussing unattributed monumens such as the tetrapylon/octapylon at Thessalonike,57 or the tetrapyla at Sirmium and Carnuntum58, Milan and Malborghetto.59 These tend to be attributed to emperors, but provincial governors are far more likely as patrons. For the same reasons I would suggest that the two five-pillar monuments framing the Forum Romanum were raised by the urban prefect.60 In scholarship the notion that Roman emperors raised monuments to themselves has largely been abandoned in favour of the view that they were raised by locals to express their loyalty to their ruler(s). Even so, it remains alive for Diocletian and his co-rulers who are often seen as keen to assert their dominance in this way. If the governors who raised the monuments are acknowledged at all, they tend to be treated as little more than disseminators of centrally devised policy. However, had their monuments been the product of a central command we ought to see more coherence in chronology, typology, and presentation. There are similarities but no two are alike, and some governors are more in evidence than others, suggesting that it was their choice whether, and how, to raise imperial monuments. That they are not presented as by emperors, but to emperors, would not have escaped the notice of local audiences. It was a recurring stereotype of ‘bad’ emperors that they raised monuments to themselves, an accusation levelled at Constantius II by Ammianus Marcellinus.61 To assume that emperors by default desired monuments to themselves is to ignore the mechanisms that generated them, including 56 For the long history of tetrapyla in both the east and west, MÜHLENBROCK 2003, 91–95. GOODCHILD 1952, 101 mentions several earlier comparanda to the Arae Philaenorum monument. 57 On the ‘Arch of Galerius’, which was raised as a tetrapylon in 303 but later extended to an octapylon, see LAUBSCHER 1975. MÜHLENBROCK 2003, 282. VELENIS 1983. The restructuring is substantial, using different materials. Laubscher suggested a local patron (as in IG X.2 1.1009, dedicated to the four emperors by the town Thessaloniki), but type and size accord better with a governor. For a chronology of the surving remains of the compound, HADJITRYPHONOS 2011. 58 Sirmium: JEREMIĆ 2004. 2009. POPOVIĆ 2011. Carnuntum: MÜHLENBROCK 2003, 291–295, undated. Also potentially relevant is the tetrapylon at Aquincum; MÜHLENBROCK 2003, 289– 291. 59 On the Milan tetrapylon, DE MARIA, 1988, 202–203. MÜHLENBROCK 2003, 137. It may be later: De Maria compares it to the terminal arch of the late 4th century porticus maximae in Rome, and Mühlenbrock refers to dating of the associated colonnade to the same time. On Malborghetto, MÜHLENBROCK 2003, 133–136. Its association with Constantine is recent and fraught; type, style, and dated materials point to the first decade of the 4th century. 60 For recent accounts of the vicennalia monument (with bibliography), see BAUER 2011 and MARLOWE 2016. 61 Amm. 21.16.15. Cf. accusations against Domitian, Suet. Dom. 13.2, Cass. Dio 68.1.1. This is not confirmed by the statue record: the alleged offenders (e.g. Gaius, Nero and Domitian) are not much evidenced (even accounting for damnatio memoriae) while the most frequently represented emperors (Tiberius, Trajan and Vespasian) purportedly reclined such honours; HØJTE 2005, 51; 61.

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those by governors. The fact that the authors were explicitly not the emperors should be taken seriously, and the same is the case for dedications to deities presented as set up on imperial command, as at Ilion and Didyma: their honorands were not emperors, but gods (and not the tutelary gods).62 Lines may have been toed, but the terms for honorific exchanges were recognised and respected. Like other public statues, monuments to emperors were awarded by political bodies as marks of distinction, and in this lay their core value.63 To dedicate monuments to oneself would have been meaningless. Besides, there was no need: emperors received a stream of petitions to honour them, and had only to grant them more freely if they desired more monuments. The eagerness to heap honours on emperors had to do with the glamour that accrued to those with the opportunity and means to bestow them, whose position was validated and strengthened in relation to peers. It is increasingly recognised that imperial monuments and rituals played key roles in negotiating local influence: elite families vied for influence in the towns, while the towns exploited them to elevate themselves above their neighbours. One example is the fierce competition for neokorates, and it is worth noting that Septimius Severus punished Nicomedia by transferring its neokorate to its archrival Nicaea.64 As noted by Barbara Burrell, to dedicate monuments and shrines to emperors was not an obligation but an eagerly sought privilege.65 To regard these solely as loyalty statements is to ignore the very real ways in which honours to emperors played into lateral, locally defined relationships. That imperial monuments were loyalty demonstrations is obviously true in a general sense, but they had become so deeply integrated with systems of local self-promotion that the term is misleading; Gregory Rowe suggested ‘competitive loyalism’ as a more fitting label.66 Ultimately, an imperial monument does not do anything that, in itself, constitutes a guarantee of obedience. In fact, it rather displays strength, as it demonstrates access to prominent public locations, expensive materials, artisans and aesthetic savoir-faire, and not least, to local and imperial decisionmaking bodies. It should not be assumed that their primary aim was to communicate with the emperor; in fact, it is doubtful that emperors knew about all the monuments raised in their honour.67 From the local point of view, the important information such a monument provided was who raised it. And, until recently, this had almost exclusively been local towns and individuals. For three centuries, this was how provincial urban communities had known and experienced them, accustomed to seeing themselves and their leading members and institutions in them.68 62 Cf. the unique altar to Hercules by the Iovii and Herculii at Thessaloniki (CIL XIII [suppl. 2] 12310); USHERWOOD, this volume, 307–308. 63 FEJFER 2008, 420–421, 381. HØJTE 2005, 90: ‘the economic, social and political factors that governed the erection of imperial portrait statues were the same as those regulating the erection of honorary statues of other individuals.’ 64 Extensively on neokorates BURRELL 2004, on competitive aspects esp. 279–283. 65 BURRELL 2004: 283. 66 See discussion in HELLSTRÖM & RUSSELL 2020. 67 So e.g., MAYER 2006, 143–144, and HELLSTRÖM 2020. 68 For a potential change under Carus’ dynasty, see below.

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This raises the question why governors did not raise monuments to emperors before. There were several benefits to demonstrating privileged access. To manage the monumental fabric in their provinces was one of their responsibilities, and as Daniëlle Slootjes notes, they were themselves focal points of competitive loyalism.69 Yet, we do not have monuments by them, which is especially surprising if viewed as expressions of loyalty. Why are such demonstrations absent during, for instance, the late Antonine or Severan periods, when governors posed real threats to central power (and when other imperial monuments are very plentiful)? If imperial monuments are reconsidered as manifestations of strength, one may hypothesise that governors were barred from raising them, as from other forms of monumental self-representation. It makes little sense that loyalty demonstrations should first be demanded from Diocletianic governors: they were new men of the emperors’ own making, entirely dependent on them for their positions. Many were of low rank, they had no local networks, and few held command.70 Several of the dedicators above flourished in imperial service, including Domitius Antoninus, Aurelius Hermogenes, Septimius Valentio, L. Turranius Gratianus, and Sossianus Hierocles.71 These men are better viewed as early adopters and henchmen of Diocletian’s regime than as potential fomenters of rebellion. If anything, they represented an antidote to fragmentation. A more plausible interpretation of the emergence of governors’ monuments is as an attempt on the part of the state to monopolise the imperial image. On first view, this may appear to be supported by the fact that imperial monuments by local agents decrease sharply in the early fourth century.72 However, the phenomena are not directly related: dedications to Diocletian and his co-emperors by local agents are very plentiful, and show no signs of abating toward the end of the reign. I found almost seventy in North Africa alone (at which point I stopped counting), ten in Spain, thirty-seven in Greece and Asia minor, and a scatter elsewhere, all in keeping with the epigraphic conventions of the respective region.73 One may note that a dedication by Sagalassos flaunts the city’s second neokorate, showing that this manner of competition remained in full swing.74 The disappearance of imperial monuments by locals – whatever the causes – postdates the period here under consideration: local communities were demonstrably willing, able, and at liberty to dedicate to Diocletian and his co-emperors.

69 SLOOTJES 2006, 107–109. 70 Generally on the position of late antique governors, see SLOOTJES 2006, 25–27. HELLSTRÖM 2014, 279–280. 71 They all continued to more elevated posts; for instance, Antoninus (PLRE Antoninus 9) became praetorian prefect (CIL III 14156) and Gratianus (PLRE Gratianus 3) urban prefect. 72 Fo an overview, see the articles on late antique statuary by R.R.R Smith (SMITH 1999 and 1997). 73 See the Appendix. It is not a comprehensive sample but suffices to show that the practice remained unaffected at least until the end of Diocletian’s reign. 74 SEG II 735. The text also boasts that Sagalassos is the first city of Pisidia, a friend and ally of the Romans.

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The governors’ monuments did not replace those by locals, but represent a distinct activity. However, their reception was conditioned by centuries of experiences of how and what imperial monuments communicated – practices still vividly engaged in. Like the monuments of locals, those by governors represent attempts to draw authority from the emperors, and helped establish their place in local hierarchies. Imperial titles, monuments and priesthoods held pride of place in local status systems, with particular reference to elites who, as Slootjes observes, well understood this language, and had for generations used honours to emperors and imperial dignitaries to make their internal pecking order visible.75 THE COLUMN AND THE ALEXANDRIANS Against this background it is abundantly clear who held the highest position in the city of Alexandria. Publius’ column is an excessive display of access, in immediate and tangible terms. Its seventy feet monolith column shaft of rose granite had no parallel outside the city of Rome.76 Even to transport it to Alexandria was a challenge, and to bring it through the streets and up the steep incline to the Serapeum – not to mention raise it – made for public spectacles. The endeavour required a large workforce, and considerable know-how. Moreover, the column was topped by a several meters high porphyry statue of Diocletian, a stone that was notoriously difficult to carve.77 It was erected in one of the most famous sanctuaries in the Roman world, which was also the most elevated point in Alexandria. It stood on alignment with the main streets of the city (Pl. 13) as well as the sanctuary’s monumental entryway. It was imposing in the extreme, visible from every quarter of the city and even the sea, as emphasised in the description of the Serapeum by Aphtonius of Antioch: A hill juts out of the ground, rising to a great height… the high-point of the city …flight after flight leads higher and higher, not stopping until the hundredth step... After the steps is a gateway, shut in with grilled gates… and four massive columns rise up, bringing four roads to one entrance. On the columns rises a building with many columns of moderate size in front, not of one colour, but they are fixed to the edifice as an ornament. The building's roof is domed, and round the dome is set a great image of the universe. In the middle there rises a column of great height, making the place conspicuous (someone on his way does not know where he is going, unless he uses the pillar as a sign of the direction) and makes the acropolis stand out by land and sea. The beginnings of the universe stand round the capital of the column.

75 A language ‘spoken and understood by a select group who knew the traditions and the expectations’, SLOOTJES 2006, 119. 76 Without base, capital and statue, which added 10–15 m; see THIEL 2006, 252–253 and MCKENZIE, GIBSON & REYES 2004, 99 (who give somewhat lower height estimates). 77 Fragments still survived in the 19th century: THIEL 2006, 255 n. 10, 268 and MCKENZIE, GIBSON & REYES 2004, 99 both claim (on material evidence) that the column, base, and statue are contemporary, and late antique.

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The beauty is unspeakable. If anything has been omitted, it has been bracketed by amazement; what it was not possible to describe has been omitted.78

This is no testimony to meekness, but a tour-de-force. It seems highly unlikely that it could have been manufactured and raised in the short interval between the end of the siege of Alexandria in March 298 and Diocletian’s arrival there in September the same year, as usually assumed.79 Moreover, the inscription faces away from the entrance, and is in Greek, which fits ill with a monument raised for the adventus of a Latin-speaking emperor by a Latin-named governor. That the monument was meant for the emperor’s eyes is unlikely, but it would have done a great deal to bolster Publius’ position in Alexandria. That the materials, workforce, and location would not have been available to him without the emperor’s permission (a conversation for which the September visit seems suitable) in no way undercuts this: it demonstrated in concrete terms that he could draw on imperial resources. Furthermore, the unusual singularity of the monument displays a direct link between the governor and the highest-ranking Augustus.80 Yet Publius was, relatively speaking, a nobody. His authority rested entirely in the system that he represented, and this was the point – had he been able to raise the monument on his own means and authority this would have been alarming. Rather, the monument demonstrated the power that the administration wielded through him. As noted by Luke Lavan for late antique governors in general, but particularly relevant for Publius, this provided him with much-needed leverage as he faced local elites who outranked him.81 Using their own language of honorific exchanges, Publius claimed the topmost position for himself and for the state. It is worth noting that the Alexandrian elites at the time were openly hostile to the regime. The political situation in post-siege Alexandria helps explain the exceptional grandeur of Publius’ monument, and had it been alone we would have been justified in regarding it simply as a demonstration of power. This was far from the case, however, and Publius’ pillar must be viewed together with other governors’ monuments across the empire, of which few can be tied to conflicts or imperial visits. The circumstances differed from place to place, and so did the ways in which governors’ monuments structured relations between the imperial administration and local subjects (on which more below). What they all share is that they made

78 Apht. Prog. 12 (tr. Heath). MCKENZIE, GIBSON & REYES 2004, 104 underscore that the description appears accurate. 79 THIEL 2006, 257 and MCKENZIE, GIBSON & REYES 2004, 99 date its erection to closely after the end of the siege. That requisitioning for state projects could be painfully slow (especially at this time) is clear from the Panopolis papyrus scrolls; see ADAMS 2010. For Diocletian’s movements in 298; see BARNES 1996, 543. 80 The suggestion by THIEL (2006, 258–267; 270) that there were originally four pillars is based on a faulty reading of Aphtonius, confusing the propylon and the column. The former had four pillars which carried a superstructure, the latter is clearly described as single. There are some grounds for suggesting that two were originally commissioned; MCKENZIE, GIBSON & REYES 2004, 99. 81 LAVAN 2001, 59.

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physically manifest that the governors were linked to the emperors, in terms borrowed from local peer-to-peer competition and with locals as their audiences. THE MODUS OPERANDI This leads to the question of initiative, and the extent to which the emperors were involved. That governors in all parts of the empire suddenly had the same idea after three centuries of silence is unlikely, but as Werner Eck laments, no record of the procedure survives.82 As mentioned, a potential way for emperors to generate imperial monuments was by lifting restrictions. However, we must also envision some form of facilitation, perhaps also active encouragement in some cases. The location and materials for the Alexandrian column would hardly have been available to Publius without express imperial permission, and Werner Eck makes the same observation for the tetrapylon in Gerasa, which incorporated no less than sixteen porhyry columns.83 That these materials and locations (not to mention workforce and knowhow) were demonstrably made available shows that the emperors were not only happy to see governors raising monuments to themselves – which was by no means a given – but that they were also ready to support this materially. Governor’s monuments can thus be viewed in conjunction with other examples of an ambiguous relation between pre-existing honorific practices and imperial initiatives treated in this volume, notably by Byron Waldron (art; brotherhood) and Anne Hunnell Chen (theophoric names). A source that may throw some light on the procedure is the letter by Constantine exhorting bishops to raise churches, cited by Eusebius of Caesarea who was one of the recipients:84 ‘We also empower you, and the others through you [that is, other clergy to whom the recipient communicates the contents of the letter], to demand what is needful for the work, both from the provincial governors and from the Praetorian Praefect. For they have received instructions to be most diligent in obedience to your Holiness's orders.’ A copy of this charge was transmitted throughout all the provinces to the bishops of the several churches: the provincial governors received directions accordingly, and the imperial statute was speedily carried into effect.

While the emperor facilitated the building projects it was the bishops that were to act as builders, and the locals would no doubt associate the new churches with these men. The resources of which the bishops are encouraged to avail themselves are detailed in letters with more specific directions for the erection of the church of the Holy Sepulchre: ‘labourers and artificers’, ‘columns and marbles’, and expenses in general.85 The emperor further stipulates that the building should outshine all

82 83 84 85

ECK 2006, 328. ECK 2006, 331. Eus. VC 2.46 (transl. Cushing Richardson). Eus. VC 3.30–32.

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others, empire-wide.86 Although this project was a particular case that afforded detailed instructions, it is clear that the bishops were generally expected to build at a competitive scale. Still for the most part non-elite, they were now to be patrons of public construction, catapulted into a top position according to an ages-old index of local status. There are several resonances here with the governors’ monuments, not least in how the projected buildings exploit the terms for local peer-to-peer competition. Furthermore, it is clear that the governors controlled the means to erect the churches and that they received directions as to their use. No such communications survive – the above letters are only preserved thanks to a uniquely motivated recipient – but there is no reason to doubt their existence. This procedure seems likely also for the governors’ monuments: letters informing them that they were welcome to erect imperial monuments in their own names, and that they could draw on central resources for this purpose. Constantine’s letters represent encouragement and facilitation rather than commands, and, similar to the governors’ monuments, display a scale of engagement from the casual to the more involved in specific cases. Central means guaranteed a certain homogeneity, while local implementation made for variations in form, presentation, and chronology. Such a policy of access, encouragement and facilitation could be executed by the pen, drawing on mechanisms of authorisation rather than command and delegating the ultimate initiative to the governors. It is not implausible that Constantine took his cues from his predecessors, adapting their strategies to a different aim. Like the governors’ monuments, the bishops’ churches demonstrated how their authors were connected to the emperor(s). What this ultimately served to communicate is expressed in Constantine’s letter to Eusebius: …by the providence of the Supreme God, and our instrumentality, we trust that all can see the efficacy of the Divine power… [my italics]87

The governors’ monuments communicated the efficacy of the imperial government of which they were part, for good or bad depending on the perspective of the viewer. Like the churches, the governors’ monuments emphasised the integration of their institutions into the local social and architectural fabric, in immediate and lasting ways. Where Constantine sought to underpin the status of the global institution of the church, Diocletian and his co-rulers sought to underpin the global imperial bureaucracy, and the territorial, administrative, legal and fiscal reforms with which it was connected. These were rolled out in stages, and were conceptualised (and in several cases also implemented) already in the dyarchic period. Charged with handling all of them were the governors, and it is no coincidence that it is at the time of these transformations that governors’ monuments to emperors first arise. Several monuments, moreover, were connected to administrative compounds and linked these to the city (as at Caesarea Maritima, Salamis, and Palmyra), as

86 Eus. VC 3.31: ‘…that the fairest structures in any city of the empire may be excelled...’ 87 Eus. VC 2.46.

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described by Luke Lavan.88 They are strikingly common in new provinces, where the 100 strong apparatus of staff and officiales had to be established along with the new governor.89 We know little about how the province divisions were received by locals, but their impact should not be underestimated, especially in the wealthy (and drastically truncated) regions of Italy, Asia, Africa and Egypt. For Africa Proconsularis, Ginette di Vita-Evrard describes a proto-division in place several years before the actual one, with high-ranking henchmen of the emperors in charge of autonomous regions.90 She interpreted this as an attempt at forestalling hostility in an area characterised by senatorial interests. The Egyptian rebellion shows that this risk was a very real one. Monumental support would have been welcome, and one may note that the new provinces resulting from the division – Tripolitania and Valeria Byzacena – received governors’ monuments, probably very soon after their creation. THE OFFICIAL MODE Ultimately, the most important message conveyed by these monuments was that a governor raised them. This they did, I would argue, not only with support from the government but as the government. Admittedly, there is a fine line between promotion of self and of the system of which one is part, and the two are not mutually exclusive – for instance, one may note that Felicianus posted his own name four times on the Gerasa tetrapylon. As Davenport has shown, Valerius Diogenes, governor of Pisidia in the decade following upon Diocletian’s retirement, exploited the practice for his personal ambition, flaunting his closeness to the emperors before local audiences.91 His activities are an important reminder of what imperial monuments could do for those who raised them, and why they were so coveted. The ‘civil’ and ‘official’ modes were probably never entirely distinct; however, I would argue for several reasons that, in Diocletian’s time, the emphasis was on the official mode. The first has to do with the epigraphic presentation of both emperors and governors. The emperors’ titles are often accompanied by ‘moral formulas’ which ascribe them professional virtues which derive from the administrative sphere92, and are not typically used by local agents when honouring the emperor. They emphasise duty and competence as the ideology that supports imperial authority, and this is no 88 LAVAN 2001, esp. 49 on how these were closely associated with imperial images. 89 SLOOTJES 2006, 28–29 on the governors’ staff. 90 DI VITA-EVRARD 1985, passim, esp. 168–171, so also PORENA 2003, 88. For the manoeuvring necessary in this region due to the presence of high-ranking elites, see HELLSTRÖM 2014, ch. 5.2. 91 See DAVENPORT 2014, 51–53, esp. 53: ‘a convergence of local commemorative practices and imperial authority’. 92 E.g., providentissimo (Augusta Vindelicorum) or fortissimo et consultissimo (Caesarea Maritima). The terms are familiar from imperial coinage and pronouncements. For a discussion, see HELLSTRÖM 2014, 207–218 and DAVENPORT 2014, 55.

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coincidence – emperorhood itself is increasingly framed as an office. The governors present themselves differently from local authors and honorands, providing almost no information about their persons. Dedicatory inscriptions to and by locals tended to recount earlier positions and achievements, as well as family ties. By contrast, the governors are presented with their name and present office, and little else. This is equally the case for the largest monuments and the most powerful men, emphasising the office over other sources of status. Furthermore, the tendency for governors and other imperial officials to dedicate jointly gives extra weight to the office. The two correctores who dedicated together at Patavium presumably had nothing but their office in common, which underscores that they acted in this capacity.93 The same is the case for the governors of Africa Proconsularis and Numidia who dedicated buildings together on behalf of the emperors, and who were presented with as little ado as their colleagues who raised monuments.94 Of the same category are the dedications by the two praetorian prefects treated by Pierfrancesco Porena, who suggests that such monuments were cascaded over entire regions.95 Further joint dedications appear in Rome, two by the rationales of two different summae96 and one by two egregii (whose exact office is regrettably lost)97, as well as two dedications by the officiales; that is, the core staff of the governor (here the urban prefect).98 Dedications by imperial officials (qua imperial officials) are rare before Diocletian, but begin appearing empire-wide in his reign. Beside joint dedications there are statues by procuratores at Ephesus, Caesarea Maritima, Laodicea on the Lykos, and Goloia,99 by prefects of the annona at Ostia and vicarii at Ostia and Rome, 100 and by rationales in Nicomedia, Ephesus, and Rome.101 Rome is a particularly 93 See above n. 53. 94 Ti. Aurelius Aristobulus and C. Macrinius Sossianus, proconsul of Africa and governor of Numidia in 290–294; see HELLSTRÖM 2014. They were active in the time of the proto-division of Africa; see above n. 90. 95 ILS 8929 (Oescus), AE 1987.456 (Brixia). They were raised in relatively minor locations where neither prefect was present. PORENA 2003, esp. 103–106; 125–132; 150–151. 96 CIL VI 1132, 1133, by Valerius Honoratus and Tacitius Felix. Both are dedicated to Constantius Caesar but are identically phrased, suggesting two contemporary sets of statues. 97 CIL VI 36947. 98 CIL VI 1119. 40722. Dedications to Hercules and Jupiter at Sicca Veneria by two procuratores are suggestive of honours to Diocletian and Maximian; CIL VIII 1625. 1627. Cf. twin dedications to these gods in nearby Thubursicu Numidarum (ILAlg. I 1228, 1272), prompted by a curator rei publicae and dated to Diocletian’s reign. 99 Ephesus: Geminius Tertyllus (AE 1966.433), Caesarea Maritima: Clemens (CIIP II 1286 = AE 1982.902), Laodicea ad Lycum: L. Valentinus (ŞIMŞEK & CEYLAN 2003, 150–151), Goloia: Aur. Rusticus (AE 2008.1341). 100 Ostia: AE 1971.66 by Hostilius Antipater, prefect of the annona and curator rei publicae Ostiensium (cf. AE 1941.98 to Hercules); CIL XIV 4403 by Scribonius, prefect of the annona and vicarius; Rome: CIL VI 1125, by vicarius Septimius Valentio, who had previously raised the monument at Augusta Vindelicorum as praeses of Raetia. 101 Multiple dedications by Iulius Antonius (familiar from governor’s monuments) at Nicomedia, probably at separate occasions (CIL III 325. AE 1947.186), and at Ephesus (AE 1966.432). Rome: CIL VI 1132–3. 36946. 31384.

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conspicuous case, seeing that individuals had been debarred from raising monuments there for centuries. In Diocletian’s reign quite a few individuals did, and all of them (eighteen, not counting the unattributed arch and pillar monuments) held imperial office.102 Moreover, several among them belonged to wealthy Roman elite families, who thus regained the long-lost privilege of public self-representation in monumental form.103 One may note that the two statues by the officiales were erected next to the curia senatus, in the perhaps most politically charged location in the empire. Their inscriptions were usurped by a high-ranking senator who took up much of the text for his role as curator, which indicates that such exposure was desired.104 For the state, granting such privileges to locals in imperial office not only made manifest the presence of the government through its branches, but it also displayed the boons awaiting those who joined it. Importantly, their monuments were the only ones to Diocletian and his co-emperors in the city until the celebrations at the very end of the reign, and would have defined the perception of the administration for a generation of Romans.105 MONUMENTS, OFFICIALS, AND EMPERORS The governors’ monuments and those by other imperial officials represent a new, official strain of monumentality, contributing to the emergence of a monumental idiom of statehood. It appears alongside older honorific systems but does not supplant them, and is for the most part separate from them.106 There is some evidence to suggest that it originated under Carus’ dynasty, and several of the authors were holdovers from this administration (including Diocletian himself and his co-emperors).107 However, it is in Diocletian’s reign that it is systematically employed, and 102 Beside vicarii, rationales, egregii, officiales and urban prefects, statues to Diocletian and/or his colleagues were raised also by a curator alvei (CIL VI 31264), and the commander of the urban cavalry (AIIRoma 119–120). For five further dedications the author is either not stated, or lost. 103 E.g. Manius Acilius Balbus Sabinus, Nummius Tuscus, Turranius Gratianus, Tiberius Severus. No Roman monument can be associated with a member of a different class. 104 CIL VI 40722: […] off(iciales) a s() / curante Tib(erio) Cl(audio) Severo v(iro) c(larissimo) / d(evotus?) n(umini) m(aiestati)q(ue) eius semper. 105 The famous pillar monuments associated with the reign were all raised for or after the celebrations in 303. 106 An instance of overlap is the unique dedication from Turris Libisonis which included two locals as referentes and the ratification by the decurions. 107 Altmayer’s study (ALTMAYER 2014) is inconclusive on how far the reign of Carus and sons can be considered a forerunner to Diocletian’s. Officials’ monuments appears to be one area where this is valid, if predominantly in Rome, where the rationalis Geminius Festus raised monuments to Nigrinianus (CIL VI 31380, probably 284) and later Maximian (CIL VI 31384), and a tabularius summarum rationum with his staff to Carinus (CIL VI 1115). A senator and curator rei publicae raised a statue to Carus in Carthage (CIL VIII 12522), while a monument to Carinus by the townspeople (CIL VIII 5332) was curated by a curator rei publicae, who later served as governor of Numidia under Diocletian and executed imperial building works. A statue group to Carus and sons at Axima was dedicated by the town, but curated by a procurator Augusti (AE 1948.163. AE 1996.973. CIL XII 110).

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extends to the entire roster of officials. It supported imperial authority at the local level, and had parallels in (and seems to follow closely upon) administrative reforms. The preference for tetrapyla and columns helped create a sense that the bureaucracy was built into the very bones of the cities. The abstract presentation of the emperors (who are often dedicated to as genii) placed more weight on those who represented them at the human plane, and whose presence and decisions touched directly on the lives of locals. The bureaucrats’ monuments embody both hostile and benign relations between the imperial state and locals. Monuments in Rome bespeak a more harmonious relation than the Alexandrian column, co-opting local elites into official roles rather than overawing them with state capacity (as discussed also by Nikolas Hächler in this volume). In some locations, such monuments may have served mainly as information about the administration in charge. However, they all operated on the same fundamental premise that the authors were linked to the emperors. Similar to how locals had exploited imperial monuments to bolster their status for centuries, the imperial officials drew on the authority of the emperors to establish their own, but with one crucial difference: the authority of the officials was couched in bureaucratic rather than traditional, civic terms. The incentives to raise monuments varied with the circumstances, but they all communicated the nature of the hierarchy in place. This is perhaps the most patent in one final piece of evidence, discussed also by Rebecca Usherwood in this volume: a dedication to Diocletian senior by the four emperors of the second tetrarchy, headed by Maximian senior. Inscribed on a plaque once mounted to a structure, it follows the standard format for an imperial monument but is, in fact, unique:108 Domino nostro / Diocletiano / seniori Augusto / [[[Maxi]mianus]] senior / [[[Aug(ustus)]]] frater et / [Cons]tantius et / [[[Maxi]mianus]] Aug(usti) et / [[[Seve]rus]] et [[Maximinus]] / [ - - - ].109

All names but those of Diocletian and Constantius were later erased, testifying to attention to such matters in the Constantinian era even in relatively minor locations. The text was found at Tuscania north of Rome, a location where neither emperor is likely to have been present. Like the dedications by praetorian prefects it probably represents one of many, executed by the urban prefect and his staff. It makes little sense as a declaration of loyalty to the retired Diocletian, and it seems obvious that the monument served to draw on his undisputed authority (with the aid of another senior emperor) to bolster that of the successors.110 Although it operates on the same

108 See SORDI 1962 for a description and a discussion. The wording with the emperor’s name in the dative does not fit with a building inscription (as per SORDI 1962, 132) but indicates that the plaque was mounted to a monument such as an arch or the base of a statue. The only comparandum is the contemporary inscription from the baths of Diocletian in Rome. Cf. USHERWOOD, this volume, 312. 109 AE 1964.235 110 SORDI 1962, 135–137 comes to similar conclusions, noting that the preservation of Diocletian’s name by Constantine indicates that he also needed to lean on his authority. Her claim that this

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terms as those by imperial officials, the concrete presentation of the emperors on this monument is a striking departure from how these tended to be framed, which highlights the particular circumstances of its erection. The emperors were usually removed to a sphere somewhat beyond the human, omnipresent and abstract, while the officials were emphatically placed: it was the branches, not the heads of the government, that became firmly and inescapably anchored in the political spaces of the empire. Appendix This sample should be viewed as a starter collection rather than an exhaustive record of honours by locals to Diocletian and his co-emperors. It was only gathered to demonstrate that such dedications existed, and while it is reasonably complete for Africa Proconsularis and Italy other provinces have not been systematically searched. A handful of items dating to 305–306 have been included, but not dedications known from literary sources (e.g., a bronze horse by the Alexandrians, as per Malalas Chron 12.309.13) or dedications to co-emperors surmised from extant texts. Items that are explicitly the work of a local town or individual are set in boldface. Of the rest, many are fragmentary but follow the epigraphic conventions for dedications by locals. Others do not mention the author, which was common for dedications by town councils. Some agents have been excluded as imperial officeholders, such as a prefect of the praetorian fleet at Misenum (CIL X 3343). With few exceptions I have excluded dedications to emperors by way of tutelary deities, e.g. CIL VIII 18230 (Lambaesis), AE 1910.18 (Cillium), ILAlg. I 1228 and AE 1957.94 (Thubursicu Numidarum), IGRRP III 1339 (Azraq), AE 1941.98 (Ostia). ITALY Ameria: AE 1996.639 (Maximian); Caiatia: CIL X 4576a (a Caesar; date uncertain) CIL X 4576 (Diocletian and Galerius), CIL X 4577 (Galerius Caesar); Canusium: AE 1980.353 (all four); Castrum Novum: CIL XI 3580 (Maximian), CIL XI 3581 (Severus, 305–306); Cures Sabini: CIL IX 4962 (Constantius Caesar), CIL IX 4963 (Maximian and Galerius); Minturnae: AE 1935.23 (Galerius Caesar); Nepet: CIL IV 3202 (Galerius Caesar); Ostia: CIL XIV 128 (Diocletian, 285); Teanum Sicidinum: CIL X 4785 (Constantius Caesar); Veii: CIL XI 3796 (Constantius Caesar); Volsinii: CIL XI 2697 (Constantius Caesar); Vulci: CIL XI 2928 (Severus, 305–306). Also, RAL 1963:165.14 (Trebula Mutuesca) may have been dedicated to Constantius I rather than Constantine.

was underscored by Diocletian’s title dominus, however, misses that this was conventional in imperial dedications since more than a century. It does underscore that the text is a dedication.

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AFRICA Tripolitania: Lepcis Magna: IRT 462 (Galerius and Constantius Caesares), IRT 466 (Constantius Caesar). Africa Proconsularis and Byzacena: Ammaedara: CIL VIII 308 (Maximian); Aunobari: CIL VIII 15563 (Constantius Caesar); Avita Bibba: ILTun. 674 (Galerius and Constantius Caesares); Capsa: AE 1905.182 (all four); Carthage: VIII 24559a (Diocletian); Chidibbia, CIL VIII 1335 (Galerius and Constantius Caesares); Mactaris: CIL VIII 23414 (Maximian? Very fragmentary), CIL VIII 23401 (Diocletian and Maximian); Mididi: CIL VIII 608 (Diocletian and Maximian 290– 294); Muzuc: CIL VIII 12062 (Consantius Caesar); Sicilibba: CIL VIII 25821 (Constantius Caesar); Sufes: AE 1992.1763 (all four, 293–294); Sufetula: CIL VIII 232 (all four), CIL VIII 252a (all four); Tepelte: CIL VIII 12252 (Galerius Caesar); Thagura: ILAlg. I 3907 (Constantius Caesar); Theveste/Hr El Abtine: AE 1909.225 (all four); Theveste: ILAlg. I 3947 (Diocletian and Maximian); Thibaris: CIL VIII 26181a (Galerius Caesar), CIL VIII 26181 (Diocletian); Thignica: CIL VIII 1407 (Diocletian and Maximian); Thubursicu Bure: CIL VIII 15258 (all four), CIL VIII 15420 (Constantius Caesar); Thubursicu Numidarum: ILAlg. I 3887 (all four), ILAlg. I 1271 (Diocletian), ILAlg. I 1272 (Constantius Caesar); Thugga: CIL VIII 26563 (Maximian, 288), CIL VIII 15516a–b (all four), AE 1908.66 (Galerius Caesar), CIL VIII 26564–26567, CIL VIII 26573 (Galerius and Constantius Caesares); Ureu: AE 1974.692 (Constantius Caesar); Vaga: CIL VIII 14401 (all four). Numidia: Ain Schabru: CIL VIII 10171 (all four); Ali Bu Derbel: CIL VIII 22259 (Diocletian); Barika: BCTH 1900-CLXXV (Diocletian); Boumagueur: BCTH 1902-CXLI (all four): Cuicul: ILAlg. II.3 7856 (Diocletian, 287– 289), ILAlg. II.3 7860 (Constantius Caesar, 302), ILAlg. II.3 7861 (Maximian), ILAlg. II.3 7862 (Constantius Caesar); ILAlg. II.3 7863 (Galerius Caesar), ILAlg. II.3 7864 (Galerius Caesar), ILAlg. II.3 7866 (all four), ILAlg. II.3 7867 (Galerius Caesar, 299– 300), ILAlg. II.3 7873 (Constantius Caesar); Lambaesis: AE 1992.1876 (Diocletian), AE 1920.13 (Diocletian), CIL VIII 10256 (Maximian), CIL VIII 10257 (Constantius Caesar), CIL VIII 18260 (Galerius Caesar), ZPE 188 p. 284 (Maximian), CIL VIII 18262 (Constantius Caesar); Macomades: CIL VIII 4764 (all four, 303); Thamugadi: BCTH 1951/52-232 (Diocletian), BCTH 1951/52-232 (Maximian), BCTH 1951/52-237 (Galerius and Constantius Caesares), CIL VIII 2385 (Galerius Caesar), CIL VIII 17882 (Diocletian), CIL VIII 17883 (Constantius Caesar), CIL VIII 17884 (Galerius Caesar). Mauretania: Tingis: CIL VIII 9989 (Diocletian, 290).

HISPANIA AND GAUL Hispania: Tarraco: CIL II 14 (Diocletian); Valeras, Las, Cuenca, Castilla-La Mancha: AE 1982.607 (Diocletian); Guarda, Portugal: AE 1961.252 (all four); vicinity of Lorca: CIL XVII 1.75 (Diocletian); Emerita: AE 1962.68 (Maximian?); Barcino: CIL II 4507 (Maximian); Sigarra, HEp. Madrid XII 2006.72 (Maximian); Valeria: HEp. Madrid, II 1990.391 (Diocletian); Hispalis: CIL II 1171 (Constantius Caesar); Sevilla, Italica: HEp. Madrid, I 1989.536 (probably Maximian, 300–302). Gaul: Segusium: CIL V 7248 (Diocletian), CIL V 7249 (Maximian).

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GREECE AND THE BALKANS Epeiros: SEG XXIV 442 (all four); Sallmonaj: CIL III 710 (Diocletian and Maximian); Patras: CIL III 502 (all four); Kos: Segre 1993 EV 258 (Diocletian, 280’s); Arkadia (town name damaged): IG V 2.135 (Diocletian); Attica: IG II² 3421 (Diocletian and Maximian), IG II² 3422 (Diocletian and Maximian, perhaps all four), IG II² 13297 (all four); Eleusis: I.Eleusis 660 (Diocletian and Maximian); Gortyn: Gortyn 306 (Diocletian); Raches, Thessaly: IG IX 2 (all four); Thessalonike: IG X.2 1.1009 (all four). Diocletianopolis/Beroia: EKM I Beroia 486 (Diocletian and Maximian), likely by the town; Tomis: IGLRom 1 (Diocletian); Heraclea-Perinthos: IGRRP I 792 (Diocletian), 789 (Maximian) 790 (Constantius Caesar) 791 (Galerius Caesar).

ASIA MINOR Alexandria Troas: CIL III 383 (Galerius Caesar, 303); Almassoun: IGRRP III 295 (Diocletian and Maximian); Aperlae: IGRRP III 691 (Galerius and Constantius Caesares); Caesarea Hadrianopolis: Marek, Kat. Kaisareia Hadrianop. 7 (Diocletian and Maximian); Colossae: AE 1940.182 (Constantius Augustus, 305–306); Ephesos: Ephesos 797 (Diocletian); Hadrianopolis Galatia: IGRRP III 150 (Constantius Caesar); Kolpos; IMT Adram Kolpos 727 (all four); Lycaonia: KILyk I 1 (Diocletian and Maximian), MAMA VIII 186 (Diocletian and Maximian), MAMA VIII 187 (all four), MAMA VIII 192 (Diocletian and Maximian); Lydia: SEG IL 1568C (all four); Daldis, Lydia: TAM V.1 639b (all four); Xanthion, Lykia: TAM II 257 (all four); Iznik, Bithynia: IK Iznik 214 (Diocletian, with unrelated men); Nicomedia: CIL III 326 (Constantius Caesar, 295); Kolybrassos (?), Pamphylia: Bean-Mitford, Journeys 1962-63 20,25 (Diocletian, 284); Phrygia: MAMA X 258 (all four), MAMA X 258[2] (all four), MAMA IV 58 (all four), MAMA 458[2] (all four), MAMA IX List 179 p. 21(Diocletian); Dokimea, Phrygia: CIG 3883b (all four); Sagalassos, Pisidia: IGRRP III 336 (all four), SEG II 735 (all four); Side, Pamphylia: IK Side 46 (Diocletian), AE 1966.461 (Diocletian and Maximian, 288?); Thyateira, Lydia: TAM V.2 875 (Diocletian).

THE LEVANT AND EGYPT Syria: Dolichae: IGRRP III 1002 (all four); Habibae: IGRRP III 1134 (Diocletian and Maximian); Petra: IGLSyr. XXI 4.42 (Diocletian and Galerius Caesar; the author Iulius Aurelius may be the governor Iulius Aurelius Antonius). Palestine: Caesarea Maritima: CIIP II 1214 (Maximian or Galerius). Arabia: Radeime: SEG VII 1063 (all four). Egypt: Alexandria: CIL III 6584 (Diocletian). Furthermore, an altar (AE 1909.33) was erected there to the Iovi and Herculii.

FIDES MILITUM TETRARCHIC MESSAGING, THE ARMY, AND AN IDEOLOGY OF COLLECTIVE VICTORY Mark Hebblewhite In July 285, a usurper of Dalmatian origin named Valerius Diocles stood as the victor in yet another bloody entry in an interminable cycle of civil wars that had plagued the empire for 50 years. There was nothing immediately evident in his victory that would lead a contemporary observer to think that Diocles, or as he now styled himself Diocletianus, would be any more successful than many of his shortlived predecessors. However, in the course of a few short years he would deliver a long sought-after stability to the empire via a revolutionary set of power arrangements that broke from the dynastic model that had long characterized imperial rule.1 The strength of Diocletian’s so called ‘tetrarchy’, lay in the ability to maintain the army’s absolute loyalty (fides) to his, and his colleagues’ rule. This of course was not unique. Every emperor could only survive by fostering this loyalty.2 However, the novelty of Diocletian’s arrangements made his task infinitely harder. The tetrarchy’s raison d’être was its claim to embody the military victory (victoria) that the empire required to survive but which had been lacking in past decades under successive short-lived emperors. Accordingly, Diocletian and his chosen co-rulers developed a sophisticated array of messaging aimed at the army and designed to emphasize the tetrarchy’s unique ability to deliver victoria and to honour the army as the ultimate arbiters of imperial power. This chapter seeks to understand how Diocletian and his imperial colleagues undertook this key task. It will examine the many mediums used by the tetrarchs to convey these claims, which included coinage, imperial titulature, ceremonial interactions, and symbolic gestures such as bequeathing nomenclature on military units. The context in which these mediums were implemented will also be assessed. How did tetrarchic messaging directed towards the army differ from that used by the later emperors of the 3rd century crisis? Also, was there a ‘singular tetrarchic message’ delivered to the army across the empire? 1

2

HEKSTER 2015 provides a detailed assessment of the development of dynastic representation in imperial Roman history. Usefully, he also (278–314) provides an in depth look at the tetrarchic period and the changes and continuities from traditional dynastic rule it brought to the empire. For the early empire see CAMPBELL 1984. On the use of the term ‘tetrarchy’ see LEADBETTER 2009, 2–6.

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RISE TO POWER The circumstances of the rise of the tetrarchy are well documented, but it is important to address the centrality of military legitimacy to tetrarchic rule. This is evident as early as the unlikely way in which Diocletian himself came to take power in 284. Very little is known of Diocletian’s early career but by the early 280s he had already enjoyed a lengthy military career and had reached the rank of comes domesticorum. This position brought him close to the center of the regime and was probably granted to him at least partly as a result of an already impressive military reputation.3 This reputation was instrumental in Diocletian’s accession following the mysterious deaths of both Carus and his young son Numerian on their Eastern campaign. While there is much that we do not know about the immediate circumstances in which Diocletian attained power, his prowess as a soldier was known throughout the army, which Zonaras says was the reason for his elevation: ‘For the army chose Diocletian sovereign, since he was there at the time and had exhibited many acts of courage against the Persians.’4 In many ways the tetrarchy represents the culmination of the 3rd century trend away from dynastic succession with emperors being chosen primarily due to their abilities as a military commander (imperator) rather than any existing family links to a reigning emperor.5 Diocletian was a product of this new political reality, which he developed even further by creating a college of generals capable of delivering on a political promise of victoria and ensuring that the army remained at the center of imperial life. Diocletian himself would turn to trusted military colleagues to serve as his co-emperors. The epitomator Aurelius Victor, a critic of the uncouth origins of the tetrarchs, was forced to admit that their rule was based on outstanding military ability: Illyricum was actually the native land of all of them: so although they were deficient in culture, they had nevertheless been sufficiently schooled by the hardships of the countryside and of military service to be the best men for the state…….. the harmony of these (rulers) has definitely demonstrated that natural ability and the experience of a successful military career, such

3

4

5

We know that Diocletian had served in the army under Aurelian, Probus and Carus meaning that he had a least 14 years of service by the time he seized power; see HA Car. 15.3, HA Probi 22.3. Aur. Vict. 39.28. This included a possible role as Dux Moesiae (Zon. 12.31). Immediately before his accession he is labelled (possible anachronistically) as domesticos regens (Aur. Vict. 39.1) or comes domestici (Zon. 1.31). See CARLÀ-UHINK 2019, 29–34 on Diocletian’s Dalmatian origins and an overview of his pre-imperial career. Zon. 12.30: ἡ γὰρ στρατιὰ τὸν Διοκλητιανὸν αὐτοκράτορα εἵλετο, ἐκεῖ τότε παρόντα καὶ ἀνδρείας ἔργα πολλὰ ἐν τῷ κατὰ Περσῶν πολέμῳ ἐπιδειξάμενον (trans. Banchich). Admittedly Zonaras is an extremely late source but given Diocletian was, to use the phrase in LEADBETTER 2009, 49, ‘a product of a military caste’ and the fact he came to power in circumstances where the army needing a charismatic leader to ensure a safe return to Roman territory, it is not unreasonable to suggest that he was trusted. See HEBBLEWHITE 2017, 8–32 for a detailed discussion of this shift.

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as they received through the precedent of Aurelian and Probus, are practically sufficient to ensure merit.6

Our sources state that Diocletian chose each of his new imperial colleagues on this basis. Maximian was chosen as co-ruler in 285 and immediately sent against the so called ‘Bagaudae’ because he was ‘a good soldier of sound character’.7 In 293, Galerius and Constantius Chlorus were added to the imperial college specifically because of a range of military threats the empire faced.8 Given the tetrarchy was overtly built on the military prowess of its members what messages did they convey to ensure the continued loyalty of the army to their regime? TETRARCHIC VICTORY The main message that sustained tetrarchic ideology was that the regime and its component parts were the only source of continuing victoria for the empire. The main vehicle for this claim was coinage. Coinage was a key ‘medium of message’ in the Roman world and had long been used by emperors to target key interest groups with defined messages. The tetrarchs, like all emperors before them, used coinage in this way and one of the most important groups they hoped to reach was the army.9 The troops were paid their salary (stipendium) as well as numerous special payments (donativa), which was crucial to imperial efforts to maintain their loyalty. Using these coins, that had so much economic value to the troops, to convey political messages was thus doubly effective.10 First and foremost, the Tetrarchs sought to advertise to the army that they were willing to campaign and win for them and the empire. Given the pressure that the empire had been under during the 3rd century, this message must have found a receptive audience among the troops. Military concerns were a dominant theme on tetrarchic coinage, particularly on silver denominations.11 Even coinage bearing

6

Aur. Vict. 39.26–8. His sane omnibus Illyricum patria fuit: qui, quamquam humanitatis parum, ruris tamen ac militiae miseriis imbuti satis optimi reipublicae fuere. 27 Quare constat sanctos prudentosque sensu mali promptius fieri, contraque expertes aerumnarum, dum opibus suis cunctos aestimant, minus consulere. 28 Sed horum concordia maxime edocuit virtuti ingenium usumque bonae militiae, quanta his Aureliani Probique instituto fuit paene sat esse (transl. Bird). 7 Aur. Vict. 39.17. 8 Aur. Vict. 39.18–24. 9 There are many views on how, and indeed whether, Roman coinage was used to carry messages. For the range of views see JONES 1956, 13–34. SUTHERLAND 1959, 73–82. CRAWFORD 1983, 47–64. LEVICK 1982, 104–116. CHEUNG 1998, 53–61. HEDLUND 2008. MANDERS 2012. HEKSTER et. al. 2019, 612. It is the position of this study that Roman emperors did indeed use coinage as ‘mediums of message’ to target different groups within the empire. As CHEUNG 1998, 54 notes: ‘The basic question thus seems to be not the existence of the message, but its audience and reception.’ 10 HEBBLEWHITE 2017, 71–119. 11 RIC VI, p. 110.

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non-military legends displayed a concern with the military abilities of the tetrarchs.12 In the earliest years of Diocletian’s reign, when Maximian was his only coruler, reverse types prevalent during the 3rd century crisis continue to be used. In particular the military prowess (virtus) of the emperors was advertised in substantial quantities13 This changed over time though as tetrarchic ideology strove to declare a sharp break from the chaos of the 3rd century crisis. Accordingly, the importance of coins proclaiming the virtus of the emperor decreased rapidly. Some types can still be found between 305–310 but they are very rare.14 The reason for this shift is redundancy of message. As the college was explicitly built upon the virtus of proven military leaders, further proclamations of this virtue were now less important. This argument is strengthened by the fact that one of the few explicit virtus types of the later tetrarchic period was minted by Constantine, who in 306/7 paired the legend VIRTVS CO-NSTANTINI CAES with an image of himself riding a horse and striking down enemies.15 Here Constantine was still building his military reputation and needed to show his troops that he was as effective an imperator as his father Constantius. Claims of possessing virtus would still be important to him, unlike say Galerius, whose virtus was established. While explicit claims of virtus decreased in number as the tetrarchic period continued, the ability to win victoria remained a constant theme. In the early years of the dyarchy, the legend VICTORIA AVG/AVGG remained common on

12 For example, gold coinage of Constantius 1 paired the innocuous legend PIETAS AVGG with an image of the emperor being crowned by victory – see RIC VI, p. 167, n. 32 (Treviri). 13 Reflecting the shared nature of Tetrarchic rule this claim is most often made with the legend VIRTVS AVG. Diocletian: V/2, pp. 229–230, nn. 93–106 (Lugdunum); p. 232, n. 123 (Treveri); p. 233, n. 128; pp. 239–241, nn. 184; 196; 201 (Roma). Maximian: RIC p. 260, nn. 342– 343; pp. 270–273, nn. 432–465 (Lugdunum) (VIRTVTI AVGG), pp. 276–277, nn. 497–500; pp. 279–281, nn. 515; 518; 525–531; 534 (Roma); pp. 285–286, nn. 568–569; 572 (Siscia); p. 289, n. 590 (Cyzicus) (VIRTVS AVGVSTORVM). Constantius 1: RIC V/2, pp. 298–299, nn. 646–648 (Lugdunum); p. 299, n. 657 (Treveri); p. 301, nn. 669–670 (Ticinum). Galerius: RIC V/2, p. 305, n. 692 (Lugdunum); p. 306, n. 701 (Treveri). Of course, the value of virtus also had non-military connotations. As Wardle notes virtus had a social and ethical dimension that equated to the Greek value of ρετή (Wardle, David [Cape Town]. ‘Virtus.’ Brill’s New Pauly. Brill Online, 2013. (http://referenceworks.brillonline.com/entries/brill-s-new-pauly/virtuse12205670). NOREÑA 2001, 159 n.74 collects a useful list of modern scholarship on the wider significance of virtus. Also useful is FEARS 1981a, 747–750. 14 VIRTVS AVGG: RIC VI, p. 478, n. 197 (Siscia). VIRTVS AV-GG et CAESS: RIC VI, p. 472, nn. 153–155 (Siscia). VIRTVS AV-GG et CAESS: RIC VI, p. 289, nn. 60a-b (Ticinum); pp. 320–321, nn. 65a–73b; p. 323, nn. 80a–100b (Aquileia). On military virtus in pre Tetrarchic coinage see MANDERS 2012, 177. To turn to another medium, HEKSTER et al. 2019, 615 argues that scenes on the Arch of Galerius are used to highlight the emperor’s virtus. Given its mainly civilian audience this may be the case. But in the same paper the authors are forced to note (616) that the monument more importantly conveyed a new message of shared victoria by the Tetrarchs. 15 RIC VI, p. 324, nn. 108–112 (Aquileia). See also VIRT PERP CO-NSTANTINI: RIC VI, p. 263, n. 285; p. 265, nn. 302–303 (Lugdunum).

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Diocletian’s coinage.16 However, this emphasis gradually changed to reflect the tetrarchic ideal of constant victory achieved by the college as a whole. Early echoes are seen in the VNDIQVE VICTORES type minted by Maximian and Constantius at Lugdunum.17 The idea that the members of the tetrarchy were not only victorious but invincible (invictus), so prominent during the later part of the 3rd century, was filtered through tetrarchic ideology with the legend HERCVLI INVICTO AVGG common on Maximian’s coinage.18 However, by the mid-290s, when Diocletian and Maximian had cemented their power, there was no need to project this aspirational idea. Instead, coinage bearing the simple legend HERCULI VICTORI and to a lesser extent IOVI VICTORI reminded the troops of the link between tetrarchic rule and military success.19 The presentation of tetrarchic victory as divine victory reminded the army that only the current regime, and its special connection with the gods, could guarantee victory against Rome’s enemies. As part of this message of victoria the tetrarchs also advertised specific military successes, something that had largely fallen out of vogue in the later part of the 3rd century crisis. We see this trend on coinage celebrating the campaigns waged by Diocletian against the Sarmatians in the last decade of the 3rd century. This coinage advertises the military unity of the tetrarchs and the results of that unity. Bearing reverse legends such as VICTORIA SARM or VICTORIAE SARMATICAE and emanating from most mints in the empire, these coins were minted in all four emperors’ names and featured an image of the college sacrificing in front of a sixturreted enclosure.20 This coinage turned ideology into reality: tetrarchic unity had achieved victory over the Sarmatian threat.21 Messaging that stressed tetrarchic military prowess is also found on obverse types, with particularly emphasis on the Tetrarchs’ collective role as imperator. The early tetrarchic portraiture of Diocletian and Maximian kept the ‘campaign beard’ of the late 3rd century, no doubt to advertise to the army that the vigorous military leadership of Claudius, Aurelian and Probus would continue under their rule. But obverse portraiture also developed in line with the promise of the new Tetrarchic age.22 Like reverse types, obverse portraiture stressed the collegiate nature 16 VICTORIA AVG/G: Diocletian: RIC V/2, p. 221, n. 3; p. 229, nn. 91–92 (Lugdunum); p. 233, n. 128; pp. 238–240, nn. 182–183; 188; 195–196 (Roma); p. 244, nn. 242–243 (Ticinum); p. 249, nn. 277–282 (Heraclea); p. 252, n. 303 (Cyzicus); pp. 255–256, nn. 320; 326 (Antiochia); p. 257, nn. 332–333 (Tripolis). Maximian: RIC V/2, p. 269, n. 430 (Lugdunum); pp. 288–289, nn. 585–589 (Cyzicus). 17 Maximian: RIC V/2, p. 270, n. 431 (Lugdunum). Constantius: V/2, p. 298, n. 645 (Lugdunum). 18 Diocletian: RIC V/2, p. 223, n. 21 (Lugdunum). Maximian: RIC V/2, pp. 262–263, nn. 363– 370 (Lugdunum). 19 Diocletian: RIC V/2, p. 226, n. 58 (Lugdunum); p. 237, n. 169 (Roma). Maximian: RIC V/2, p. 275, n. 489; p. 277, n. 503 (Roma); p. 293, n. 619 (Antiochia). 20 See indices in RIC VI, p. 705 for the different variation on the Sarmatian theme. On Diocletian’s campaigns against the Sarmatians see BARNES 1976b. On Galerius’ campaigns against the Sarmatians at the end of the decade see WILKINSON 2012, 47–49. 21 As we will see – the use of cognomina devictarum gentium mimicked this approach. 22 SMITH 1997, 180: ‘The basic formula for externals remained – short-cropped, stubble-bearded, elder general – but it was now restyled as a plain, block-like, frontal and often wide-eyed image.

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of Tetrarchic rule. It presented a college of imperatores in lock step protecting the empire. Rees notes this uniformity, particularly in the period following Diocletian’s coinage reform of 294 and how it contributed to the Tetrarchic message of military competency: ‘Through the new but uniform iconography between 294 and 305, the economy could be seen as stable, and the ruling body as united. The new portrait style was bold but not primitive. The emperors are generally shown as hardy rulers with short hair, bearded, with strong, square jaws and eyes, which stare straight ahead. The neck is unnaturally thick, the lips tight and the eyebrows sternly furrowed. This common image is not military, but it does establish a sense of efficiency, severity, and duty – all necessary attributes of military rule.’23 Although coinage was by far the most popular medium for the propagation of these messages, they were also found on other objects. Roman emperors would provide gifts (dona) to important individuals, usually high-ranking civil officials and military officers, in order to gain or strengthen their bond to the regime. As with coinage, the tetrarchs used dona to emphasize that they alone would bring victoria to the empire. We have an example of this in a gold fibula inscribed with the slogans HERCVLI AVGVSTE/SEMPER VINCAS, which was most probably a gift from Maximian to a military officer.24 This message was so important to the Tetrarchs that they were even determined to spread it one recipient at a time. THE TITULATURE OF SHARED SUCCESS Militarily themed imperial titulature was another common way the tetrarchs reinforced their military prowess. Interestingly this medium shows a distinct shift from how it was used in the 3rd century crisis. The most obvious change came in the use of traditional imperatorial acclamations – where an emperor would take the title ‘imp’ (short for imperator) usually in an iterated fashion. While the tetrarchs, like those before them, took acclamations in large numbers, they were no longer connected with actual military activities. Instead, they were simply renewed on a yearly basis, most probably the dies imperii of the emperor.25 They became, as Loriot notes, ‘un simple élément de datation’. Although the link with the politically sensitive dies imperii suggests that the acclamations were now linked to a donativum payment or the annual renewal of the sacramentum, they should no longer be considered an active part of imperial efforts to advertise military prowess.26

23 24 25 26

That is, while the message-subject remained the same – military imperator – its formal expression changed.’ See also WALDRON, this volume, HEKSTER et al. 2019 and WEISER 2006, who stresses the ideological uniformity of tetrarchic coinage and offers a useful discussion (216) on how larger medallions were utilized to deliver political messages. REES 1993, 188. BEYELER 2011, 247–248 – an image of the fibula is provided on page 444. BARNES 1982, 25. See also RÖSCH 1978, 35–36. For the complexities of assessing the number of imperatorial acclamations taken by individual emperors of the period see BARNES 1976b, 175. LORIOT 1981, 235.

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Instead, the Tetrarchs relied heavily on titles derived from the name of a conquered people or nation (cognomina devictarum gentium), as these had the benefit of proclaiming an actual success against an enemy of the empire as opposed to being simply a generic claim of victoria. Some believe that such titles were less important to tetrarchic ideology than they had been to the efforts of past emperors.27 Kneißl argues that although the number of cognomina devictarum gentium per emperor increased from that held by many emperors of the 3rd century, they become increasingly infrequent in the epigraphic evidence, suggesting a corresponding drop in significance.28 Similarly, McCormick traces the significant late fourth century decline in use of cognomina devictarum gentium back to the tetrarchy.29 Yet a close examination of how the Tetrarchs used cognomina devictarum gentium shows that they remained prominent in imperial efforts to advertise military prowess. For one, the tetrarchs not only carried a wide array of these cognomina, they combined them with the epithet Maximus for added emphasis. Examples include; Germanicus Maximus, Sarmaticus Maximus, Britannicus Maximus, Gothicus Maximus, Carpicus Maximus, and Persicus Maximus. In addition, the tetrarchs adopted iterated cognomina, which previously had only been used by Gallienus. By the end of his reign, Diocletian was Germanicus Maximus VI; Sarmaticus Maximus IV; and Persicus Maximus II. Likewise, Maximian was Germanicus Maximus V, Sarmaticus Maximus III and Persicus Maximus II.30 It is not true that the use of iterated titles proves a devaluation of the cognomina under the tetrarchy.31 Although some iterated cognomina devictarum gentium can be linked to minor campaigns, their heavy use shows that the tetrarchs were adapting a traditional form of titulature for maximum political effect. The iterated titles mimicked campaigning seasons, allowing the emperors to show an ongoing commitment to achieving victoria. In addition, they were arguably more effective than emotive epithets such as invictus and victor omnium gentium because they allowed the rulers to proclaim specific victories against actual enemies on an ongoing basis. The other major indicator that cognomina devictarum gentium remained important is the collegiate approach to their use. Although this principle was unevenly applied (see below), generally, if a victory was achieved by one member of the college the corresponding cognomen devictarum gentium was then adopted by all members of the college.32 This showed the ‘unity of the imperial institution in victory’ and was designed to engender constant loyalty to the regime among the

27 28 29 30

MCCORMICK 1986, 113 and RÖSCH 1978, 53. KNEIßL 1969, 178. MCCORMICK 1986, 113. KIENAST, ECK & HEIL 2017, 266–287, provides a useful overview of the Tetrarchic cognomina devictarum gentium that can be securely dated. Others however have argued that Diocletian and Maximian held cognomina devictarum gentium with higher iterations – see BARNES 1982, 254–257. See also WILKINSON 2012, 47–49 31 As suggested by LEADBETTER 2009, 97. 32 BARNES 1982, 27. See also OMISSI, this volume, who notes that the phenomenon even appears in a panegyric.

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differing army groups across the empire.33 As the tetrarchic model was built on the military prowess of its members it had to prove to the army that it was winning continual victories. By sharing cognomina the tetrarchs reminded the army that it was the system itself that was responsible for the victory. Thus, each tetrarch’s position was buttressed by his colleague’s success, which in turn contributed to the political stability of the whole and warned would be usurpers that they would face the collective strength of the college. This argument is strengthened by the fact that usage patterns for cognomina devictarum gentium changed in relation to political developments within the tetrarchic College. Under Diocletian’s firm hand the collegiate principle ruled. Initially he and Maximian shared all cognomina devictarum gentium. This practice continued when the college expanded to four members, no doubt to ensure the acceptance of the junior members by the army.34 Tellingly this situation changed as the tetrarchic system broke down from 306 onwards.35 For example, the titulature of Constantine, who was at best grudgingly accepted by Galerius, does not always display the latter’s cognomina devictarum gentium.36 Galerius also took measures to strengthen his own military legacy by finally taking the victory titles Thebaicus Maximus and Aegypticus Maximus for campaigns undertaken in the 290s, which had long been denied to him by Diocletian on the basis that they stemmed from a civil war and not victories over external enemies.37 This shift reflects the new, fractured political reality in which individual tetrarchs more jealously guarded their position by emphasizing their own military ability rather than that of the tetrarchic College.38 It is not outlandish to suggest that each individual ruler now recognised that a colleague could quickly become a competitor for the loyalty of his own troops. Finally, in order to emphasize the ‘divine’ or ‘semi-divine’ nature of their military prowess, the Tetrarchs shifted away from previously popular epithets such as invictus and replaced them with the newly adopted adjectival epithets – Iovius for 33 MCCORMICK 1986, 112. 34 KNEIßL 1969, 178. 35 KIENAST, ECK & HEIL 2017, 42–43. BARNES 1982, 17–23; 27, reproduces many of the principal documents scholars rely on to reconstruct cognomina devictarum gentium. The shift from collegiate use is best displayed by comparing the Price and Currency Edicts of 301, which display complete collegiality of titulature and many later documents, which do not. 36 BARNES 1976b, 192. For further examples of Constantine’s titulature lacking victories won by Galerius see n.67 on the same page. There is disagreement among scholars regarding just what cognomina devicatrum gentium were held by Constantine in the early years of his reign – see KIENAST, ECK & HEIL 2017, 302 and BARNES 1982. For an overall view of Constantine’s cognomina devictarum gentium see BARNES 1976a. 37 These titles are noted by Eusebius HE 8.17.3 and were most likely linked to Galerius’ campaigns in Egypt in 293 to put down internal rebellions. See LEADBETTER 2009, 81; 97. BARNES 1976b, 180–182. 38 BLECKMANN 2004 offers a useful overview of eventual failures of the geographic division of the empire under the Tetrarchy specifically noting (91–92) the loss of Diocletian as de-facto final authority, the continual possibility of civil conflict between different rulers, and problematic geographical distribution of territory as contributing factors to the inevitable breakdown.

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Diocletian and Herculius for Maximian.39 The adoption of these titles is of course significant beyond the military sphere of the emperors’ activities. However, there can be no doubt that they were used to advertise military prowess. Jupiter had always been connected with ‘the religious-magical aspects of warfare, battle and victory.’40 As early as 295 BCE this connection was formalised by Q. Fabius Maximus who dedicated a temple to Jupiter Victor after Rome’s victory at Sentinum. In essence, Rome adopted the Greek conception of a ‘theology of victory’ and made Jupiter an intrinsic part of it.41 For a new emperor who had only just emerged victorious from a devastating civil war, the revered tradition that all victoria stemmed from Jupiter’s providence would be an enticing one. It offered him military legitimacy in the eyes of the army and told the troops that the chaos of the 3rd century was over because Diocletian would return Roman military fortunes to their apex.42 Of course, Diocletian’s junior partner in his labours was yet another military man, Maximian, whose epithet was Herculius.43 This epithet is particularly apt when considered from its military aspect. Upon becoming Augustus, Diocletian appointed Maximian as Caesar and sent him to the Gallic provinces to campaign against the Bagaudae and end barbarian incursions on the Rhine.44 As previously noted, the imperial coinage emphasised HERCVLI VICTORI to celebrate the victories of Maximian in the West. The connection between Maximian and Hercules was especially powerful for the western armies as it invoked the success of Postumus, the restorer of the Rhine frontier and an emperor who had closely associated his military activities with the demi-god.45 Clearly, one of the most important roles of the Iovius/Herculius epithets was to promote the new imperial partnership to the army as one that would stabilise the empire through their military prowess.46 CONSENSUS MILITUM As well as advertising their ability to win victoria, tetrarchic messaging constantly sought to remind the army of their centrality to the regime. In particular, key ceremonial interactions between the Tetrarchs and the army emphasized that tetrarchic rule depended on the consensus of the soldiers (consensus militum). The most 39 Invictus appears occasionally in Constantine’s obverse legends, RIC VI, p. 221, n. 806 (Treveri). For Maxentius, RIC VI, pp. 367–368, nn. 135; 140; p. 370, n. 153 (Roma); p. 401, n. 8 (Ostia). Grandiose sentiments such as victor over all peoples (victor omnium gentium) are equally rare (perhaps signifying the relative stability of empire under Diocletian) and found only on the coinage of Constantine and Maxentius. See the indices of RIC VI, 705. 40 FEARS 1981b, 34–35. On Iovius and Herculius see REES 2005. 41 WEINSTOCK 1957, 215–218. FEARS 1981a, 736–737. 42 On Diocletian’s links with Jupiter see WILLIAMS 1985, 41–42. FEARS 1977, 296–297. 43 Epit. 40.10 44 BOWMAN 2005, 68–69. 45 HEDLUND 2008, 214. For the associations between Postumus and Hercules see DRINKWATER 1987, 162–166. 46 REES 2005, 236 n. 5 on the potential military origins of the choice of epithets.

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important of all these ceremonial actions was the emperor’s formal acclamation by the army carried out at the beginning of his reign (acclamatio).47 Crucially this process was used to convey legitimacy, and in return receive an acknowledgment of this legitimacy from the army. It was during the tetrarchic period that the march towards a more highly formalized ceremonial accession had its genesis. Whereas the unpredictable nature of imperial accession during the 3rd century made continuity of practice difficult, the relative political stability provided by the tetrarchy allowed set backdrops and formulas to emerge.48 The tetrarchs developed a predictable acclamatio process in order to more effectively establish consensus militum. Lactantius provides us with a detailed description of an imperial acclamatio during the tetrarchic period, that of Maximinus Daza and Severus.49 He describes a ceremony that took place on 1st May 305 at a hilltop three miles outside of Nicomedia, with the express purpose of announcing the investment of two new Caesars. This location is important in itself as it was likely the very same place that both Diocletian and Galerius had taken power and was thus symbolic of the regime’s stability and historic connections with the army.50 Indeed Lactantius emphasizes that the ceremony was primarily a gathering of soldiers noting that it was a contio militum convocatur and that representatives had been chosen from all the legions.51 Diocletian addressed the assembled soldiers to explain his decision to retire and then presented the regeneration of the tetrarchy to them. While this event retained some traditional features, such as an adlocutio, the emphasis of the acclamatio process was changing. First, the entire event took place in the shadow of a large statue of Jupiter, which had been erected specially for the event, and which formed a clear 47 See HEBBLEWHITE 2017, 140–150 for an in-depth discussion of acclamatio. 48 MACCORMACK 1981, 164. 49 Lactantius was at the time living in Nicomedia (Hieron. De vir. Ill. 3.80) although we cannot be sure that he witnessed the ceremony itself. Much has been written on Lactantius’ pointed treatment of this event and the succession of Maximinus Daza more broadly. WALDRON 2021 provides a very useful overview of the debate surrounding the historicity of Lactantius’ account balanced against its status as a work of invective history. 50 Lact. DMP 17.2. Lactantius claims this was where Galerius himself had received the purple in 293 (19.2). Given we know that Diocletian came to power at Nicomedia (Aur. Vict. 39.13. Eutr. 9.20. HA Car. 12–15. Zon. 12.31) it is also likely that this was also the very spot where Diocletian was himself originally proclaimed by the army in 284. F. KOLB 2001, 26–27 stresses that the repetition of place demonstrated by these ceremonies was designed to return a sense of ‘legality’ to imperial accession. Unfortunately, we do not have any strong evidence for a comparable Western site although the most likely location is Mediolanum. BARNES 1981, 6–8 and 1982, 57–58 rightly places both Maximian’s accession to Caesar and then to Augustus here as well as the accession of Constantius to the rank of Caesar in 293. Given its geographic importance and role as Maximian’s western capital it is the obvious location for important events such as imperial accessions. Oddly, the Chronicon Paschale a.293 states that both Galerius and Constantius were raised to power at Nicomedia although this has been roundly rejected – see NIXON 1993, 112 n.8. 51 Lact. DMP 19.1–3. Of course, it is possible, even likely, that civilian representatives were also present, although this does not change the fact that the core constituency who needed to approve the re-generation of the Tetrarchic college remained the army.

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statement that the transition of power was occurring within the correct tetrarchic parameters both divine and temporal. During the event Diocletian formally invested Maximinus Daza with his own purple (purpura), most likely a field-cloak (paludamentum/χλαμύς) worn by soldiers. By handing over his paludamentum the emperor Diocletian symbolically discharged his imperial duties as commander of the army.52 By implication Maximin Daza was not emperor until he had formally received the imperial paludamentum. Waldron notes that Lactantius, as a part of his attempt to classify Maximinus Daza as an illegitimate emperor, uses the verb inicere rather than uestire in a deliberate attempt to classify his cloaking as ‘quick, careless and disruptive’.53 This is instructive as it again demonstrates the centrality of the ceremonial cloaking to tetrarchic legitimacy. For Lactantius to deliberately try and cast the cloaking as somehow not properly conducted shows he was keenly aware of just how important the ceremony was in the construction of tetrarchic loyalty, especially in the minds of the watching military representatives. That such ceremonial processes were extremely important to the tetrarchs’ hold over the army is reinforced by two other occasions. First, was the accession of Constantine as Augustus at Eboracum in 306. This act was actually illegitimate in tetrarchic terms as Constantine was not even a junior member of the college. But his proclamation as Augustus still contained central elements of tetrarchic ceremonial practice including a military conclave and the symbolic transfer of power via the χλαμύς.54 Second, is the failed usurpation of Maximian against his son Maxentius at Rome in 308. Instead of simply suborning a part of the army and launching a preemptive assault against his son, Maximian instead called a military conclave during which he attempted to formally wrest power from Maxentius. The ex-Tetrarch himself must have calculated that by re-creating an ‘official’ transfer of power that the army understood marked tetrarchic legitimacy he would be offering himself the best chance of success in front of the gathered troops. During the conclave the old emperor even tried to physically rip the paludementum off his son’s back in a direct inversion of the tetrarchic ceremony of accession.55 Unfortunately for him, his son had been made emperor in a manner outside of the usual confines of tetrarchic accession and they did not respond accordingly.56 52 Lact. DMP 19.5. ICKS 2012, 19 notes Diocletian’s pioneering role here: ‘Ever since Diocletian had made the investiture with a purple mantle one of the central ritual acts of the elevation of a new emperor, this attribute had gained great symbolic value.’ 53 WALDRON 2021, 45. See also MACKAY 1999, 198–209 for further discussion on Lactantius’ presentation of the entire event. 54 Eus. VC 1.22.1, Lact. DMP 39.8 in particular stress the role that the χλαμύς played in giving Constantine legitimacy since it was his father’s cloak. 55 Lact. DMP 28.2–4. Eutr. 10.3.2 56 We know very little of the exact manner in which Maxentius was acclaimed emperor besides the fact that it occurred just north of the city on the Via Labicana (Epit. 40.2) perhaps at the estate in which he had been living. The soldiers who supported Maxentius were remansores from the few units of Praetorians and urban cohorts left in Rome (Zos. 2.9.2. Lact. DMP 26.2– 3). Importantly they felt they had been betrayed by the Tetrarchs who had turned Rome into a backwater and were now probably using other units as their personal bodyguards. It is very

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Based on the evidence we have, we can observe a number of interesting changes to accession ceremony occurring under the Tetrarchs. Where the camp accessions of the 3rd century were made necessary by circumstance, Diocletian’s pre-determined decision to summon representatives from across his forces in 305 demonstrates an understanding that the formal acclamatio had the greatest political effect when held in front of the widest possible cross section of the army. Diocletian had also been careful to link these ceremonies to geographic locations inextricably linked to his initial rise (Nicomedia) and then his creation of imperial partners to rule over the West (Milan).57 The form of the ceremony was also adapted to meet the ideological needs of the tetrarchy. At the same time the ceremonial cloaking of the new emperor within the acclamatio process expressed both tetrarchic hierarchy and the college’s core claim to power. First, Diocletian’s act of transferring his paludamentum to the new Caesar was a visual statement of the tetrarchic principle whereby membership of the college was based on military prowess. Diocletian was signalling to the army that he believed that the new Caesar would be an effective military leader. More broadly the staged acclamatio formed a useful statement about the role of the army within the tetrarchic system. The process signified that despite the change of membership in the tetrarchic college, consensus militum remained in place. Diocletian marked his dies imperii as the day he received his acclamatio from the army instead of the date that the Senate formally ratified his rule.58 Of course Senatorial ratification had long ceased to be of any practical consequence: but Diocletian’s decision forms an important insight into the tetrarchic mindset. It was yet another way that Diocletian could publicly acknowledge to the army that his power relied upon their support alone. THE TETRARCHY AND THE HONORIFIC EPITHETS OF THE NOTITIA DIGNITATUM Another prominent way of honouring the army was by bestowing honorific epithets related to the regime on individual military units. This practice originated in the likely that these troops had never participated in any of the imperial conclaves by which new emperors were formalised. 57 The accession of Licinius breaks the Mediolanum/Nicomedia pattern as it occurred at the so called ‘Conference of Carnuntum’ in Pannonia on 11 November 308 (Lact. DMP 29.1–2; 32.1. Eutr. 10.4.1). Licinius was an accomplished soldier and close to Galerius. The circumstances of his accession probably dictate the choice of location. As the new Western Augustus Licinius should have been raised in Mediolanum, a city which now lay in the territory of the usurper Maxentius and was therefore unavailable. However, given Carnuntum had long been an important military hub, it served its purpose well. In addition, it may have been politically useful to have Diocletian in attendance at the ceremony to buttress the legitimacy of Licinius’ accession. 58 SESTON 1946, 199–203; 208. This had also previously been done by Vespasian – see CAMPBELL 1984, 381.

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early empire but became particularly prevalent during the 3rd century.59 While the Tetrarchs also relied heavily on this tool, they employed it quite differently to their imperial predecessors. Diocletian’s reign marked an end to the dominant cognominal style epithets of the 3rd century. These were titles derived from the reigning emperor’s name that were added onto the unit’s existing nomenclature, and which disappeared after the emperor’s death. Although both Diocletian and Maximian bestowed these as late as 298 (albeit strengthened by the use of the genitive case), the practice was dwindling.60 The vast majority of inscriptions carrying such an epithet can be dated to before 293 suggesting that by the mid 290s the practice had been largely discontinued.61 This reflects the creation of the first tetrarchy and the new language of legitimacy that went with it.62 Instead of merely adding an adjectival cognomen to the name of favoured units the tetrarchs re-named them altogether, thus creating a much closer bond of identity with the units in question. This could be done in a number of ways. For example, a military diploma dated to 306 includes the formula coh(ortes) pr(aetoriae) Aug(ustorum) et Caes(arum).63 Politically this nomenclature indicates a further shift towards the celebration of the tetrarchy as an institution rather than its individual parts.64 Another example is the nomenclature of two cavalry units who accompanied Galerius to Egypt. The first, styled as the equites promoti dd(ominorum) formed part of Galerius’s expeditionary force of 293. The second are the comites dd(ominorum) nn(ostorum), who accompanied the emperor on his return to the province two years later.65 Speidel persuasively argues that these units were in fact the re-named equites praetoriani and the equites singulares Augusti.66 Their titles

59 HEBBLEWHITE 2017, 189–194. 60 FITZ 1983, 205–206, n.787–792. Additional inscriptions are cited by GILLIAM 1974, 187–191. Here Gilliam (190) also notes the case of Legio I Pontica who carried ‘Vestra’ in their title. This is quite unique. The only other example of such a practice comes in Legio VII Claudia under the emperor Philip. See SPEIDEL 1978, 119–122. 61 Apart from three examples, two Praetorian diplomata from 298 and 304, CIL XVI 156 & 7, and P. Oxy. XLI 2953, dating from sometime between 293–305. On the Praetorian diplomata the imperial epithet has not been updated to include the names of the two Caesars. Oddly, all four Tetrarchs are mentioned on P. Oxy. XLI 2953 (Diocletianae Maximinianae Constantianae Maximianae) 62 RITTERLING 1925, col. 1437. Also signaling the declining importance of this type of epithet is the fact that the vast majority of units that carried Diocletiana/Maximiana were older styled units. For example, the epithet was awarded to a number of Praetorian cohorts, Legio II Adiutrix, Legio III Augusta, Legio IV Flavia and Legio I Pontica. Of these, only Legio I Pontica, most probably formed in 288, can be considered a Diocletianic creation. 63 GILLIAM 1974, 189. As Gilliam notes this inscription drops the actual names of all the Tetrarchs 64 GILLIAM 1974, 191 notes that this formula also became common on coinage around this time. 65 Equites promoti: P. Grenf. II, 110. Comites: P. Oxy. 1, 43 (a. 295) 66 SPEIDEL 1992, 379.

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have been changed to reflect the closeness of the units to the ruling emperors, as if the regime ‘owned’ them.67 A more common tetrarchic practice was to fashion unit titles from their own cognomina or from epithets intrinsically linked to their regime. Our main source for this practice is the Notitia Dignitatum, a document that is problematic but absolutely crucial to our understanding of the army of the Later Roman Empire.68 Here we find units named after individual tetrarchs, (Legio III Diocletiana Legio I Maximiana. Legio II Flavia Constantia) or bearing names fashioned from the Tetrarchic deities Jupiter and Hercules (Ioviani; Herculiani; Legio V Iovia and Legio VI Herculia).69 Another combination sometimes found in the Notitia Dignitatum pairs a unit bearing the ‘Herculius’ epithet with the tetrarchic nomen Valerius (ala I Valeria dromedariorum and ala II Herculia dromedariorum).70 It is impossible to tell if all the units that bear a variation of the Iovius et Herculius epithets were named after Diocletian and Maximian, or if some related to the tetrarchs who would inherit the epithets. Most of these units were newly raised by the tetrarchs although at least some (see below) were deliberately renamed. It should also be noted that units were not necessarily raised by the tetrarch whose nomenclature they carried.71 This again speaks to the highly-targeted focus of tetrarchic ideology whereby the whole was greater than the sum of its parts. Although the Notitia Dignitatum provides no clues as to the motivations of the tetrarchs in bestowing honorific epithets, glimpses of their motivations can be found elsewhere. The military writer Vegetius recounts the origins of the epithets bestowed on two units – the Ioviani and Herculiani – by Diocletian and Maximian, saying: In Illyricum once there were two legions which had 6,000 men apiece and were called Mattiobarbuli after their skillful and brave handling of these weapons. By them, as is well-known, long ago all wars were concluded in a most vigorous manner; so much so, in fact, that when Diocletian and Maximian acceded to the throne they decreed that these Mattiobarbuli be called Joviani and Herculiani in recognition of their valour, and are (thereby) judged to have preferred them to all other legions.72

67 Both units appear in the 5th century Notitia Dignitatum at Or. 5.28, 6.28, Oc. 6.3f, without the honorific epithet domini nostri. For the use of domini nostri in third century inscriptions see SPEIDEL 1994a, 29–30 and SPEIDEL 1994b. 68 See HEBBLEWHITE 2017, 211 for a discussion of these issues. A more detailed discussion is available in JONES 1964, 1417–1419. 69 There remains some debate regarding whether Legio I Maximiana was named after Maximian or Galerius. I agree with SPEIDEL & PAVKOVIĆ 1989, 151–154 that this unit was named after Galerius due to the fact that the legion was raised at the same time as Legio II Flavia Constantia in 293, with both named after the new Caesars. However, HOFFMANN 1969, 1.233 believes that Legio I Maximiana paid tribute to both Maximian and Galerius. RITTERLING 1924, 1356; 1452 believes the title relates to Maximian. 70 ND. Or. 31 71 JONES 1964, 1418. 72 Veg. 1.17 (transl. Milner).

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In Aurelius Victor we find the following: ‘He (Maximian) subsequently received the surname Herculius from his worship of that deity, just as Valerius (Diocletian) received that of Jovius. This was also the origin of the names given to those auxiliary units which were particularly outstanding in the army.’ 73 While there remains debate regarding the identity of the units Vegetius and Aurelius Victor refer to, these references would seem to confirm an obvious point – that the Tetrarchs used honorific epithets as a reward or a show of imperial favour to bind a chosen unit closer to their cause.74 However, a closer examination reveals an additional layer of nuance – with two possible purposes for their use. The first is that Diocletian and Maximian as new emperors wished to bind at least some of the army’s most effective fighting units more closely to their cause. It was obviously hoped that the men of these units would identify more closely with their new emperors if they bore titles linked with the regime’s political and religious messaging. This would make honorific epithets a pre-emptive tool for encouraging loyalty. The second possibility is that the emperors were rewarding units who had proved particularly loyal during the civil war with Carinus, or the early campaigns against external enemies. In this case the bestowal of honorific epithets was viewed as a reactive, yet effective way of tightening an existing loyalty bond. Likely, both strategies were employed depending on the circumstances the tetrarchs found themselves in. VIRTUS AND THE TETRARCHIC ARMY We have seen that the tetrarchs used coinage to convey to proclaim their ability to win victoria. However, the Tetrarchs also used coinage to and celebrate the army and its role in the victoria they delivered to the empire. During the 3rd century crisis coinage directly mentioning the army was dominated by messages proclaiming the fidelity of the troops (fides militum) and the fact that the emperor ruled the empire in partnership with the army (concordia militum). Under the tetrarchs, these themes became far less prominent (see below) and were replaced by coinage exalting the military virtus of the army. Most commonly this sentiment was expressed via the legends ‘the military bravery of the soldiers’ (VIRTVS MILITVM) and the ‘military bravery of the army’ (VIRTVS EXERCITVS) which were minted in large quantities empire-wide.75 The reason for this shift again lies in the expression of a brand new tetrarchic ideology. In the tetrarchic conception of power the individual emperors ruled in harmony with each other and with the army. There was no longer any need to proclaim the fidelity of the troops to the regime as they were already an integral part of the regime. Theoretically, loyalty was ensured because only the tetrarchs could deliver victoria, which in turn emanated from the virtus of the soldiers.

73 Aur. Vict. 39.18 (transl. Bird). 74 CHARLES 2004, 111 n.7 offers an excellent summary of the debate. 75 RIC VI, 706 lists the wide range of mints from which these reverse legends were minted.

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It is instructive to note that the small amounts of coinage that did proclaim the fides and concordia of the army were linked to specific political developments within the developing imperial college headed by Diocletian.76 In the very early years of their reign, before they had fully secured the loyalty of the army, Diocletian and Maximian continued to mint some coinage proclaiming the fides and concordia of the army. This is confirmed by the mints at which these legends were minted – Siscia, Cyzicus and Antioch. The first two mints were geographically close to the site of the Battle of the Margus River where Diocletian defeated Carinus to take control of the empire. Antioch on the other hand was the major mint in the east and the closest to where Diocletian had seized power following the deaths of Carus and Numerian. Later coinage bearing the same message would be minted for Constantius and (to a much greater extent) Galerius when they joined the imperial college. At a time of great political sensitivity, it would be useful to remind the troops that the decision of the Augusti to create new emperors was a direct result of their will.77 Other examples also come from periods of political uncertainty. During the first months of the second tetrarchy (May 305–July 306) when Constantius and Galerius replaced Diocletian and Maximian, and Severus and Maximinus Daza were appointed as Caesares, we see the reappearance of coinage proclaiming FIDES MILITVM from the mints of Ticinium and Aquileia to demonstrate that ‘change of rulers involved no change in military loyalty’ and that ‘the new tetrarchy was based on unchanging military loyalty.’78 Coinage proclaiming the concordia of the army was also minted in Rome in the aftermath of Maxentius’ revolt in October 306. While the use of the legend CONCORD MILIT FELIC ROMANOR is clearly meant to convey the acquiescence of the army to the revolt, the fact it was minted for Maxentius’ father, and not Maxentius himself, reflects the important role the old emperor played in rallying the army to his son’s cause.79 Later in his reign the usurper again used FIDES MILITVM types, perhaps in relation to the revolt of Alexander in

76 RIC V/2, pp. 231–232, nn. 118–119; p. 274, nn. 475–477; p. 299, nn. 652–653; p. 306, n. 695 (Treviri); pp. 246–247, nn. 256–258; 266 (Siscia); p. 249, n. 284; p. 289, n. 595 (Heraclea); p. 253, n. 306; p. 256, n. 322; p. 291, n. 606; p. 294, n. 621 (Antiochia). RIC VI, p. 136, nn. 194– 208 (Londinium); p. 289, nn. 59a–60b; pp. 291–292, nn. 64; 73 (Ticinum); p. 319, nn. 56–57b; p. 324, nn. 103–106 (Aquileia); p. 367, n. 134; pp. 373–374, nn. 175–176; 180 (Roma). For the imagery of FIDES MILITUM and CONCORDIA MILITUM types see MACCORMACK 1981, 174. 77 CONCORDIA MILITUM: RIC V/2, p. 246, 256–258 (Siscia); p. 251, nn. 291–292; p. 253, n. 306 (Cyzicus); p. 254, nn. 313–314; p. 256, n. 322; pp. 290–291, nn. 601–604; 606–607; p. 294, n. 621 (Antiochia); p. 302, n. 672 (Siscia); pp. 308–309, nn. 717–718 (Cyzicus). RIC VI, p. 510, n. 8 (Thessalonica); p. 531, nn. 13–16 (Heraclea); pp. 580–581, nn. 13–19b (Cyzicus); pp. 621–622, nn. 60a–63b (Antiochia); p. 667, nn. 46a–48b; p. 670, nn. 59a–60b; p. 675, nn. 84–85 (Alexandria). See also FEARS 1977, 299. FIDES MILITUM: RIC V/2, p. 242, n. 211 (Ticinum); p. 247, n. 266 (Siscia); p. 288, n. 583 (Cyzicus). 78 RIC VI, pp. 271; 305. RIC VI, pp. 288–289, nn. 55a–b; 59a–60b; pp. 291–292, nn. 64; 73 (Ticinum); pp. 319–320, nn. 56–62b; p. 324, nn. 103–106 (Aquileia); p. 374, n. 180; p. 383, n. 265 (Roma); p. 578, n. 1 (Cyzicus). 79 RIC VI, p. 367, n. 134; p. 373, nn. 175–176 (Roma).

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North Africa or the growing threat posed by Constantine on his northern border and Licinius to the north east.80 In many ways the efforts to exalt the virtus of the army were strongly linked with messaging on tetrarchic victoria. The tetrarchs were the only ones who could deliver victoria, but they were only able to achieve this because of the virtus of their loyal soldiers. This message would serve to reinforce to the troops that they remained at the heart of a new solution to the empire’s woes and would continue to be as long as the Tetrarchs continued to rule. CONCLUSION With the introduction of the tetrarchic model of rule, imperial messaging towards the army underwent a stark shift from that employed by emperors during the third century. Like those that came before them the Tetrarchs were determined to present themselves as rulers with unimpeachable military prowess. But unlike the emperors of the mid-3rd century the Tetrarchs’ longevity in power meant they could gradually abandon aspirational messaging focused on repeated claims of imperial virtus and vague and unrealistic proclamations of invictus and instead emphasise the demonstrated ability of their developing imperial college to win victoria against the empire’s enemies. As far as tetrarchic messaging to the army was concerned imperial virtus was now to be presented as unquestionable, because Diocletian and his colleagues had proven that they could provide the victoria that the empire (and in particular the army) craved. To reinforce this, imperial messaging intrinsically linked victoria with tetrarchic ideology in the form of the epithets Iovius and Herculius, which reminded the army that victory itself could only come from the Tetrarchs. Of course, emperors had long sought to associate themselves with specific deities as a way to demonstrate divine favour for their rule. But none had gone as far as the Tetrarchs in intertwining their military persona with their guardian divinities. Even Aurelian, whose association with Sol Invictus was ubiquitous never sought to name military units after his patron deity as the tetrarchs did. What’s more when it came to celebrating military success he often turned away from Sol Invictus and instead linked himself with the favour of Mars and Hercules.81 With multiple tested imperatores at the helm, the Tetrarchs could at least make the claim that they had restored a measure of political certainty to the Empire following the rapid succession of emperors that had marred the middle decades of the 3rd century. Of course, the whole was greater than the sum of its parts and the benefits of the tetrarchic model, primarily a team of active and successful campaigners bringing stability and security to the empire via victoria, featured prominently in 80 Zos. 2.14.1 notes that Maxentius had plans to attack Licinius. 81 WATSON 1999, 184. In addition, the use of the Invictus epithet by Aurelian was not directly meant to invoke the god Sol and instead related to the idea of victoria everlasting – see HEBBLEWHITE 2017, 54–55.

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imperial messaging. Victoria was to be a shared concept, the victory of one Tetrarch was the victory of all, a product of the system, not of the individual. This concept of victoria as a shared phenomenon is most vividly seen in the tetrarchic practice of sharing cognomina devictarum gentium and it is telling that this practice broke down only when the unity of the Tetrarchy itself was under threat. From its inception, tetrarchic ideology placed the army at its heart. The tetrarchs only ruled, and achieved victoria, because they enjoyed, nay, deserved, the support of the army. Ceremonial transactions of power were conducted in front of military audiences in an effort to show the army that the tetrarchy was based on their express concordia. However, tetrarchic messaging worked hard to ensure that the army was exalted at all times, not just during shifts in power. The army was regularly exalted on coinage, not for their loyalty, which was unquestioned, but for the virtus they demonstrated that underpinned tetrarchic victoria. Many units were honoured with titles that linked them directly to the regime. Unlike during the 3rd century crisis, when adjectival titles fashioned from the name of the ruling emperor were added to the names of military units and then removed on the death of the emperor, these titles were permanent. The entire identity of new units was to be subsumed in tetrarchic nomenclature, and at least some existing units received new titles linking them directly with the regime. This chapter has shown that with the Tetrarchy came a shift in imperial messaging to the army. Messaging now emphasized the unique martial legitimacy of the tetrarchic college and the role the army played in its success. It sought to radiate the promised strength of the tetrarchy and encourage the army to keep supporting the regime by exalting its role in the tetrarchic salvation of the empire. However, this messaging could only be effective when the Tetrarchy could deliver the political stability it had promised to groups across the empire, most importantly the army. With the breakdown of tetrarchic arrangements in the middle of the first decade of the fourth century came a retreat, and then an eventual collapse of the messaging that had marked the successive years of the tetrarchic experiment.

THE ‘HAMMER OF THE ARISTOCRACY’? DIOCLETIAN’S REIGN AND ITS CONSEQUENCES FOR THE AMPLISSIMUS ORDO Nikolas Hächler* The changes that came with the reign of Diocletian affected the Roman senate and its members. Naturally, their fate piqued the interest of modern scholarship. Michael Arnheim prominently portrays the ruler as the ‘hammer of the aristocracy’1, who – as a true soldier emperor in character and as an (alleged) enemy of the senatorial nobility – systematically cut off the senate from any form of political participation. Stephen Williams highlights the absolute position of the tetrarchs, which allowed them for the most part to ignore the entire senatorial order, while dealing with political, military and economic issues of the Roman state.2 A similar conclusion is reached by Alexander Demandt, who emphasizes the senate’s loss of political power due to the emperors’ frequent absence from Rome.3 Frank Kolb and later Klaus Altmayer argue more cautiously. Although apparently without decisive political influence, the senate was still approached with great respect by the emperors. In addition, the access to traditional offices of high prestige such as the ordinary consulate or the prefecture of Rome was for the most part still restricted to a few highly respected senators.4 Wolfgang Kuhoff, Michele Renee Salzmann and André Chastagnol perceive developments from 284–305 as part of an ongoing socio-political evolution within the scope of the greater transformation of the Imperium Romanum eventually leading to the renewal of the ordo senatorius under Constantine I.5

*

1 2 3

4 5

I would like to thank the editors as well as Salvatore Liccardo, Gavin Kelly, Angela Kinney, Philip Polcar, Danuta Shanzer, Roger Tomlin and Willum Westenholz for their helpful remarks on this paper. In addition, I owe many thanks to Daria Lanzuolo for her help with the plates. Unless otherwise stated, translations are my own. ARNHEIM 1972, 39. WILLIAMS 1985, 146. DEMANDT 2008, 254, similarly HEIL 2008a, 760. For the emergence of new political centres under Diocletian see DUVAL 1961/1962, 67–95. 1963, 76–117. 1991, 378–384. For the absence of the emperors from Rome in the 4th and 5th century and the subsequent transformation of the senatorial order see SALZMANN 2002. HUMPHRIES 2003, 27–46. WEISWEILER 2015, 17–41. KOLB 1987a, 17–18. ALTMAYER 2014, 219. KUHOFF 2001a, 399–410. SALZMANN 2002, 29–31; 179. CHASTAGNOL 2004, 233–236. Compare as well RODA 1977, 24–112. JONES 1964, 523–526. RODA 1993, 643–674. SOUTHERN 2001, 161–167; 254–255. REES 2004, 24–30. RÉMY 2016, 83–88. ECK 2018, 149–151, who identify numerous continuities regarding the position and political significance of the senatorial order around 300 compared to its standing during the second half of the 3rd century.

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Such divergent assessments are not only a consequence of varying methodological approaches and differing scholarly perspectives on the reign of the tetrarchs but often result as well from the limited number and the fragmented nature of our sources. These in turn require a careful compilation and transparent interpretation in order to determine their informative value, keeping in mind that in comparison with the second and fourth centuries in particular the evidence remains limited overall. Historiographical texts such as the Historiae abbreviatae by Aurelius Victor, the Breviarium ab urbe condita by Eutropius, the infamous Historia Augusta or the, by comparison, trustworthy Res gestae by Ammianus Marcellinus as well as the apologetic treatise De mortibus persecutorum by Lactantius present us with little but – after some critical evaluations – valuable information regarding the fate of the senate and its members at the end of the 3rd century.6 Further precious glimpses of interactions between the emperors and the council of the patres conscripti can sporadically be caught in the Panegyrici Latini.7 Inscriptions,8 scattered remarks in the Codex Theodosianus, the Codex Iustinianus and accounts of the generally reliable Chronographus anni CCCLIIII provide us with insights into the political careers of individual viri clarissimi between 284–305.9 Based on a thorough assessment of literary and documentary sources which illustrate the situation of the Roman senate under Diocletian together with an upto-date prosopographical survey of senatorial office-holders between 284–305 – comparable studies have formerly been presented by Timothy Barnes, Wolfgang Kuhoff and Michele Renee Salzmann in 1983, 2001 and 2002 – and taking longterm developments of the 3rd century into consideration, this paper studies the functions, composition and importance of the Roman senate and its members under Diocletian in a differentiated and comprehensive way. It will highlight continuities with regard to the roles of senators as office-holders at the end of the 3rd century as well as varying forms of communicative interaction between the senate and the emperors against the background of the tetrarchic ideology. For this purpose, attention will first be paid to the relation between the emperor and the senate as a political body. In a second part, the focus is then on the role and significance of senatorial office-holders for the administration of the Roman Empire. 6 7 8

9

HARTMANN 2008a, 20–21; 31–34. 2008b, 45–51. For the senate’s role regarding the election of emperors in the later Roman Empire see BEGASS 2022, 325–355. Pan. Lat. X (2) from 289 and XI (3) from 291 in particular; cf. REES 2002, 27–94. HARTMANN 2008a, 39–40. Note that it became a less and less common practice to document entire cursus honorum on inscriptions already during the second half of the 3rd century, see BORG & WITSCHEL 2001, 47– 120. A. KOLB 2001, 136–144. WITSCHEL 2006a, 153–155. 2006b, 367–380. See as well BOLLE 2019 for a comprehensive study of the epigraphic habit in the Later Roman Empire. In fact, we know of only nine almost entirely preserved cursus honorum from 86 documented office-holders between 284–305: L. Aelius Helvius Dionysius (Nr. 2), Amnius Manius Caesonius Nicomachus Anicius Paulinus (Iunior) signo Honorius (Nr. 7), Attius Insteius Tertullus (Nr. 13), C. Caelius Censorinus (Nr. 22), L. Caesonius Ovinius Manlius Rufinianus Bassus (Nr. 24), C. Ceionius Rufius Volusianus (Nr. 29), Egnatius Caec[ilius A]ntistius Luce[rinus] (Nr. 34), T. Flavius Postumius Titianus (Nr. 41) and Iunius Priscillianus Maximus (Nr. 48). HARTMANN 2008a, 22–24. See Appendix A.

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THE ROMAN SENATE IN TIMES OF ABSENT EMPERORS Our knowledge about the senate’s composition and its modes of cooptation under Diocletian is based on former regulations, which – to our understanding – were not altered during the 3rd century. As in previous periods, the council, whose members usually descended from a senatorial background, numbered 600 viri clarissimi.10 In order to officially become part of the institution through cooptatio, candidates had to formally hold a senatorial office. This was usually done by serving as a quaestor, in some cases preceeded by other responsibilities among the XXviri. In addition, senators in the making had to have a personal fortune of at least 1,000,000 sesterces at their disposal and enjoy a favourable public reputation.11 In rare cases, a person could be picked individually for a senatorial position by the emperor through an adlectio.12 As far as we know, the Roman senate continued to formally operate under Diocletian’s reign as it did in earlier times. The institution usually met two times a month – i.e. on the calends and the ides. The political agenda was fixed by the emperor, who adressed the senate by means of intermediaries, mostly (presumably) through the acting praefectus Urbi. The emperor allowed senatorial votes (senatus consulta) concerning administrative issues of the state. Approving consensus regarding imperial proclamations was expressed in form of rhythmically repeated acclamations chanted by the viri clarissimi, which became the standard of formalised communication between the senate and the emperor during official gatherings in late antiquity. Unfortunately, there are no examples of such interactions under Diocletian. In order to gain an impression of procedures, we have to rely on comparable depictions in the Codex Theodosianus and the Historia Augusta.13 In addition, the council performed certain functions as a court of justice and oversaw public works and services in Rome and Italy.14 Under Diocletian, the senate’s decisions were ultimately of little immediate importance for the emperor’s judgments regarding the political affairs of the Imperium Romanum. As far as we know, it usually rubber-stamped the ruler’s decisions ex post. This was primarily due to the frequent absence of the emperor from Rome. As 10 TALBERT 1984, 29–30; 131–134. 11 LÖHKEN 1982, 13–14; 24–25. ALFÖLDY 2011, 150–162. 12 RÉMY 2016, 82–83. Note that there are no documented instances for this practice from 284– 305. 13 Regarding the depiction of senatorial acclamationes during the 3rd century see HA Alex. 6.3–5; 7.1–6; 8.2–3; 9.5–6; 10.6–8, 11.2; 12.1; Maximin. 16.3–4; 6–7; 26.2–4; Max. Balb. 2.10–12; Valer. 5.4–7; Claud. 4.3–4; 18,2–3; Tac. 4.2–4; 5,1; Prob. 11.6–9. For the Gesta senatus Romani de Theodosiano publicando of 438 see Atzeri 2008. The phenomenon has been treated by HIRSCHFELD 1905. ALFÖLDI 1934, 79–88. TALBERT 1984, 302. WIEMER 2004, 27–73. 2013, 173–202. 14 TALBERT 1984, 372–391. AUSBÜTTEL 1998, 64–68. KUHOFF 2001a, 406. RAINER 2006, 237– 240. RÉMY 2016, 83. Due to a lack of source material, it remains unclear whether and to what extent the senate was involved in further aspects of imperial administration. Regarding tendencies of the 3rd century, it can be assumed, however, that most issues were dealt with directly by the emperors and their administrative apparatus.

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is well known, Diocletian chose Nicomedia as his new residence, while Maximian first settled in Augusta Treverorum and then in Mediolanum. Additionally, the emperors often led military campaigns in order to defend the empire’s borders.15 The sovereigns’ political deliberations were frequently influenced by members of their consilium/consistorium, who accompanied the rulers wherever they went.16 Even after his elevation to the imperial throne by the army on November 20, 284 in Nicomedia, Diocletian, like his predecessors, did not immediately seek out the senate to formally confirm his new position. Rather, he initially opted for the consolidation of his dominion based on the support of loyal military forces. The same holds true for the appointment of his imperial counterpart Maximian, who became Augustus on 1 April, 286.17 As emperor of the Roman Empire in the west, the latter visited Rome only on rare occasions. He was surely present in 303 to mark the Vicennalia of Diocletian’s and his own reign as well as the Decennalia of the Caesares Galerius and Constantius I Chlorus. Finally, he appears in the urbs as a supporter of his son Maxentius from 306/307–308.18 At first, this apparent lack of direct interactions between the emperors and the senate – hinted at in the panegyrical work addressed to Maximian in 289 – appears as a characteristic feature of the tetrarchy.19 Against the background of the developments of the 3rd century, it is, however, not a revolutionary change at all. While depicting Commodus’s longing for Rome during his military campaign in the Danube region in 180, the historiographer Herodian, writing in the first half of the 3rd century, already emphasised the fact that Rome exists wherever the emperor resides.20 From 235–284, military pressure at the empire’s borders repeatedly required the presence of the emperors far away from the capital, as was the case with Maximinus Thrax, Gordian III, Decius, Valerian I and Gallienus, Claudius II Gothicus, Aurelian or Probus. Diocletian’s immediate predecessors Carus, Carinus and Numerianus had already ruled the Imperium Romanum based in Lugdunum, Mediolanum, Emesa, Siscia, Antiochia and Sirmium.21 15 Note that although emperors did not visit Rome very often, it may be the case that their wives and female relatives did. Consider, for instance, the domus Faustae (see RICHARDSON 1992, 126. HILLNER 2017, 63–65), which appears to have been an apartment in the domus Lateranorum. Fausta herself (PLRE I, 325–326, Fausta) was born in Rome as daughter of Maximian and Eutropia (PLRE I, 316, Eutropia 1) probably around 290, see HILLNER 2017, 60. KIENAST, ECK & HEIL 2017, 292. 16 LÖHKEN 1982, 65. CHASTAGNOL 2004, 233–235. HEKSTER et al. 2019, 17–20. For the consilium principis see CROOK 1975, 91–96, for the sacrum consistorium see JONES 1964 1.333–339. GRAVES 1973. 17 See KIENAST, ECK & HEIL 2017, 263–263. Compare, however, PASQUALINI 1979, 26–33 and KOLB 1987a, 22–67, both of whom date Maximian’s elevation in December 285. 18 Regarding the dating of Maximian’s visits to Rome see BARNES 1982, 34; 58. HILLNER 2017, 78. KIENAST, ECK & HEIL 2017, 262–263. In addition, the emperor might have stayed in Rome in 291 after his meeting with Diocletian in Mediolanum and maybe in 299 after his military expeditions in North Africa. 19 Pan. Lat. X (2) 13.4–14.1; see KOLB 1987a, 17–18. KUHOFF 2001a, 407. 20 Hdn. 1.6.5. 21 ALTMAYER 2014, 267.

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Starting with Maximinus Thrax in 235, the election of new emperors additionally became a task for high-ranking officers in the Roman army originating from the ordo equester, who usually appointed one of their own as ruler.22 In fact, the last time the council of the patres conscripti actively participated in the election of a new emperor was in 238, thereby contributing to the victories of Pupienus, Balbinus and Gordian III against Maximinus Thrax.23 In contrast, the alleged election of the emperor Tacitus (275–276) by the senate alone, which also served as a means to restitute the latter’s authority, has been exposed as a literary construction.24 The frequent absence of regular interactions between the emperor and the council are on the one hand a legacy of Diocletian’s predecessors and resulted on the other hand from pressing political and military necessities at the beginning of the 4th century, which made the presence of the tetrarchs far away from Rome a necessity. They are consequences of the political history of the 3rd century and not concious desiderata by the tetrarchs. However, these developments did not come with a complete disregard for the senate’s fate. In fact, Diocletian did by no means hinder its traditional activities. He even faithfully rebuilt the curia Iulia as part of the extensive renovatio Urbis after a devastating fire in 283/284.25 Furthermore, senators continued to appear as holders of prestigious offices in the state’s service, as will be shown in detail. An overall respectful approach to the sentorial order is explicitly reflected in the Historia Augusta – albeit in a rather topical manner – right after the depicted demise of Carus, Carinus and Numerianus: This was the end of the three emperors, Carus, Numerianus and Carinus. After them the gods gave us Diocletian and Maximian as rulers, joining to these great men Galerius as well as Constantius. One of them was born to wipe out the disgrace caused by the capture of Valerian,26 the other to bring back Gaul under the laws of Rome.27 Indeed, they were four rulers of the world, brave, wise, kind, generous in every way possible, of one mind towards the res publica,

22 Exceptions are apparently present in the case of Gordian III, Trebonianus Gallus as well as Valerian I and Gallienus. 23 DIETZ 1980. BÖRM 2008. HUTTNER 2008. 24 SYME 1971, 247. KREUCHER 2003, 108–110. JOHNE 2008a, 383. 25 Chronogr. a. 354, 148,22. The findings of two honorary inscriptions (CIL VI 1119. 40722) from 293/295 on the Forum Romanum suggest that the curia was restored at that time at the latest, see BAUER 2012, 7; 10–18. ALTMAYER 2014, 219. For Diocletian’s renovatio Urbis see RICHARDSON 1992, 103. KOLB 2002, 669–670. DEMANDT 2004, 3. BAUER 2012, 1–86. BEHRWALD & WITSCHEL 2012 17–24. POTTER 2014, 20–28. In this context, Lact. DMP 7.8 dismissively speaks of the emperor’s neverending and thus unreasonable desire to erect new buildings (infinita cupiditas aedificandi). 26 I.e. Galerius’s victories against Narses in 297/298 (?), thereby allegedly living down the disgrace of Valerian’s capture by the Sāsānian king Šābuhr I in 260 near Edessa, see KIENAST, ECK & HEIL 2017, 206; 272. 27 I.e. themilitary victories of Constantius against the usurper Carausius in Britain from 293– 296/297 as well as his successes against various Germanic tribes at the Rhine’s borders from 300–304, see KIENAST, ECK & HEIL 2017, 267–269.

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The tetrarchs are portrayed as ideal rulers after the unseemly end of their predecessors, treating the senate in a correct, i.e. deferential manner (pereverentes Romani senatus). Subsequentially, they appear as traditional warrantors of the restitution and continuous existence of the Roman state (unum in rem publicam sentientes) in the name of and supported by the senatus populusque Romanus. Their military and political successes against the Persian Sāsānians and usurpers in Gaul are clearly reflected in their encompassing imperial virtues and at the same time confirm and justify their claims to the imperial thrones.29 Further insights into forms of customary interactions between the senate and the tetrarchs are provided by a study of the so-called Five-Columns-Monument, which was part of the rulers’ project to reshape the Forum Romanum in connection with the Vicennalia/Decennalia in 303.30 A depiction of this monument consisting of five statue-topped columns on the rostra can be spotted in the background of one of the reliefs of the Arch of Constantine I, representing an imperial adlocutio.31 The central statue on top of the column is identifiable as Jupiter, the other four as genii of the emperors, thereby indicating that the temporarily limited rule of the four current rulers, who all had comparable capabilities, responsibilities and rank, was mediated and guaranteed by the father of the gods.32 Only the basis of one column, found in front of the church Sant’Adriano al Foro in 1547, is still preserved. Other bases, discovered in 1490 (between the church Sant’Adriano and the Arch of Septimius Severus) and in 1509 (near the temple of Vespasian), have unfortunately been lost. The surviving fragment presents an inscribed side facing the via Sacra. On its centre, two winged Victoriae hold a shield with the inscription Caesarum / decennalia / feliciter above a depiction of the two seated Caesares Constantius I Chlorus and Galerius, thereby referring to the

28 HA Car. 18.3–4: Hic trium principium fuit finis, Cari, Numeriani et Carini. Post quos Diocletianum et Maximianum principes dederunt, iungentes talibus viris Galerium atque Constantium, quorum alter natus est, qui acceptam ignominiam Valeriani captivitate[m] deleret, alter, qui Gallias Romanis legibus redderet. Quattuor sane principes mundi fortes, sapientes, benigni et admodum liberales, unum in rem publicam setientes, [s]peeverent Romani senatus, moderati, populi amici, pesanti, graves, religiosi et quales principes semper oravimus. 29 KOLB 1987a, 17–18. 30 L’ORANGE 1938, 1–34. KÄHLER 1964. WREDE 1981, 121–140. ENGEMANN 1984, 336–341. KOLB 1987a, 123–128. MAYER 2002, 176–180. BAUER 2012, 57–65; 69. KALAS 2015, 23–46, esp. 34–39. MARLOWE 2016, 240–263. 31 As argued by BAUER 2012, 59; 62 (based on GIULIANI & VERDUCHI 1987, 138–163. VERDUCHI 1995, 217–218. LIVERANI 2007b, 170–185) there were two Five-Columns-Monuments, one on the rostra Augusti in the western part of the Forum Romanum, and another on the newly erected rostra Diocletiani in the east. Due to the iconographic program, it can be assumed that the relief on the Arch of Constantine I depicts the rostra Augusti. 32 WREDE 1981, 137–138. KOLB 1987a, 123–126. BAUER 2012, 58–59; 63.

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festivities in their honour and hinting at the vota suscepta for the named period (Pl. 6.a).33 The western side of the basis depicts sacrificial preparations as part of the suovetaurilia in honour of the deity Mars (Pl. 6.b). The eastern side shows a procession of senatorial togati. Four of them carry banners in the background, presumably in connection with the tetrarchic rule (Pl. 7.a).34 The southern side depicts a small Victoria crowning an emperor as representative of all four tetrarchs, who pours a libation on the altar of Mars. He is accompanied by a flamen Martialis while the god observes the event on the left of the relief together with an additional senator. In front of the priest are two youths, one bearing an incense box, the other playing two flutes. On the emperor’s right appears the genius senatus while depictions of Roma aeterna and Sol Invictus are discernible on the far-right side (Pl. 7.b).35 Unlike the Baths of Diocletian, for instance, which were clearly intended as an imperial dedication to the people of Rome in 306,36 the Five-Columns-Monument was apparently an offering by the senate in the context of vota soluta / vota suscepta regarding the festivities of the dies imperii in 303. Thus, it provides us with a unique perspective from the senatorial order on the perceived realities of Roman rule under the tetrarchs and the self-attributed position of the senate therein. It should be noted that the iconographic program, which is clearly influenced by former concepts of political and religious thought during the Principate, frames the role of the emperors primarily as Roman magistrates offering sacrifices for the preservation of and in accordance with the senatus populusque romanus.37 In addition, the senate plays quite a prominent part itself: it figures not only as a grateful receiver of imperial benefaction, but as a political actor, actively participating in the creation, representation and support of the tetrarchic rulers. It is of particular interest that such a public display of concord and unanimity between the senate and the tetrarchs, portrayed as if they still were traditional principes, is only found in Rome, which in turn is depicted as the actual origin of imperial rule.38 Apparently, the urbs remained a unique place within the empire, where the longstanding senatorial elite expected to be included in traditional displays of imperial ideology.39 33 CIL VI 1203. The other two bases featured inscriptions as well, which referred to the Decennalia/Vicennalia in 303: Augustorum / vicennalia / feliciter (CIL VI 1204) and Vicennalia / imperatorum (CIL VI 1205). 34 Compare, however, MARLOWE 2016, 255–258, who considers the depiction as a deliberately ambiguous representation of senators and the four tetrarchs as well as an amalgamation of senatorial and imperial virtues. 35 WREDE 1981, 122–123. MARLOWE 2016, 253–258. 36 CIL VI 1130 = CIL VI 31242 = ILS 646. 37 WREDE 1981, 137–138. CHASTAGNOL 1987, 493–497. 1988, 16–17. KOLB 1987a, 123–126. 38 MAYER 2002, 180. DIEFENBACH 2007, 87–95. BAUER 2012, 70–73. MARLOWE 2016, 251–252; 254–258. 39 See HEKSTER et al. 2019, 614–633 for various depictions of the tetrarchs and their rule on public monuments outside of Rome and on coins; apparently the senate and the senatorial order played no or only a minor role in such representations. See within this context also the introduction to this volume by Christian ROLLINGER and Filippo CARLÀ-UHINK regarding the changes of imperial ideologies under the tetrarchs and the subsequent adaptation of communicative strategies between the emperors and various groups within the Roman Empire.

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We learn about new forms of direct interactions between senators and the tetrarchs only outside of Rome. Consider the depiction of the senatorial embassy consisting of leading viri clarissimi (lumina senatus)40 to Diocletian and Maximian during their second conference 291 in Mediolanum:41 Even the mistress of the gentes herself, Rome, let herself be carried away by the unrestrained joy of your close presence and was anxious to catch a glimpse of you from the look-outs of her hills, [...]. She sent the glorious lights of her own senate and thus willingly bestowed upon the city of Milan, which in those days was filled with blissful happiness, an aura of majesty similar to her own, so that it seemed at the time that the seat of power was where both emperors had gone.42

As stressed by Wolfgang Kuhoff, these senatorial ambassadors – among whom we might suspect both ordinary consuls C. Iunius Tiberianus (Nr. 50) and Cassius Dio (Nr. 26) – were undoubtedly present on-site in order to participate in political discussions regarding the planned reorganisation of the Italian peninsula’s administration.43 Furthermore, they would have offered appropriate signs of veneration and respect in the context of the new imperial court ceremonies.44 As stated by various authors, it was Diocletian who replaced the traditional salutatio with the adoratio.45 As part of this new procedure, imperial attendants had to prostrate themselves in front of the ruler and kiss the hem of the imperial purple (adoratio purpurae).46 In addition, the emperor paied great attention to the staging of imperial grandeur at his court.47 Adorationes occured by rank and became honour and duty simultaneously.48 The distance officially displayed between the emperor and the rest of the Roman world regarding status, authority and even religious position was specifically fixed in the organisation of ritualised spaces. While officials had to stand, the

40 While describing the emperors’ presence in northern Italy, Pan. Lat. XI (3), 10–12 repeatedly addresses the reader’s sense of sight. Against this backdrop, the term lumina senatus has the poetical connotations of the senate’s eyes, which behold the imperial spectacle in Mediolanum, see ThlL 7,2, 1810,63; 1811,9; 24–27; 33; 1812,30; 1813,48; 1814,21–22; 1815,22. 41 See KUHOFF 2001a, 387. MAYER 2002, 1–2. Note that the panegyrist depicts Rome’s situation as if it still were the sole political center of the empire. In contrast, Mediolanum merely appears as a temporary caput imperii due to the presence of the emperors (ibi tunc esse sedes imperii videtur quo uterque venerat imperator). It is Rome that shares a similitudo maiestatis suae with other cities by sending a modicum of its distinguished glamour to them for a limited period. 42 Pan. Lat. XI (3) 12,1–2: Ipsa etiam gentium domina Roma immodico propinquitatis vestrae elata gaudio vosque e speculis suorum montium prospicere conata, [...]. Lumina siquidem senatus sui misit beatissimae illi per eos dies Mediolanensium civitati similitudinem maiestatis suae libenter impartiens, ut ibi tunc esse sedes imperii videtur quo uterque venerat imperator. 43 KUHOFF 2001a, 407. BOWMAN 2005, 73–74. 44 See ROLLINGER, this volume. 45 ALFÖLDI 1970, 38–120; regarding the significance of the salutatio in the Roman Republic and the early Principate see GOLDBECK 2010. 46 Hier. chron. 226. Aur. Vict. Caes. 39.2–4. Eutr. 9.26. Amm. 15.5.18. 47 JONES 1964 1,40; 337. ALFÖLDI 1970, 121–271. LÖHKEN 1982, 48; 65–67. 48 Pan. Lat. XI (3) 11,3.

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emperor alone was allowed to sit during audiences.49 Furthermore, Diocletian took the name Iovius, while Maximian appeared as Herculius, thereby emphasizing otherworldly aspects of their common reign.50 Transcendental qualities of the emperor’s presence are openly addressed in Pan. Lat. XI (3), which depicts the general amazement and the ensuing confusion, when Diocletian and Maximian (apparently) unexpectedly appeared together: Now what was that, good gods! What a spectacle your majesty presented in the palace of Milan when you have both appeared to those, who wanted to perform the adoratio before your eyes and who were allowed to do so, and unexpectedly upset the custom of worshipping a single being by the dual presence of a divine sovereignty! No one followed the usual course of the ceremony, as befits the rank of your divine Highnesses; all paused in the duration of their adoration and persisted for some time since the duty of grateful piety was now doubled.51 And yet this act of worship, which took place as it were concealed within a sanctuary, had solely astonished the hearts of those to whom the rank of their dignitas granted access to you.52

Performed as if the participants were in a sanctuary (sacrarium), accessible only to a few chosen people from the highest ranks (dignitas) of the Roman world, this characterisation of the imperial adoratio clearly alludes to the Greco-Roman mysteries. It is in Pan. Lat. XI (3) 11.3–5, when the emperors liberally decide to cross the threshhold of the palace and visit the city (limine egressi per mediam urbem), that the rest of the civitas Mediolanensium as well received the honour to behold the rulers and to joyfully participate in their adoration. These literary depictions exemplify the extensive transformation regarding the relationship between the emperor and the senate as well as its members outside of Rome. Starting with Augustus, the ruler initially acted – at least pro forma and within the context of socio-political comity (comitas) – as part of the senatorial community, from which he originated. As princeps, he reflected, amplified and exemplified the values and dignity of the whole ordo senatorius in all aspects of his 49 CTh 11.39.5 documents that members of the comites consistoriani in Constantinople stood while emperor Julian announced a decision on 23 March 362. CJ 10.48.2 comprises part of the acta from Antioch: a certain Sabinus asked Diocletian for an exemption from some munera. The emperor’s positive answer was then presented by the same Sabinus to the local notables, who apparently had to stand when listening to Diocletian’s decision (Antiochensium adstantibus Sabinus dixit: [...]), see CONNOLLY 2010, 111–112. It can be assumed that during instances when the emperor presided over (lengthy) juridical proceedings, the consistoriani were allowed to sit as well (cf. possibly Amm. 22.9.17). I thank Christian ROLLINGER for pointing this out to me. 50 See HUNNELL CHEN, this volume. 51 Note the use of contumax at the end of Pan. Lat. XI (3).2, which connotes the disruption of the usual procedures at court and the rhythmically organised decorum by the (negatively?) surprised adoratores, see ThlL 4,797,47; 798,73. I thank Danuta Shanzer for this observation. 52 Pan. Lat. XI (3) 11.1–3: Quid illud, di boni! Quale pietas vestra spectaculum dedit, cum in Mediolanensi palatio admissis qui sacros vultus adoraturi erant conspecti estis ambo, et consuetudinem simplicis venerationis geminato numine repente turbastis! Nemo ordinem numinum solita secutus est disciplina; omnes adorandi mora restituerunt duplicato pietatis officio contumaces. Atque haec quidem velut interioribus sacrariis operta veneratio eorum modo animos obstupefecerat quibus aditum vestri dabant ordinis dignitatis.

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reign. Although he de facto greatly surpassed his peers on an economic, military and political level, he needed to formally submit to the senate’s auctoritas in order to be perceived as a true and just princeps.53 In this context, interactions between the emperor and the council of the patres conscripti developed a staged and formalised character.54 However, in order to deal with various crises within the empire and at its borders, the emperors, who after Gallienus continously originated from the ranks of the ordo equester, were often absent from the capital.55 Thus, formerly established interactions between princeps and senatus were not possible anymore.56 In addition, rulers heavily relied on the fighting capacities of their armies, which in turn formed their most important basis for their claim to rule. Consequentially, the image of the emperors as well as their relation to the senate changed.57 In the second half of the 3rd century, clear signs of this new relationship are exemplarily tangible under Aurelian (270–275) with regard to his religious policy and his self-representation in particular.58 On the one hand, he promoted the veneration of the cult of Sol Invictus, which was favoured among soldiers of the Roman army, by building a great temple complex in Rome and by hosting public games in honour of the deity in 274, thereby invoking the idea of ruling by the grace of the conservator Augusti Sol.59 On the other hand, he changed aspects of his public appearance. He wore a diadem and golden garments, decorated with gems, not unlike a Hellenistic ruler or a Persian king.60 Some coins even record his imperial titulature as dominus et deus.61 Though the Historia Augusta suggests that the entire ordo senatorius feared this vigorous and sometimes even ‘cruel’ ruler62 since he, chosen by the sun god, apparently no longer required the senate’s support to govern the empire, prosopographical analysis indicates that Aurelian still attached great value to respectful interactions with viri clarissimi. Some of his senatorial supporters even acted as pontifices dei Solis.63 From this perspective, it appears as if Diocletian and his co-emperors primarily continued and selectively stepped up developments which were already in the 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

LÖHKEN 1982, 57. TALBERT 1984, 174–184. FLAIG 1992, 122–131. Regarding the social origins of the emperor Tacitus see JOHNE 2008a, 388–389. LÖHKEN 1982, 63. WILLIAMS 1985, 146. ALTMAYER 2014, 217. BERRESSEM 2018. JOHNE 2008b, 621–623. BERRESSEM 2018, 335–343. See DE BLOIS 2019, 242–246 for a concise depiction of the emperor’s divine associations during the 3rd century as ideological sources of imperial power. Aur. Vict. Caes. 35.7. Eutr. 9.15.1. HA Aur. 1.3; 25.4–6; 28.5; 35.3; 39.2; 48.4. Zos. 1.61.2. Aur. Vict. Caes. 35.5. For the staging of this emperor’s image see ALFÖLDI 1934, 79–88. WATSON 1999, 183–198; 201–202. CIZEK 2004, 186–188. HARTMANN 2008c, 320–321. JOHNE 2008b, 623. RIC V/1, p. 299, n. 301 (Serdica). After Aurelian, Probus and Carus likewise used the denomination dominus et deus; see JOHNE 2008b, 622. HA Aur. 21.5–6. Note that HA Aur. 31.4; 39.8; 49.3 ascribes crudelitas to Aurelian because he apparently severely punished members of the senatorial order in response to an uprising in Rome in 271. JOHNE 1993, 234. CIZEK 2004, 175–186. HÄCHLER 2019, 190–198.

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making throughout the second half of the 3rd century. Consequentially, he was met with similar forms of critique. Comparable to the depiction in the Historia Augusta, the senator Aurelius Victor, too, at first highlights positive consequences of the tetrarchs’ rigorous regime, resulting in peace, just laws, a reorganisation of economic and political structures, a subsequent flourishing of virtues (virtutes) and religious cults (religio) as well as an embellishment of important Roman cities.64 However, he is quick to point out the perceived flaws of their social origins and their personal vices, thereby hinting at problematic aspects of the relationship between the tetrarchs and the ordo senatorius. Originating from the Illyricum and after extensive services in the Roman army, these emperors were admittedly able to preserve the Roman state (res publica), but, just as their predecessors Aurelian and Probus, they, perfectly used to the hardships of farming and military services, apparently lacked the refining qualities of traditional humanitas.65 It is not impossible to imagine that the premature departure of Diocletian from Rome in 303 (as depicted by Lactantius) together with the frequent absence of the emperors in general might, among other reasons, have been a result from a reserved and sometimes perhaps even hostile attitude of parts of the senatorial order, based primarily on social pride, possibly favoring conceited behavior.66 Nonetheless, many senators willingly continued to serve the Roman Empire as often distinguished office-holders, as becomes clear when analysing the prosopography of viri clarissimi from 284–305. PROSOPOGRAPHICAL OBSERVATIONS ON THE COMPOSITION, FUNCTION AND IMPORTANCE OF SENATORIAL OFFICE-HOLDERS UNDER DIOCLETIAN Based on literary and documentary sources, we know of 86 senatorial office-holders under Diocletian.67 The senatorial order was not a homogenous group. Based on social and geographical origins as well as political careers, we have to distinguish at least between patricians and non-patricians.68 31 senators probably belonged to 64 Aur. Vict. Caes. 39.44–45. 65 Aur. Vict. Caes. 39.26; 28; 46. Regarding the fundamental concept of humanitas in Roman elite discourse see KLINGNER 1961, 704–746. HAFFTER 1967, 468–482. 66 Lact. DMP 17.2–3. Compare Zos. 2.30 for a similar depiction of Constantine I and see KOLB 1987a, 29–30. A further lack of decorum becomes apparent in the case of Maximian and his son Maxentius, who, according to Aur. Vict. Caes. 40.24 and Lact. DMP 8, adopted an unreasonably extravagant lifestyle. The financial resources for their antics were apparently snatched together from wealthy senatorial households, see BARNES 1981, 16. 1982, 56. Note that Lactantius tends to depict the tetrarchs in an unfavourable light, as becomes clear when analysing his rendition of their administrative and economic reforms (DMP 7). 67 See Appendix A. Unfortunately, the foundations for further conclusions regarding the status and composition of the senatorial order from 284–305 therefore remain quite weak. 68 See TALBERT 1984, 13–14; 30–31. ALFÖLDY 2011, 160–161. DUNCAN–JONES 2016, 12–18 for the distinction between patricians and non-patricians as well as the function and significance of patricii during the Principate. For the changes connected to the concept and status of patricius under Constantine I see ENßLIN 1934. HEIL 1966.

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patrician families and 29 to non-patrician gentes.69 In addition, there were five knights, who became senators around 300.70 The social origin of 19 office-holders remains obscure. Regarding the geographical origins (patriae) of senators at the beginning of the 4th century, we detect that most originated from Italy (about 3640) and the eastern provinces (13), followed by office-holders from North Africa (about 8-12) and western provinces (2).71 The origins of 20 senators remain unknown. The apparent overrepresentation of Italian office-holders with a patrician background is a common phenomenon around 300.72 This is certainly due to the comparatively well documented situation in Italy, the fact that all senators had their legal origins (origo) in Rome and the developments of senatorial careers throughout the 3rd century. As a result of these changes, viri clarissimi were gradually excluded from military offices as tribuni militum and legati legionis and lost access to the administration of most imperial provinces of military value. Instead, they focused on high-ranking and prestigious officia in Italy (and in Rome in particular), which were traditionally held by members of patrician families and only occasionally by successful non-patricians who enjoyed the emperor’s favour. Military responsibilities were gradually assumed by loyal and experienced members of the equestrian order, which ultimately led to the clear distinction between military and civic careers as a characteristic feature of Late Roman administration.73 Similar to the rest of Roman history, we are generally better informed about office-holders who attained the most distinguished positions of the senatorial cursus honorum at the beginning of the 4th century, i.e. individuals who continued their political careers after their consulate.74 Since many of these senators belonged to patrician families residing in Italy, this by absolute numbers marginal but nonetheless very distinguished group within the ordo senatorius appears to be overrepresented compared to their non-patrician counterparts, who mostly originated from the provinces. Lastly, we know next to nothing about those senators who did not 69 Regarding members of distinguished gentes from 284–305, we are informed about office-holders from the gentes Acilia, Anicia, Ania, Aradia, Caesonia, Ceionia, Iunia, Nummia, Ragonia, Sattia, Vettia and Viria. 70 I.e. Afranius Hannibalianus (Nr. 4), Aurelius Hermogenes (Nr. 15), T. Claudius Aurelius Aristobulus (Nr. 32), Iulius Asclepiodotus (Nr. 44) and Pomponius Ianuarianus (Nr. 66). 71 See KRIECKHAUS 2006, 14–15 for the distinction between origo and patria. 72 According to JACQUES 1986, 121–122, only about 10% of all senators belonged to the patricii. However, in the prosopographical study at hand 26,7% of the included office-holders probably were part of patrician families. 73 See ARNHEIM 1972, 47–48. KUHOFF 1983. CHRISTOL 1986, 88–89. KUHOFF 2001a, 404–405. Eich 2005, 344. HEIL 2008a, 730. 2008b, 756–761. DAVENPORT 2019, 485–552. HÄCHLER 2019, 29–32; 208–232. See HELLSTRÖM, this volume. Of great importance for these developments were the measures by Gallienus while ruling as sole emperor between 260–268. Regarding the so-called edictum Gallieni, which according to Aur. Vict. Caes. 33.33–34; 37.6 resulted in the complete exclusion of senators from military camps, see JOHNE 1993, 231–234. KREUCHER 2003, 115–119; 190. CHASTAGNOL 2004, 208–209. HEIL 2008a, 725. ALFÖLDY 2011, 232. ALTMAYER 2014, 208. 74 Compare the influential studies by ALFÖLDY 1977 and LEUNISSEN 1989 who focus primarily on viri consulares in the 2nd and early 3rd century.

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serve as office-holders under Diocletian. This is unfortunate since this group most likely comprised the majority of the senatorial order. After his accession, Diocletian apparently did not alter the senatorial cursus honorum as it had developed throughout the 3rd century. Thus, senators are to be mainly found as distinguished functionaries in the civic administration and jurisdiction in Rome and Italy. Regarding the traditional structure of senatorial careers, we still find evidence for the quaestorship and the praetorship,75 but there are no attestations for XXviri, aediles or tribuni plebis from 284–305, although they are still present in the 4th century.76 In contrast with this, the ordinary consulate is quite well documented around 300. Although individual tetrarchs often held this position themselves in order to benefit from the distinguished office, they sometimes used it to promote successful and loyal knights, thereby simultaneously granting them senatorial rank.77 This was the case for T. Claudius Aurelius Aristobulus (Nr. 32) in 286, Pomponius Ianuarianus (Nr. 66) in 288, Afranius Hannibalianus (Nr. 4) and Iulius Asclepiodotus (Nr. 44) in 292, who became consules ordinarii after their services as praetorian prefects. They shared the distinguished position either with an emperor or a fellow prefect.78 In all other cases, the tetrarchs appointed representatives of patrician families to this function, such as M. Iunius Maximus (Nr. 47) and Vettius Aquilinus (Nr. 81) in 286, M. Magrius Bassus (?) (Nr. 55) and L. Ragonius Quintianus (Nr. 68) in 289, C. Iunius Tiberianus (Nr. 50) and Cassius Dio (Nr. 26) in 291, Nummius Tuscus (Nr. 61) and C. Annius Anullinus (Nr. 9) in 295, M. Iunius Caesonius Nicomachus Anicius Faustus Paulinus (Nr. 8) as well as Virius Gallus (Nr. 83) in 298. Less well documented is the situation of the 23 known consules suffecti since the office – in contrast to the ordinary consulate – was not relevant for the year’s naming and was therefore not used for dating purposes on public documents.79 Regarding the social origin of these office-holders, only seven men were patricii, the rest originated from non-patrician families. In the cases of [---]nianus (Nr. 57) and [---]ninius Maximus (Nr. 58), we are (unsurprisingly) not able to identify their social background. Although it did not come with far-reaching political powers or decision-making authority, the consulate nonetheless enjoyed great popularity based on its traditional value and its importance for the possible future development of a senatorial cursus honorum. Its holders did not only publicly display imperial favour but belonged to a distinguished inner circle within the ordo amplissimus, from which potential office-holders were recruited for further prestigious services in and for the Roman state.80 Among these functions belongs the office of the urban prefect of Rome, which often marked the highlight of a senatorial career during the Principate; its bearers 75 76 77 78 79 80

TALBERT 1984, 13–14; 17; 19–20. DUNCAN-JONES 2016, 9–10; 26–27; 29. KUHOFF 1983, 26–28. LÖHKEN 1982, 86. SALWAY 2006, 130–131. HEIL 2008a, 731. For the constitution and function of the so-called senatorial elite during the 3rd century see MENNEN 2011.

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attained an outstanding position within the imperial administration insofar as they often acted as the emperor’s deputy in Rome during his absence.81 Of the 19 known office-holders, 11 senators belonged to patrician gentes, while only four were nonpatricians. Three men originated from the equestrian order – i.e. Pomponius Ianuarianus (Nr. 66), Ti. Claudius Aurelius Aristobulus (Nr. 32) and Afranius Hannibalianus (Nr. 4), while the social origin of Septimius Acindynus (Nr. 72) remains unknown. The praefecti Urbi M. Iunius Maximus (Nr. 47), Pomponius Ianuarianus (Nr. 66), C. Iunius Tiberianus (Nr. 50), Ti. Claudius Aurelius Aristobulus (Nr. 32), Cassius Dio (Nr. 26), Afranius Hannibalianus (Nr. 4), Nummius Tuscus (Nr. 61) and T. Flavius Postumius Titianus (Nr. 41) acted as consules ordinarii at an earlier point of their career. It appears that loyal office-holders were rewarded with the opportunity to administer further functions in the emperor’s service, as was the case at a later time under Maxentius.82 Regarding other offices in Rome, we are informed about the activities of two non-patrician curatores aedium sacrarum, one non-patrician curator operum publicorum before 300, two curatores alvei Tiberis et cloacarum and four curatores aquarum et Miniciae.83 These office-holders played a vital role regarding the organisation and staging of imperial festivities in 303;84 in contrast to Iunius Tiberianus (Nr. 49), who operated as a praefectus Urbi in 303, we do unfortunately know nothing about other senatorial office-holders in Rome at that time. All in all, the administration of the urbs therefore remained unaltered under Diocletian. The same is not true, however, regarding the provincial organisation of the Imperium Romanum. As is well known, the system started to undergo great changes under the tetrarchs, resulting in the multiplication of provinces together with the introduction of dioceses and praetorian prefectures until the last years of Constantine I. Although senators were gradually replaced by knights as provincial governors already throughout the 3rd century, they are infrequently still documented from 284–305 as praesides and proconsules in the scaled-down provinces of Africa and Asia – which were governed by esteemed members of patrician families by tradition – as well as in Achaia, Dalmatia, Syria Phoenice, Syria Coele, Phrygia et Caria and Creta (et Cyrene?).85 While Africa, Asia, Achaia and Creta (et Cyrene?) were administrated by senatorial proconsules, the rest of the named regions was governed by legati Augusti pro praetore.86

81 See the essential study by WOJCIECH 2010. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 100–101 even speaks of an ‘autorité universelle’ of the urban prefect in Late Antiquity. 82 WIENAND 2012, 236–238. 83 For the history and function of the named officia see BRUUN 1990, 13. 1991, 142; 148–152; 179–183; 187–189. 2006, 94–99. 84 BAUER 2012, 70. 85 ARNHEIM 1972, 39–42. KUHOFF 1983, 50–194. KUHOFF 2001a, 401–402. ECK 2018, 133–140; 144–149. 86 ECK 2018, 122; 126; 132–135.

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In the context of the provincial reorganisation, the greatest changes affected the Italian peninsula.87 In the alignment of Italy to the other provinces of the Imperium Romanum, so-called correctores Italiae assumed an important function. These officials were sporadically appointed by emperors already before 284, thereby eventually subsumming the tasks of the former iurici.88 Recently, Werner Eck argued that these correctores only administrated specific regions of Italy under Diocletian:89 Venetia et Histria, Tuscia et Umbria, Aemilia et Liguria and Campania were thus governed by senatorial office-holders while the remaining parts of Italy, i.e. Flaminia et Picenum (?), Apulia et Calabria and Lucania et Brutti were managed by equestrian correctores.90 Additional senatorial activities as correctores are attested in Asia and Achaia.91 Of special interest is the singular case of Iulius Septimius Sabinus (Nr. 46), who functioned as senatorial censitor first in Syria in 297 and later in Egyptian Heptanomia from 298–300. Lastly, viri clarissimi fulfilled special duties as the emperor’s juridical deputies. This was the case with T. Flavius Postumius Titianus (Nr. 41), who acted as electus ad iudicans sacras appellationes / cognitiones in 291/292 in Italy, thereby representing the emperor in an imperial court of appeal.92 In addition, L. Aelius Helvius Dionysius (Nr. 2) around 296 and Verinus (Nr. 80) in 305 functioned as iudices vice sacrarum cognitionum, too, thereby relieving the emperors of a part of their administrative burden. Although we know of senatorial comites Augustorum who received this honorific title while attending the imperial court or accompanying the rulers on their military campaigns (e.g. L. Caesonius Ovinius Manlius Rufinianus Bassus [Nr. 24] under Carus and Numerianus and C. Ceionius Rufius Volusianus [Nr. 29] in 313 under Constantine I), there are no testimonies for such activies from 284– 305.93 Finally, some senators were active as curatores rei publicae primarily in Italy, but also in North Africa and Gaul.94 In summary, there were no radical transformations regarding senatorial careers under Diocletian. Measurable changes usually resulted from various long-term developments of the 3rd century and should therefore not be regarded as a conscious 87 See GIARDINA 1986, 1–36. PORENA 2013, 332–335. The financial reorganization of Italy is attested by Aur. Vict. Caes. 39.31. 88 SIMSHÄUSER 1973, 268–270. CHRISTOL 1986, 57–60. ALFÖLDY 2011, 224. ROBERTO 2014, 135–136. ECK 2018, 140–144. 89 ECK 2018, 140–144. Compare CHASTAGNOL 1963, 348–352 and PORENA 2013, who propose that (at least initially) the entirety of Italy was administered by a singular corrector Italiae from the senatorial order. 90 Porena 2013, 334. Eck 2018, 142 (with further references). See Appendix B, 6.10; 12–13 for the known senators who acted as correctores Italiae, correctores Campaniae and correctores Venetiae et Histriae under Diocletian. 91 T. Oppius Aelianus Ascelpiodotus (Nr. 53) as proconsul et corrector Asiae (around 300); L. Turranius (Venustus?) Gratianus (Nr. 77) as corrector Achaiae (between 284–290); Anonymus 2 (Nr. 86) as praeses et corrector Achaiae (around 300?). 92 The office is well known already before the reign of Diocletian, see PEACHIN 1996, 96–165. 93 KUHOFF 2001a, 408. 94 Regarding the appointment and responsibilities of the curatores rei publicarum see Simshäuser 1973, 190–227. ECK 1979, 198–228. JACQUES 1984, 7–42.

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scheme by the tetrarchs in order to actively disempower the senatorial order. Geographically, viri clarissimi served primarily in Italy and played only a subordinate role in the provincial administration of the empire. Apparently, there are no sources depicting open protest by the ordo senatorius against the tetrarchs. In view of military and political instabilities around 300, it is indeed possible that many senators were complacent to contain themselves from activities as office-holders and maybe even to withdraw to their own latifundia.95 CONCLUSION As becomes clear, many of the trends which began in the second half of the 3rd century regarding the functions and significance of the senate and its members continued under Diocletian. Since 260 senators had lost access to most officia of military significance. In addition, their activities as office-holders were – apart from some exceptions – primarily confined to Italy (and to Rome in particular). Admittedly, the senate continued to operate as a political council by meeting at regular intervals. But because of the almost constant absence of the emperors from 284305, its political influence and general significance for the fate of the Roman Empire appear to be greatly diminished nontheless. Even so, Diocletian should not be portrayed one-sidedly as a ‘hammer of aristocracy’, although the use of the metaphor appears tempting at first. He was certainly a major representative and catalyst of a new meritocracy which originated from the equestrian order. Consequentially, his claim to imperial power was primarily supported by the army, whereas the acceptance of the Roman senate and the senatorial order appear as necessary concessions ex-post. His policies regarding the treatment of viri clarissimi were, however, not revolutionary in themselves, but clearly built upon the measures of his predecessors, who reacted to various critical developments from 235–284.96 It was Diocletian’s achievment to pursue and finalise their attempts in order to successfully face challenges at the end of the 3rd century on a military, economic, ideological and political level. In addition, the emperors did by no means hinder senatorial meetings and continued to actively incorporate selected members of the ordo amplissimus into their government, thereby adorning their rule with senatorial dignity. The tetrarchs’ dominion did not entail open conflicts with the senate or its individual members. On the contrary, the emperors either favoured political cooperation whenever possible or tended to (benignly) neglect the ordo amplissimus by focusing on apparently more pressing tasks. As it stands, senators attempted to adjust themselves to these new realities, even actively participating in new forms of the imperial court ceremonial. It was in Rome alone, where the senate expected to be included in the display of imperial power in a customary fashion, thereby assuming to retain a semblance of its former political weight when formally interacting 95 CHASTAGNOL 2004, 234. ALFÖLDY 2011, 229–230. ROBERTO 2014, 135–136. 96 SALWAY 2006, 134–135. ECK 2018, 133.

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with the emperors. Apparently, the rulers were flexible enough to meet these occasional anticipations and thus respected the exceptional status of Rome with its rich history and its special customs by adapting their modes of interaction and communication based on specific situational contexts.97 In doing so, they willingly added more traditional aspects of imperial dominion to the new tetrarchic ideology while celebrating at the same time their past successes and their future reign. APPENDIX A: PROSOPOGRAPHICAL NOTES ON SENATORIAL OFFICE-HOLDERS FROM 284–30598 The following prosopographical collection contains the cursus honorum [CH] of individual senators, who acted as holders of political offices between 284–305, followed by indications regarding their social origins [SO] and geographical origins (i.e. their patria) [GO] as well as relevant sources [S] and works of reference [R]. Note that a complete rendition of past scholarship is not intended. Unclear cases within individual entries are marked by ‘(?)’. An entry will display the symbol ‘*’, 97 See GUIDETTI, this volume for the ceremonial staging of imperial authority and power outside of Rome. 98 Excluded from this collection are senators, who, although active in the first half of the 4th century, did fairly certainly not act as office-holders under Diocletian: Agrestius (PIR2 A 458; PLRE I 30, Agrestius); Alexander (PLRE I 40, Alexander 2); Apellianus (PLRE I 80, Apellianus); C. Appius Eunomius Sapidianus (PIR2 A 948. PLRE I 820, Sapidianus); L. Aradius Roscius Rufinus Saturninus Tiberianus (PIR2 A 1013); Arrius Maximus (HÄCHLER 2019, 289– 290, Nr. 34); Asclepiades (PLRE I 113–114, Asclepiades 1(?)–2; BARNES 1982, 124); Aurelianus (PLRE I 128, Aurelianus 1); M. Aur(elius) Victor (HÄCHLER 2019, 651, Nr. V); Bassus (PLRE I 151, Bassus 3); Bassus (PLRE I 151, Bassus 4); Betitius Pius Maximillianus (PIR2 B 119. BARBIERI 1952, 261, Nr. 1489); Calvisianus (PLRE I 177, Calvisianus); Consius Quartus (PLRE I 757, Quartus 1); Cossinius Rufinus (PLRE I 776, Rufinus 14); L. Crepereius Rigatus qui et Secundinus (PIR2 C 1574. PLRE I 767, Rigatus 2); Dulcitius (PLRE I 273 Dulcitius 1); Fabianus (PLRE I 322, Fabianus 2); Flaccinus (PLRE I 342, Flaccinus); Flavius Titianus (PIR2 F 382; PLRE I 919, Titianus 7); (Hie)rocles Perpetuus (PIR2 H 173. PLRE I 689, Perpetuus 4); C. Iulius Pomponius Pudens Severianus (PIR2 F 346. PLRE I 829, Severianus 10); Iunior (PIR2 I 718. PLRE I 486, Iunior 1); Iunius Gallienus (HÄCHLER 2019, 662, Nr. lxxii); Iunius Postumianus (PLRE I 719, Postumianus); Iustinus (PLRE I 489, Iustinus 1); Laodicius (PLRE I 494–495, Laodicius 1–2); Maximinus (PLRE I 576, Maximinus 2); Maximus (PLRE I 580, Maximus 3; Megetius (PLRE I 592, Megetius); Fl(avius) C. Numerianus Maximus (PLRE I 588, Maximus 42); Olympiades (PLRE I 642, Olympiades) Panathenius (HÄCHLER 2019, 664, Nr. xcv); Pancratius (PLRE I 664, Pancratius 1); Plautianus (PLRE I 706, Plautianus); Publius (PLRE I 764, Publius 1); Sallustianus (PLRE I 796, Sallustianus); Symphronius (PLRE I 871, Symphronius); Tanonius Marcellinus (PLRE I 549 Marcellinus 22); Theodorus (HÄCHLER 2019, 595–596, Nr. 268); C. Vettius Cossius Rufinus (PLRE I 777, 15. Christol 1986, 57–58, Nr. 9); Theotecnus (PLRE I 908, Theotecnus 1); Val(erius) Romanus (PLRE I 770, Romanus 13); Verconnius Herennianus (PLRE I 421, Herennianus 6); Cl. [Volu]mnius (GERHARDT / HARTMANN 2008, 1108, Asia 23); [---]anus (HÄCHLER 2019, 653, Nr. II). For senators, whose name has unfortunately not been preserved, see PLRE I 1013, Anonymus 45; 1019, Anonymus 91; 1024, Anonymus 127; 1024, Anonymus 128.

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if there are uncertainties regarding political appointments or their dating between 284-305. Viri clarissimi appear in alphabetical order either according to their nomen gentile or the still preserved parts of their name. Admission to patrician gentes, which often entailed a certain career path, was possible at the time of birth within a legitimate patrician marriage (matrimonium iustum), by adoption, by legal marriage or by an imperial adlectio.99 In order to determine the social origin of a senator, one has therefore to examine his family ties, the status of his gens around 300 as well as his cursus honorum for the (unlikely) possibility of an imperial admission under the patricii. If the geographical origin of a senator is not clearly determined by literary, epigraphical or archaeological sources, there are a number of further indicators to identify his patria such as (1) birth or burial, (2), acts of euergetism, (3) public honours, (4) properties near a community, (5) social ties within a municipiality, (6) administration of a public office or (7) acting as a patronus (rei publicae).100 Sometimes, the patria of an individual senator can be determined by analysing the descent of his family. Finally, onomastic studies might help to limit possible geographical origins. As already stated by Guido Barbieri, the accurate determination of the origin of a member of the ordo amplissimus is often challenging and sometimes impossible.101 1. ACILIUS CLARUS CH praeses provinciae Numidiae (around 280) [1] – consul suffectus (?) / adlectus inter consulares (?) (before 286) [1] – corrector Italiae (286) [2]. SO Patrician (?) GO Rome (Italia) S CIL VIII 2729 [1]. CIL V 8205 [2]. R PIR2 A 55. BARBIERI 1952, 244–245, Nr. 1403, 386, Nr. 2211. PLRE I 206, Clarus 2. SIMSHÄUSER 1980, 440, Nr. 6. BARNES 1982, 144. CHRISTOL 1986, 57, Nr. 3; 99. GERHARDT & HARTMANN 2008, 1093, Afr. 12. HÄCHLER 2019, 193–194, Nr. 2. 2. L. AELIUS HELVIUS DIONYSIUS CH consul suffectus / adlectus inter consulares (around 286) – curator operum publicorum (around 287) [2] – curator aedium sacrarum (?) (around 288) [2]102 – curator aquarum et Miniciae (around 289) [2] – corrector utriusque Italiae (290? –293) [2] – praeses Syriae Coelis (around 295) [2] – iudex sacrarum cognitionum totius Orientis (around 296) [2] – proconsul Africae (297–301) [3– 5] – praefectus Urbi (301–302) [1] – pontifex dei Solis [2]. SO Non-Patrician GO Italia (?) S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. CIL VI 1673 [2]. CIL VIII 26562 [3]. CIL VIII 14401 [4]. CIL VIII 12459 [5]. CIL VI 255 [6]. CIL VI 256 [7]. CIL VI 773 [8]. R PIR2 A 188. BARBIERI 1952, 323, Nr. 1794. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 34–38, Nr. 11. ARNHEIM 1972, 40–42. PLRE I 260, Dionysius 12. SIMSHÄUSER 1980, 441–442, Nr. 10–11. BARNES 1982, 111; 115; 144; 154; 169. KUHOFF 1983, Tab. I, Nr. 6. CHRISTOL 1986, 57, Nr. 6; 88; 139, Nr. 2. PEACHIN 1996, 137–140, Nr. 14. SALZMANN 2002, 246. RÜPKE, NÜSSLEIN & GLOCK 2005 II, 729– 739, Nr. 467.

99 100 101 102

RE XVIII.4 (1949), 225–231. KRIECKHAUS 2006, 17–25. BARBIERI 1952, 460–461. PEACHIN 1996, 138.

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3. T. AELIUS MARCIANUS CH corrector Italiae (287) [1]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO Italia (?) S CIL XI 1594 [1]. R PIR2 A 218. BARBIERI 1952, 323, Nr. 1795. PLRE I 556, Marcianus 16. SIMSHÄUSER 1980, 441, Nr. 8. BARNES 1982, 144. CHRISTOL 1986, 57. Nr. 4. 4. AFRANIUS HANNIBALIANUS CH dux (between 270–275) [2] – praefectus praetorio (from 286–292) [3?–4] – consul ordinarius (292) [1] – praefectus Urbi (297–298) [1]. SO ordo equester GO Asia minor (?) S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. SHA. Prob. 22.3 [2]. Pan. Lat. X (2) 11.4 [3]. ILS 8929 [4]. R PIR2 A 444. PIR2 H 14. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 27–29, Nr. 7. PLRE I 407–408, Hannibalianus 3. BARNES 1982, 13; 98; 124. CHRISTOL 1986, 120; 122; 135; 297. CHASTAGNOL 2004, 235. 5. AGLAUS CH proconsul Cretae (et Cyrenarum?) (between 286?–293) [1]. SO unknown GO Eastern provinces (?) S AE 1934, 259 [1]. R PIR2 A 457b. PLRE I 30, Aglaus. BARNES 1982, 160. 6. AMNIUS ANICIUS IULIANUS CH proconsul Africae (between 300–303) [2; 8–9] – consul ordinarius (322) [1] – praefectus Urbi (between 326–329) [1; 3–7; 10]. SO Patrician GO Rome (Italia) S Chronogr. a. 354, 67–68 [1]. Symm. ep. 1.2.5 [2]. CTh 6.4.2 [3]. CTh 2.7.2 [4].103 CTh 6.4.2 [5]. CTh 11.30.18 [6].104 CTh 11.30.13 [7].105 Coll. Mos. 15.3 [8]. CIL VI 1682 [9]. CIL VI 32002 [10]. R CHASTAGNOL 1962, 78–80, Nr. 32. PLRE I 473–474, Iulianus 23. BARNES 1982 96; 101–102; 108; 111; 114; 171. KUHOFF 1983, Tab. II, Nr. 19. 7. AMNIUS MANIUS CAESONIUS NICOMACHUS ANICIUS PAULINUS (IUNIOR) SIGNO HONORIUS CH legatus Kart(h)aginis sub proconsule Afric(a)e Anicio Iuliano patre suo (between 300–303) [5] – proconsul provinciae Asiae et Hellesponti vice sacra iudicanti (after 324) [5–6] – consul ordinarius (334) [1–3; 5–6] – praefectus Urbi iudex sacrarum cognitionum (334–335) [1–6]. SO Patrician GO Italia S Chronogr. a. 354, 68 [1]. CIL VI 1141 [2]. CIL VI 1142 [3]. CIL VI 1652 [4]. CIL VI 1682 [5]. CIL VI 1683 [6]. R CHASTAGNOL 1962, 90–92, Nr. 38. PLRE I 679, Paulinus 14. KUHOFF 1983, Tab. III, Nr. 30. SALZMANN 2002, 250.

103 CORCORAN 2000, 188, Nr. 31. 104 CORCORAN 2000, 329. 105 CORCORAN 2000, 329.

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8. M. IUNIUS CAESONIUS NICOMACHUS ANICIUS FAUSTUS PAULINUS CH consul suffectus – consul II ordinarius (298) [1] – praefectus Urbi (299–300) [1]. SO Patrician GO Rome (Italia) S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. R PIR2 A 601. BARBIERI 1952, 324, Nr. 1802; 640. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 31–33, Nr. 9. PLRE I 329, Faustus 6. BARNES 1982, 99. KUHOFF 1983, Tab. I, Nr. 4. CHRISTOL 1986, 124. 9. C. ANNIUS ANULLINUS CH proconsul Africae (303–305) [2–5] – praefectus Urbi (306–307; 312) [1]. SO Patrician GO North Africa S Chronogr. a. 354, 66–67 [1]. Acta S. Felicis = AB XXXIX 268–270 [2]. Acta S. Crispinae, ed. KNOPF & KRÜGER 1929, 109–111 [3]. S. Opt. Mil. 3,8, ed. ZIWSA 1893, 90,15–17 [4]. AE 1942/1943, 82 [5]. R PIR2 A 632. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 45–48, Nr. 16. PLRE I 79, Anullinus 3. BARNES 1982, 98; 116– 117; 169. KUHOFF 1983, Tab. II, Nr. 12. CHRISTOL 1986, 122–124; 136; 169. SALZMANN 2002, 244. 10. AN[NIUS? EPI?]PHANIUS* CH proconsul Asiae (between 293–305?) [1]. SO unkonwn GO Eastern provinces (?) S IGR IV 214 [1]. R PLRE I 281, Epiphanius 5. BARNES 1982, 158. 11. ARADIUS RUFINUS CH consul suffectus (before 304) – praefectus Urbi (304–305; 312–313) [1] – cos. II ord. (311) [1]. SO Patrician GO North Africa S Chronogr. a. 354, 66–67 [1]. Symm. ep. 1.2.3 [2]. R PIR2 A 1014. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 41, Nr. 14; 59–62, Nr. 22. PLRE I 775, Rufinus 10. BARNES 1982, 115. KUHOFF 1983, Tab. II, Nr. 13. SALZMANN 2002, 251. 12. L. ARTORIUS PIUS MAXIMUS CH legatus Augusti pro praetore Syriae Phoenicis (between 286–298) [2–5] – proconsul Asiae (between 287–298) [6] – praefectus Urbi (298–299) [1]. SO Patrician (?) GO Ephesus (Asia minor) S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. AE 1939, 58 [2]. AE 1967, 481 [3]. AE 2006, 1586 [4]. AE 2006, 1587 [5]. CIL III 14195, 27 [6]. AE 1978, 757 [7]. R PIR2 A 1187. BARBIERI 1952, 324, Nr. 1811. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 30–31, Nr. 8. PLRE I, 589, Maximus 43. BARNES 1982, 111; 113; 115; 153; 157. KUHOFF 1983, Tab. I, Nr. 3. CHRISTOL 1986, 88; 135; 143, Nr. 5. 13. ATTIUS INSTEIUS TERTULLUS CH quaestor candidatus [2] – praetor candidatus [2] – consul suffectus (before 305) [2] – corrector Venetiae et Histriae (between 290–305) [2–3] – praefectus fabri[carum? ---] [2]106 – proconsul Africae (?) [2]107 – praefectus Urbi (307–308) [1–2]. SO Non-Patrician GO North Africa or Italia (?)

106 BARNES 1982, 116. 107 The office does not appear on CIL VI 1696. It is, however, proposed by PLRE I 883.

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S Chronogr. a. 66–67 [1]. CIL VI 1696 [2]. CIL V 2818 [3]. R Chastagnol 1962, 48–50, Nr. 17. PIR2 I 35. PLRE I 883, Tertullus 6. BARNES 1982, 116; 161. KUHOFF 1983, Tab. I, Nr. 11. CHRISTOL 1986, 57, Nr. 8.

14. AURELIUS ANTIOCHUS CH proconsul Africae (between 285–290). SO Patrician (?) GO Eastern provinces (?) S CIL VIII 15507 [1]. R PIR2 A 1444. PLRE I 72, Antiochus 13. BARNES 1982, 168. 15. AURELIUS HERMOGENES CH magister a libellis (between 293–295)108 – praefectus praetorio (between 295?–300) [3] – proconsul Asiae (between 300?–305) [2] – praefectus Urbi (309–310) [1]. SO ordo equester GO Eastern provinces (?) S Chronogr. a. 354, 67 [1]. CIL III 7069 [2]. AE 1987, 456 [3]. R PIR2 A 1527. BARBIERI 1952, 257, Nr. 1472. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 51–52, Nr. 19. PLRE I 424, Hermogenes 8. BARNES 1982, 157. CHASTAGNOL 2004, 235–236. 16. M. AURELIUS IULIUS* CH praeses Dalmatiae (around 300?) [1] – augur (before 284) [1]. SO unkown GO unknown S CIL III 1938 [1]. R PIR2 A 1540. PLRE I 482, Iulius 5. CHRISTOL 1986, 146, Nr. 8. RÜPKE, NÜSSLEIN & GLOCK 2005 II, 805, Nr. 841. GERHARDT & HARTMANN 2008, 1121, Dal. 13. 17. M. AUR(ELIUS) PACONIUS* CH consul suffectus – curator aquarum et Miniciae (around 300?) [1]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO Italia (?) S CIL VI 515 [1]. R PLRE I 656, Paconius. HÄCHLER 2019, 651, Nr. IV. 18. M. AURELIUS SABINUS IULIANUS*109 CH corrector Venetiae et Histriae [1] or praefectus praetorio (?) [2–3] (283/284) – Imp. Caesar. M. Aurelius Sabinus Augustus (284) [1–4]. SO unknown GO unknown S Aur. Vict. Caes. 39.10; 39.22 [1]. Aur. Vict. epit. 38.6; 39.3–4 [2]. Zos. 1.73.1–3 [3]. RIC V/2, pp. 593–594, nn. 1–5 (Siscia). R PIR2 A 1538. BARBIERI 1952, 257, Nr. 1473. PLRE I 474, Iulianus 24; 480, Iulianus 38 (?). SIMSHÄUSER 1980, 439–440, Nr. 5. BARNES 1982, 143. CHRISTOL 1986, 57, Nr. 2. KIENAST, ECK & HEIL 2017, 253–254.

108 SALWAY 2006, 129–130. 109 Perhaps we should distinguish between two different persons, i.e. M. Aurelius Iulianus (corrector Venetiae et Histriae) and Sabinus Iulianus (praefectus praetorio), who both acted as usurpers after the death of Carus (283) and Numerian (284), see KIENAST, ECK & HEIL 2017, 253–254.

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19. AXILIUS IUNIOR CH curator Comensium (between 286–293, possibly 291/292) [1]. SO Non-Patrician GO Mediolanum (?) (Italia) S AE 1914, 249 [1]. R PLRE I 486, Iunior 4. 20. BRITTIUS PRAESENS* CH corrector Lucaniae et Brittiorum (around 300?)110 [1] – pontifex maior (around 320?) [2]. SO Patrician (?) GO Volcei (?) (Italia) S CIL X 468 [1]. CIL VI 2153 [2]. R PIR2 B 163 (named Bruttius Praesens). BARBIERI 1952, 325, Nr. 1821 (named Bruttius Praesens). PLRE I 721, Praesens. BARNES 1982, 121; 164. RÜPKE, NÜSSLEIN & GLOCK 2005 II, 827, Nr. 957 (named Bruttius Praesens). 21. CAELI[US? ---]* CH curator aquarum et Miniciae (around 300?) [1]. SO unknown GO unknown S CIL VI 37121 [1]. R PIR2 C 124 (?). PLRE I 168, Caeli(us?). 22. C. CAELIUS CENSORINUS* CH praetor candidatus (around 300?) [1] – consul suffectus (around 300?) [1] – curator viae Latinae (around 300?) [1] – curator regionis VII sanctae Urbis Romae [1] – curator splendidae Carthaginis [1] – comes domini nostri Constantini Maximi Augusti et exactor auri et argenti provinciarum III (after 324) [1] – consularis provinciae Siciliae [1] – consularis Campaniae [1]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO Rome (Italia) S CIL X 3732 [1]. R PLRE I 196, Censorinus 2. BARNES 1982, 163; 165. KUHOFF 1983, Tab. IV, Nr. 35. 23. T. CAMPANIUS PRISCUS MAXIMIANUS* CH consul suffectus (around 300?) [1]. SO Non-Patrician GO Sedunum (?) (Alpes Poeninae). S CIL XII 137 [1]. R PIR2 C 373. PLRE I 573, Maximianus 7. 24. L. CAESONIUS OVINIUS MANLIUS RUFINIANUS BASSUS CH IIIvir kapitalis [1] – VIvir turmae deducendae [1] – quaestor candidatus [1–3] – praetor candidatus [1–3] – curator rei publicae Beneventorum [1–2] – curator rei publicae Lavinensium [2] – consul suffectus [1–2; 4] – curator albei Tiberis et cloacarum sacrae Urbis [1–2] – legatus provinciae Africae Carthaginiensis [1–2] – curator Carthaginiensis [1–2] – proconsul Africae tertium [1] – electus a divo Probo ad praesidendum iudicio magno (between 276–282) [1] – iudex sacrarum cognitionum vice Caesaris sine appellatione cognoscendi inter fiscum et privatos, item inter privatos Roma et in provincia Africa (between 276–281 in Rome; 281/282 in Africa) [1] – comes Augustorum (283/284) [1] – consul II suffectus (284) [1] – praefectus Urbi (285) [1] – pr[– ––]ones tracto Piceno (?) [2] – salius Palatinus [1; 3–4] – pontifex dei Solis (between 270–275) [1] – pontifex maior [1–4]. SO Patrician GO Latium et Campania (Italia)

110 The function was probably performed under Constantine I.

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S AE 1964, 223 [1]. AE 1968, 109 [2]. CIL X 1687 [3]. AE 1945, 21 [4]. R PIR2 C 212. BARBIERI 1952, 199, Nr. 978. PLRE I, 156, Bassus 18. BARNES 1982, 97. CHRISTOL 1986, 158–172, Nr. 13. PIR2 O 186. PEACHIN 1996, 129–132, Nr. 12. SALZMANN 2002, 244. RÜPKE, NÜSSLEIN & GLOCK 2005 II, 845–846, Nr. 1034. GERHARDT & HARTMANN 2008, 1068, PU 29; 1092, Afr. 9. HÄCHLER 2019, 246–248, Nr. 65.

25. CASSIANUS* CH proconsul Asiae (around 300?) [1]. SO unknown GO unknown S IG XII 5,58 [1]. R PLRE I 184, Cassianus 1. 26. CASSIUS DIO CH consul ordinarius (291) [1] – proconsul Africae (295) [2] – praefectus Urbi (296–297) [1]. SO Patrician (?) GO Nicaea (Bithynia) S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. Acta Maximiliani = Pass. II 340 [2]. CIL VI 37118 [4]. Pol. Silv. notitia urbis Romae 10 [5]. R PIR2 C 491. BARBIERI 1952, 325–326, Nr. 1826. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 25–27, Nr. 6. PLRE I 253, Dio. BARNES 1982, 98; 169. KUHOFF 1983, Tab. I, Nr. 2. CHRISTOL 1986, 121–122; 135. SALZMANN 2002, 245. 27. L. CASTRIUS CONSTANS CH praeses Phrygiae et Cariae (between 293?–305) [1–2]. SO Non-Patrician GO Eastern provinces (?) S ILS 8881 [1]; AE 1940, 187 [2]. R PLRE I 219–220, Constans 1. BARNES 1982, 157. CHRISTOL 1986, 176–177, Nr. 16. 28. CEIONIUS PROCULUS CH consul suffectus (March 289) [1]. SO Patrician GO Italia S CIL X 4631 [1]. R PIR2 C 609. PLRE I 747, Proculus 8. 29. C. CEIONIUS RUFIUS VOLUSIANUS CH consul suffectus; corrector Italiae per annos octo (between 282/284–290–292) [6–7] – proconsul Africae proconsularis (305/306) [7; 10; 12?] – praefectus praetorio (309/310) [4–5; 8] – praefectus Urbi (310/311) [1; 7?–8] – consul ordinarius (311/312) [3, 7–9] – comes domini nostri Constantini Invicti et Perpetui semper Augusti (312) [7] – praefectus Urbi (et?) iudex sacrarum cognitionum (313–315) [1; 7–9] – consul II ordinarius (314) [1–2; 8] – XVvir sacris faciundis (around 320?) [11] – VIIvir epulonum (?) [13?]. SO Patrician GO Eutria (Italia) S Chronogr. a. 354, 60; 67 [1]. Cassiod. 150, 1041 [2]. Consul. Constant. 231 [3]. Aur. Vict. Caes. 40.17–19 [4]. Zos. 2.14 [5]. CIL X 1655 [6]. CIL VI 1707 [7]. CIL VI 1708 = CIL VI 31906 = CIL VI 41318 [8]. CIL VI 1140 [9]. AE 1909, 173 [10]. CIL VI 2153 [11]. AE 1949, 59 (?) [12]. CIL VI 41314 (?) [13]. Math. 2.29.10–12 (?) [14]. CJ 4.35.21 (?) [15]. CTh 13.3.1 [16].111 R BARBIERI 1952, 265, Nr. 1508. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 52–58, Nr. 20. PLRE I, 976–978, Volusianus 4. ARNHEIM 1972, 196. SIMSHÄUSER 1980, 438–439, Nr. 4. BARNES 1982, 100; 127; 143; 169.

111 CORCORAN 2000, 313.

202

NIKOLAS HÄCHLER KUHOFF 1983, Tab. II, 14. CHRISTOL 1986, 57, Nr. 1; 123. PIR2 R 161; RÜPKE, NÜSSLEIN & GLOCK 2005 II, 868–869, Nr. 112. HÄCHLER 2019, 349–353, Nr. 72.

30. CEIONIUS VARUS CH praefectus Urbi (284/285) [1]. SO Patrician GO Italia S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. R PIR2 C 611. BARBIERI 1952, 265, Nr. 1509. PLRE I, 946, Varus 1. BARNES 1982, 114. CHRISTOL 1986, 134. GERHARDT & HARTMANN 2008, 106, PU 28. HÄCHLER 2019, 354, Nr. 73. 31. CHARISIUS* CH praeses Syriae (290) [1–2]. SO unknown GO unknown S CJ 9.41.9 [1].112 CJ 11.55.1 [2].113 R PIR2 C 718. GILLIAM 1958, 237, Nr. 19. PLRE I 200, Charisius 1. BARNES 1982, 153. 32. T. CLAUDIUS AURELIUS ARISTOBULUS CH praefectus praetorio (284–285) [3] – consul ordinarius (285) [1–2; 4] – proconsul Africae (290– 294) [5–15] – praefectus Urbi (295–296) [1]. SO ordo equester GO Eastern Provinces (?) S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. Consul. Constant. 285 [2]. Aur. Vict. Caes. 39.15 [3]. Amm. 23.1.1 [4]. CIL VIII 5290 [5]. CIL VIII 608 [6]. CIL VIII 624 [7]. CIL VIII 23413 [8]. CIL VIII 23658 [9]. CIL VIII 4645 [10]. CIL VIII 11774 [11]. AE 1913, 29 [12]. CIL VIII 23657 (?) [13]. AE 1957, 235 [14]. CJ 11.13.1 [15]. R PIR2 C 806. BARBIERI 1952, 265–266, Nr. 1514. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 21–25, Nr. 5. PLRE I 1, (Cl)audius A...; 106, Aristobulus. BARNES 1982, 97; 124; 169. Kuhoff 1983, Tab. 1, Nr. 1. CHRISTOL 1986, 118; 135. SALZMANN 2002, 244. CHASTAGNOL 2004, 234–235. 33. CL(AUDIUS) MARCELLUS CH praefectus Urbi (292–293) [1]. SO Non-Patrician GO Eastern provinces (?) S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. R PIR2 C 924. BARBIERI 1952, 267, Nr. 1521. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 20–21, Nr. 3. PLRE I 552, Marcellus 10. BARNES 1982, 114. CHRISTOL 1986, 135. 34. EGNATIUS CAECI[LIUS A]NTISTIUS LUCE[RINUS]* CH quaestor candidatus [1] – praetor [1] – consul suffectus (around 300?) [1] – curator alvei Tiberis et cloacarum sacrae Urbis [1] – curator rei publicae [Campuensium?] [1]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO Capua? (Italia) S AE 1973, 136 [1]. R PIR2 E 15. BARBIERI 1952, 326–327, Nr. 1839. PLRE I 515, Luce[---].

112 CORCORAN 2000, 126–127, Nr. 8. 113 CORCORAN 2000. 129–130, Nr. 20.

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35. EGNATIUS TUCCIANUS CH consul suffectus (around 295) [1–2] – curator rei publicae Thugganorum (?) [1–2]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO Italia (?) S CIL VI 26566 [1]. CIL VIII 26573 [2]. R PLRE I 924, Tuccianus. 36. T. FL(AVIUS) COELIANUS CH consul suffectus (289 Feb.) [1]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO unknown S CIL X 3698 [1]. R PIR2 F 246. PLRE I 218, Coelianus. 37. FL(AVIUS) DECIMUS CH consul suffectus (289 May) [1]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO North Africa (?) S CIL X 4631 [1]. R PIR2 F 254. PLRE I 245, Decimus 2. 38. T. FLAVIUS FESTUS CH proconsul Asiae (between 286–293) [1–2]. SO unknown GO Asia minor (?) S SEG IV 467, Nr. i–iii [1]. AE 1938, 127 [2]. R PIR2 F 267. PLRE I 335, Festus 7. BARNES 1982, 157. 39. T. FL(AVIUS) IULIAN(I)US QUADRATIANUS* CH praetor urbanus (between 284–305?) [1]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO North Africa (?) S CIL VI 314a [1]. R PIR2 F 294. BARBIERI 1952, 276, Nr. 1578. PLRE I 756, Quadratianus. SALZMANN 2002, 250. 40. FLAVIUS SEVERUS CH proconsul Achaia (around 300?) [1]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO unknown S IG II/III2 5205 [1]. R THOMASSON 2009, 75, Nr. 24:76a. 41. T. FLAVIUS POSTUMIUS TITIANUS CH quaestor candidatus [2] – praetor candidatus [2] – consul suffectus (around 285?) [2; 4] – curator coloniarum Lugdunensium, Campanorum, Calenorum [3] – corrector Italiae regionis Transpadanae (290/291) [2–4] – electus ad iudicandas sacras appellationes/cognitiones (291/292) [2– 3] – corrector Campaniae (292/293) [2–3] – consularis aquarum Miniciae (293/294) [2–3] – proconsul provinciae Africae (295/296) [2–3; 5–6] – consul II ordinarius (301) [1; 3] – praefectus Urbi (305–306) [1; 3] – augur [2]; pontifex dei Solis [2] – XIIvir urbis Romae. SO Patrician

204

NIKOLAS HÄCHLER

GO Cirta (Numidia) S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. CIL VI 1418 [2]. CIL VI 1419b [3]. AE 1919, 52 [4]. CIL VIII 26566 [5]. CIL VIII 26573 [6]. R PIR2 F 341. BARBIERI 1952, 1856. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 41–44, Nr. 15. ARNHEIM 1972, 44–45. PLRE I, Titianus 9. SIMSHÄUSER 1980, 443–444, Nr. 12. BARNES 1982, 99; 144; 163; 169. KUHOFF 1983, Tab. I, Nr. 9. CHRISTOL 1986, 58, Nr. 10; 88–89; 125. PEACHIN 1996, 132–137, Nr. 13. SALZMANN 2002, 252. RÜPKE, NÜSSLEIN & GLOCK 2005 II, 994, Nr. 1705. HÄCHLER 2019, 652, Nr. XIII.

42. HELVIUS CLEMENS CH consul suffectus (289, April) [1]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO Western provinces (?) S CIL X 4631 [1]. R PIR2 H 68. PLRE I 214, Clemens 3. 43. HERACLIDES* CH Provincial Governor (between 293–305) [1]. SO unknown GO Eastern Provinces (?) S CJ 7.62.9 [1].114 R PLRE I 417, Heraclides 1. 44. IULIUS ASCLEPIODOTUS CH dux (between 270–275) [2] – praefectus praetorio (between 290–296) [7–13] – consul ordinarius (292) [1; 3–6]. SO ordo equester GO unknown S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. HA Prob. 22.3 [2]. CJ 5.30.2 [3].115 CJ 31.9 [4];116 5.70.4 [5].117 CJ 8.17.9 [6]. Hier. chron. 300 [7]. Oros. hist. 7.25.6 [8]. Eutr. 9.22 [9]. Aur. Vict. Caes. 39.42 [10]. Zon. 12.31 [11]. Pan. Lat. VIII (5), 14–15 [12]. ILS 8929 [13]. CIL VI 1125 [14]. R PIR2 I 179. PLRE I 115–116, Asclepiodotus 3. BARNES 1982, 98; 124; 126. CHRISTOL 1986, 122. ChastagNol 2004, 235. 45. IULIUS FESTUS* CH praetor urbanus (between 285–305?) [1]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO unknown S AE 2004, 190 [1]. CIL VI 37118 [2]. R PIR2 I 307. BARBIERI 1952, 330, Nr. 1867. PLRE I 336, Festus 9.

114 115 116 117

CORCORAN 2000, 132, Nr. 29. CORCORAN 2000, 140, D4. CORCORAN 2000, 140, D4. CORCORAN 2000, 140, D4.

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46. IULIUS SEPTIMIUS SABINUS CH censitor in Syria (297) [1–8] – censitor in Heptanomia (298–300) [9–21]. SO unknown GO unknown S SEG XX 335–342 [1–8]. P.Cair. Isid. 2–5; 7 [9–13]. SB V 8246 [14]. P.Thead. 54 [15]. P.Ryl. IV 656 [16]. BGU III 917 [17]. BGU IV 1049 [18]. P.Amh. II 83 [19]. P.Corn. 19 [20]. P.Corn. 20 [21]. R PIR2 I 567. PLRE I 794, Sabinus 17. 47. M. IUNIUS MAXIMUS CH consul suffectus (before 286) – consul II ordinarius (286) [1–4] – praefectus Urbi (286–287) [1– 2]. SO Patrician GO Italia (?) S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. CJ 9.20.7 [2].118 CIL VI 2137 [3]. CIL XIV 2083 [4]. R BARBIERI 1952, 287, Nr. 1621. PIR2 I 776. PLRE I 587, Maximus 38. BARNES 1982, 93; 98; 110; 113–114. CHRISTOL 1986, 134. 48. IUNIUS PRISCILLIANUS MAXIMUS CH quaestor candidatus [2] – praetor urbanus [2] – electus ad legationem provinciae Asiae (between 293–305) [2] – curator Laurentium Lavinatium (between 293–305) [1] – pontifex maior, pontifex dei Solis [2]. SO Patrician GO Rome (Italia) S CIL XIV 2976 [1]. ILS 6185 [2]. R PIR2 I 800. PLRE I Maximus 45. KUHOFF 1983, Tab. I, Nr. 10. CHRISTOL 1986, 204, Nr. 36. RÜPKE, NÜSSLEIN & GLOCK 2005 II, 1082, Nr. 2121. 49. IUNIUS TIBERIANUS CH proconsul Asiae (between 293–303) [2] – praefectus Urbi (303–304) [1]. SO Patrician (?) GO unknown S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. AE 1967, 477 [2]. CIL VI 37118 [3]. R Chastagnol 1962, 40–41, Nr. 13. PIR2 I 841. PLRE I 912, Tiberianus 7. BARNES 1982, 111; 115; 158. 50. C. IUNIUS TIBERIANUS CH consul ordinarius (281) [1] – consul II ordinarius (291) [1] – praefectus Urbi (291–292) [1–2]. SO Patrician (?) GO unknwon S Chronogr. a. 60; 66 [1]. HA Aur. 1.1 [2]. CIL VI 37188 [3]. R Barbieri 1952, 287–288, Nr. 1624; 330, Nr. 1878. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 17–20, Nr. 2. PIR2 I 843. PLRE I 912, Tiberianus 8. BARNES 1982, 98; 115; 158. KUHOFF 1983, Tab. I, Nr. 8. CHRISTOL 1986, 204–205, Nr. 37. HÄCHLER 2019, 473–474, Nr. 165.

118 CORCORAN 2000, 126, Nr. 4.

206

NIKOLAS HÄCHLER

51. LATINIUS PRIMOSUS* CH praeses Syriae (293) [1–2]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO Italia (?) S CJ 7.33.6 [1].119 CIL VI 37118 [2]. R PLRE I 725, Primosus. BARNES 1982, 153. 52. C. LIEURIUS TRANQUILLIUS TOCIUS SOAEMUS* CH consul suffectus (around 300?) [1]. SO Patrician GO Italia (?) S CIL X 4753 [1]. R PLRE I 845, So(ae)mus. PIR2 L 281. 53. T. OPPIUS AELIANUS ASCLEPIODOTUS* CH legatus Augusti pro praetore Phrygiae et Cariae [1] – proconsul et corrector Asiae (around 300?) [1]. SO unknown GO Aphrodisias (Asia minor) S AE 1981, 770 [1]. R CHRISTOL 1986, 219–221, Nr. 47. PIR2 O 115. GERHARDT & HARTMANN 2008, 1107, Asia 22; 1165–1166, Phryg. 4; 1167, Phryg. 8. HÄCHLER 2019, 526–527, Nr. 207. 54. C. MACRINIUS SOSSIANUS CH curator rei publicae Calamensium (283) [4] – consul suffectus (?) [5] – legatus Numidiae (between 290–294) [1–3; 5–9]. SO Non-Patrician GO Numidia (?) S CIL VIII 5290 [1]. AE 1933, 60 [2]. CIL VIII 11774 [3]. CIL VIII 5332 [4]. ILAlg I 2048 [5]. CIL VIII 608 [6]. CIL VIII 27816 [7]. CIL VIII 4645 [8]. CIL VIII 11768 [9]. R BARBIERI 1952, 291, Nr. 1640. PLRE I, 849, Sossianus 2. PIR2 M 24. CHRISTOL 1986, 89. SALZMANN 2002, 251. HÄCHLER 2019, 492–494, Nr. 178. 55. M. MAGRIUS BASSUS CH consul ordinarius (289) [1–3]. SO unknwon GO unknown S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. CIL X 3698 [2]. CIL X 4641 [3]. R PLRE I 155, Bassus 16. BARNES 1982, 98. PIR2 M 105. CHRISTOL 1986, 120–121. 56. MANIUS ACILIUS BALBUS SABINUS CH curator alvei Tiberis riparum et cloacarum sacrae Urbis (between 286–293) [1–2]. SO Patrician GO Rome (?) (Italia) S CIL VI 1242 [1]. CIL VI 1225 [2]. R PIR2 A 52. PLRE I 792, Sabinus 2.

119 CORCORAN 2000, 131, Nr. 24.

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207

57. [---]NIANUS CH cos. suff. 288 [1]. SO unknown GO unknown S CIL X 4631 [1]. R PLRE I 999, .ivianus. 58. [---]NINIUS MAXIMUS CH consul suffectus (289 June) [1]. SO unknown GO unknown S CIL X 4631 [1]. R PLRE I 588, Maximus 40. 59. NUMIDIUS CH corrector Italiae (290, Sept. 11) [1]. SO unknown GO unknown S CJ 7.35.3120 [1]. R PLRE I 635, Numidius. SIMSHÄUSER 1980, 441, Nr. 9. BARNES 1982, 144. CHRISTOL 1986, 57, Nr. 7. PIR2 N 205. 60. M. NUMMIUS CEIONIUS ANNIUS ALBINUS* CH praetor urbanus (between 284–305?) [1]. SO Patrician (?) GO Rome (?) (Italia) S CIL VI 314 [1]. R BARBIERI 1952, 299, Nr. 1675. PLRE I 34, Albinus 7; 37, Albinus 12 (?). PIR2 N 231. 61. NUMMIUS TUSCUS CH consul ordinarius (295) [1] – curator aquarum et Miniciae (between 295–302) [2] – praefectus Urbi (302–303) [1–2]. SO Patrician GO Rome (Italia) S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. CIL VI 31378 [2]. CIL VI 37118 [3]. R BARBIERI 1952, 1664. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 38–39, Nr. 12. PLRE I 926–927, Tuscus 1. BARNES 1982, 98. KUHOFF 1983, Tab. I, Nr. 7. CHRISTOL 1986, 99; 122–124. PIR2 N 237. HILLNER 2017, 62. 62. (Q.? OCTA)VIUS STRATONIANUS CH curator rei publicae Thugganorum (between 293–305) [1]. SO Non-Patrician GO North Africa S CIL VIII 26472 [1]. R PLRE I 859, Stratonianus. PIR2 O 60.

120 CORCORAN 2000, 127, Nr. 9.

208

NIKOLAS HÄCHLER

63. OVINIUS GALLICANUS CH curator Teanensium (between 293–300) [4] – praefectus Urbi et iudex sacrarum cognitionum (316) [1; 3] – consul ordinarius (317) [1; 5]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO Rome (?) (Italia) S Chronogr. a. 354. 67 [1]. Lib. pontif. 34.29 [2]. CIL X 1155 [3]. CIL X 4785 [4]. CIL XI 830 [5]. R CHASTAGNOL 1962, 68–70, Nr. 27. PLRE I 383, Gallicanus 3. SALZMANN 2002, 247. BARNES 1982, 95; 101; 111; 114. 64. PAETUS HONORATUS CH corrector Italiae (between 284–289/290?) [1–4]. SO Patrician (?) GO Italia (?) S CJ 7.56.3 [1].121 CJ 9.2.9 [2].122 CJ 2.10.1 (?) [3].123 CIL V 2817 [4]. R BARBIERI 1952, 332–333, Nr. 1905. PLRE I 441, Honoratus 11. SIMSHÄUSER 1980, 440–441, Nr. 7. BARNES 1982, 144. CHRISTOL 1986, 57, Nr. 5. PIR2 P 63. 65. POMPEIUS APPIUS FAUSTINUS CH praetor urbanus [2] – consul suffectus [3] – corrector Campaniae (between 293–300) [4] – praefectus Urbi (300–301) [1]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO North Africa or Italia (?) S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. CIL VI 314 [2]. CIL VIII 1438 [3]. CIL X 4785 [4]. R BARBIERI 1952, 333, Nr. 1908/9; 518 (?). CHASTAGNOL 1962, 33–34, Nr. 10. PLRE I 327, Faustinus 7. BARNES 1982, 115; 163. KUHOFF 1983, Tab. I, Nr. 5. CHRISTOL 1986, 58, Nr. 11; 136. PIR2 P 591. SALZMANN 2002, 246. 66. POMPONIUS IANUARIANUS CH praefectus Aegypti (283–284) – consul ordinarius (288) [1] – praefectus Urbi (288–289) [1]. SO ordo equester GO unknown S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. R PLRE I, 452–453, Ianuarianus 2. BARNES 1982, 98. CHRISTOL 1986, 119–120; 134. PIR2 P 722. GERHARDT & HARTMANN 2008, 1088, Aeg. 23. 67. [---]US PRISCUS CH praeses Phrygiae et Cariae (between 286–301) [1]. SO unknwon GO unknown S CIL 141912 [1]. R PLRE I 729, Priscus 1. BARNES 1982, 156. CHRISTOL 1986, 279, Nr. 73. PIR2 P 960.

121 CORCORAN 2000, 126, Nr. 6. 122 CORCORAN 2000, 126, Nr. 6. 123 CORCORAN 2000, 126, Nr. 7.

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209

68. L. RAGONIUS QUINTIANUS CH consul ordinarius (289) [1]. SO Patrician GO Opitergium (Italia) S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. R PLRE I 759, Quintinaus 3. BARNES 1982, 98. CHRISTOL 1986, 120–121. PIR2 R 15. 69. RUTILIUS CRISPINUS CH curator rei publicae Puteolanorum (between 283–284) [1] – praeses provinciae Syriae Phoenicis (292/293) [2–6]. SO Non-Patrician GO Rome (Italia) S AE 1977, 203 [1]. CJ 7.35.4 [2].124 CJ 9.2.11 [3].125 CJ 1.23.3 [4]. CJ 9.9.25 [5].126 CJ 10.62.3 [6].127 R PIR2 C 1587a. PLRE I 232, Crispinus 2. BARNES 1982, 153. CHRISTOL 1986, 246–248, Nr. 54. PIR2 R 247. HÄCHLER 2019, 565, Nr. 245. 70. SATTIUS CRESCENS* CH curator rei publicae Beneventanorum (around 300?) [1]. SO Patrician (?) GO Beneventum (Italia) S CIL IX 1588 [1]. R PLRE I 230, Crescens. PIR2 S 204. 71. Q. SATTIUS FLAVIUS VETTIUS GRATUS* CH corrector Lucaniae et Bruttii (around 300?) [1–2] – augur [1–2]. SO Patrician GO Italia S AE 1923, 61 [1]. AE 1923, 62 (?) [2]. R PLRE I 402–403, Gratus 3. PIR2 S 205. SALZMANN 2002, 247. 72. SEPTIMIUS ACINDYNUS CH praefectus Urbi (293–295) [1]. SO unknown GO Italia (?) S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. R BARBIERI 1952, 334, Nr. 1920. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 21, Nr. 4. PLRE I 11, Acindynus 1. BARNES 1982, 115. CHRISTOL 1986, 135. PIR2 S 429. 73. SILIUS TERTULLUS CH curator Uticae (around 300?) [1]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO North Africa (?) S CIL VIII 1183 [1]. R PLRE I 884, Tertullus 10. PIR2 S 730.

124 125 126 127

CORCORAN 2000, 127–128, Nr. 11. CORCORAN 2000, 128, Nr. 12. CORCORAN 2000, 128, Nr. 13. CORCORAN 2000, 128–129, Nr. 15.

210

NIKOLAS HÄCHLER

74. TAURUS* CH proconsul Asiae (around 300?) [1]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO Eastern provinces (?) S AE 1988, 1026 [1]. R GERHARDT & HARTMANN 2008, 1107, Asia 18. PIR2 T 42. 75. M. TULLIUS T[---]NUS CH proconsul Africae (between 293–305, maybe 300–301?) [1]. SO Patrician (?) GO unkown S CIL VIII 1550 [1]. R PLRE I 872, T...nus. BARNES 1982, 169. PIR2 T 391. 76. L. TURCIUS SECUNDUS* CH consul suffectus (around 300?) [1–2]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO Lucania (Italia) S CIL VI 1768 [1]. CIL VI 1769 [2]. R PLRE I 817, Secundus 5. PIR2 T 399. SALZMANN 2002, 251. HÄCHLER 2019, 654, Nr. XXIX. 77. L. TURRANIUS (VENUSTUS?) GRATIANUS CH praetor urbanus (?)128 – corrector Achaiae (between 284–290) [3] – praefectus Urbi (290) [1– 2]. SO Non-Patrician (?) GO North Africa (?) or Italia (?) S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. CIL VI 1128 [2]. CIL III 6103 [3]. R BARBIERI 1952, 335, Nr. 1930. CHASTAGNOL 1962, 15–17, Nr. 1. ARNHEIM 1972, 45–46. PLRE I 403, Gratianus 3–4(?). BARNES 1982, 114; 160. CHRISTOL 1986, 134–135. PIR2 T 411. 78. UMBRIUS PRIMUS CH consul suffectus (289, Feb.) [1–2]. SO Non-patrician (?) GO North Africa (?) or Italia (?) S CIL X 4631 [1]. CIL X 3698 [2]. R PLRE I 725, Primus 4. PIR2 V 898. 79. VALERIUS COMAZON CH curator aedium sacrarum (299) [1]. SO Non-Patrician GO Italia (?) S IG XIV 1026 [1]. R PLRE I 218, Comazon. PIR2 V 60.

128 See PLRE I, 402, Gratianus 4.

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211

80. VERINUS* CH praeses Syriae (294) [1; 3] – iudex sacrarum cognitionum totius Orientis (305) [2]. SO unknown GO unknown S CJ 2.12.20 [1].129 CJ 3.12.1 [2].130 CJ 7.16.40 (?) [3].131 Symm. ep. 1.2.7 [4]. R PLRE I 950–951, Verinus 1. BARNES 1982, 154. PIR2 V 418. 81. VETTIUS AQUILINUS CH consul ordinarius (286) [1]. SO Patrician GO Italia S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. R PLRE I 92, Aquilinus 8. BARNES 1982, 89. CHRISTOL 1986, 119. PIR2 V 463. 82. VETTIUS PROCULUS* CH curator viarum Labicanae et Latinae (around 300?) [1]. SO Patrician GO Italia S CIL X 6892 [1]. R PLRE I 749, Proculus 13. 83. VIRIUS GALLUS CH consul ordinarius (298) [1] – corrector Campaniae [2]. SO Patrician GO Italia S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. CIL X 3867 [2]. R PLRE I 384, Gallus 2. BARNES 1982, 99; 163. CHRISTOL 1986, 58, Nr. 12; 124. SALZMANN 2002, 247. PIR2 V 780. 84. VIRIUS NEPOTIANUS CH consul ordinarius (301) [1]. SO Patrician GO Italia S Chronogr. a. 354, 66 [1]. CIL VI 37118 [2]. R PLRE I 624–625, Nepotianus 6. BARNES 1982, 99. CHRISTOL 1986, 125. HILLNER 2017, 62. 85. ANONYMUS 1 CH corrector Italiae (295, Dec.) [1]. SO unknown GO unknown S Frg. Vat. 292 [1]. R PLRE I 1020, Anonymus 93. SIMSHÄUSER 1980, 444, Nr. 13.

129 CORCORAN 2000, 131, Nr. 28. 130 CORCORAN 2000, 143, Nr. 48. 131 CORCORAN 2000, 143, Nr. 49.

212

NIKOLAS HÄCHLER

86. ANONYMUS 2* CH praeses et corrector Achaiae (around 300?) [1]. SO unknown GO unknown S SEG 11, 887 [1]. R PLRE I 1023, Anonymus 115.

APPENDIX B: SENATORIAL OFFICE-HOLDERS BETWEEN 284–305 Consules ordinarii

Year 284 285 286 287 288 289 290 291 292 293 294 295 296 297 298 299 300 301 302 303 304 305

Consul prior

Consul posterior

Carinus Augustus II Carinus Augustus III / Diocletianus Augustus II M. Iunius Maximus (Nr. 47) Diocletianus Augustus III Maximianus Augustus II M. Magrius Bassus (Nr. 55) Diocletianus Augustus IV C. Iunius Tiberianus II (Nr. 50) Afranius Hannibalianus (Nr. 4) Diocletianus Augustus V Constantius Caesar I Nummius Tuscus (Nr. 61) Diocletianus Augustus VI Maximianus Augustus V M. Iunius Caesonius Nicomachus Anicius Faustus Paulinus II (Nr. 8) Diocletianus Augustus VII Constantius Caesar III T. Flavius Postumius Titianus II (Nr. 41) Constantius Caesar IV Diocletianus Augustus VIII Diocletianus Augustus IX Constantius Caesar V

Numerianus Augustus Ti. Claudius Aurelius Aristobulus (Nr. 32) Vettius Aquilinus (Nr. 81) Maximianus Augustus I Pomponius Ianuarianus (Nr. 66) L. Ragonius Quintianus (Nr. 68) Maximianus Augustus III Cassius Dio (Nr. 26) Iulius Asclepiodotus (Nr. 44) Maximianus Augustus IV Galerius Caesar I C. Annius Anullinus (Nr. 9) Constantius Caesar II Galerius Caesar II Virius Gallus (Nr. 83) Maximianus Augustus VI Galerius Caesar III Virius Nepotianus (Nr. 84) Galerius Caesar IV Maximianus Augustus VII Maximianus Augustus VIII Galerius Caesar V

The ‘Hammer of the Aristocracy’

213

Consules suffecti

Year Certi 288 289 (Feb.) 289 (Feb.) 289 (Mar.) 289 (Apr.) 289 (May) 289 (June) Incerti aevi Between 283–294 Before 285 (?) Around 285 (?) Before 286 Between 290–305 Before 298 Before 300 (?) Around 300 (?) Around 300 (?) Around 300 (?) Around 300 (?) Around 300 (?) Before 304 Incerti Before 285 Around 296

Office-holders

[---]nianus (Nr. 57) Umbrius Primus (Nr. 78) T. Fl(avius) Coelianus (Nr. 36) Ceionius Proculus (Nr. 28) Helvius Clemens (Nr. 42) Fl(avius) Decimus (Nr. 37) [--]ninius Maximus (Nr. 58) C. Macrinius Sossianus (Nr. 54) L. Caesonius Ovinius Manlius Rufinianus Bassus (Nr. 24) T. Flavius Postumius Titianus (Nr. 41) M. Iunius Maximus (Nr. 47) Attius Insteius Tertullus (Nr. 13) M. Iunius Caesonius Nicomachus Anicius Faustus Paulinus (Nr. 8) M. Aur(elius) Paconius (Nr. 17) C. Caelius Censorinus (Nr. 22) T. Campanius Priscus Maximianus (Nr. 23) Egnatius Caeci[lius A]ntistius Luce[rinus] (Nr. 34) C. Lieurius Tranquillius Tocius Soaemus (Nr. 52) L. Turcius Secundus (Nr. 76) Aradius Rufinus (Nr. 11) Acilius Clarus (Nr. 1) L. Aelius Helvius Dionysius (Nr. 2)

214

NIKOLAS HÄCHLER

Praefecti Urbi

Year

Office-holders

284–285 285–286 286–287 288–289 290–291 291–292 292–293 293–295 295–296 296–297 297–298 298–299 299–300 300–301 301–302 302–303 303–304 304–305 305–306

Ceionius Varus (Nr. 30) L. Caesonius Ovinius Manlius Rufinianus Bassus (Nr. 24) M. Iunius Maximus (Nr. 47) Pomponius Ianuarianus (Nr. 66) L. Turranius (Venustus?) Gratianus (Nr. 77) C. Iunius Tiberianus (Nr. 50) Cl(audius) Marcellus (Nr. 33) Septimius Acindynus (Nr. 72) Ti. Claudius Aurelius Aristobulus (Nr. 32) Cassius Dio (Nr. 26) Afranius Hannibalianus (Nr. 4) L. Artorius Pius Maximus (Nr. 12) Iunius Caesonius Nicomachus Anicius Faustus Paulinus (Nr. 8) Pompeius Appius Faustinus (Nr. 65) L. Aelius Helvius Dionysius (Nr. 2) Nummius Tuscus (Nr. 61) Iunius Tiberianus (Nr. 49) Aradius Rufinus (Nr. 11) T. Flavius Postumius Titianus (Nr. 41)

Curatores aedium sacrarum

Year Certus 299 Incerti aevi Around 288

Office-holders

Valerius Comazon (Nr. 79) L. Aelius Helvius Dionysius (Nr. 2)

Curator operum publicorum

Year

Office-holders

Incerti aevi Around 287

L. Aelius Helvius Dionysius (Nr. 2)

The ‘Hammer of the Aristocracy’ Curator alvei Tiberis et cloacarum

Year

Office-holders

Incerti aevi Between 286–293 Around 300

Manius Acilius Balbus Sabinus (Nr. 56) Egnatius Caeci[lius A]ntistius Luce[rinus] (Nr. 34)

Curator aquarum et Miniciae

Year Certus 293/234 Incerti Aevi Around 289 Between 295–302 Around 300 (?) Around 300 (?)

Office-holders

T. Flavius Postumius Titianus (Nr. 41) L. Aelius Helvius Dionysius (Nr. 2) Nummius Tuscus (Nr. 61) M. Aur(elius) Paconius (Nr. 17) Caeli[us? ---] (Nr. 21)

Quaestores

Year Incerti aevi Before 276 Before 285 Before 293 Around 300 (?) Before 305

Office-holder

L. Caesonius Ovinius Manlius Rufinianus Bassus (Nr. 24) T. Flavius Postumius Titianus (Nr. 41) Iunius Priscillianus Maximus (Nr. 48) Egnatius Caeci[lius A]ntistius Luce[rinus] (Nr. 34) Attius Insteius Tertullus (Nr. 13)

215

216

NIKOLAS HÄCHLER

Praetores

Year

Office-holders

Incerti Aevi Before 276 Before 284 Before 284–305 Before 285 Before 285 Before 293 Before 293 Around 296 Around 300 (?) Around 300 (?) Before 305

L. Caesonius Ovinius Manlius Rufinianus Bassus (Nr. 24) T. Fl(avius) Iulian(i)us Quadratianus (Nr. 39) M. Nummius Ceionius Annius Albinus (Nr. 60) T. Flavius Postumius Titianus (Nr. 41) Iulius Festus (Nr. 45) Iunius Priscillianus Maximus (Nr. 48) Pompeius Appius Faustinus (Nr. 65) L. Aelius Helvius Dionysius (Nr. 2) C. Caelius Censorinus (Nr. 22) Egnatius Caeci[lius A]ntistius Luce[rinus] (Nr. 34) Attius Insteius Tertullus (Nr. 13)

Correctores Italiae

Year Certi 282/284–290/292 286 287 290 290/291 295 Incerti aevi Between 284–289/290? Between 290–293

Office-holders

C. Ceionius Rufius Volusianus (Nr. 29) Acilius Clarus (Nr. 1) T. Aelius Marcianus (Nr. 3) Numidius (Nr. 59) T. Flavius Postumius Titianus132 (Nr. 41) Anonymus 1 (Nr. 85) Paetus Honoratus (Nr. 64) L. Aelius Helvius Dionysius133 (Nr. 2)

Correctores Campaniae

Year

Office–holders

Certus 292/293

T. Flavius Postumius Titianus (Nr. 41)

132 The senator acted as corrector regionis Transpadana. 133 The senator acted as corrector utriusque Italiae.

The ‘Hammer of the Aristocracy’

Incerti aevi Between 293–300 After 298

217

Pompeius Appius Faustinus (Nr. 65) Virius Gallus (Nr. 83)

Correctores Lucaniae et Bruttii134

Year

Office-holders

Incerti aevi Around 300 (?) Around 300 (?)

Brittius Praesens (Nr. 20) Q. Sattius Flavius Vettius Gratus (Nr. 71)

Correctores Venetiae et Histriae

Year Incerti aevi Around 305 (?) Incertus 283/284

Office-holders

Attius Insteius Tertullus (Nr. 13) M. Aurelius Sabinus Iulianus (Nr. 18)

Curatores viarum

Year

Office-holders

Incerti aevi Around 300 (?) Around 300 (?)

C. Caelius Censorinus135 (Nr. 22) Vettius Proculus136 (Nr. 82)

Proconsules Africae

Year

Office-holders

Certi 295 295/296

Cassius Dio (Nr. 26) T. Flavius Postumius Titianus (Nr. 41)

134 Both correctores should probably be dated under the reign of Constantine I, since the region was presumably governed by office-holders from the equestrian order under Diocletian, see ECK 2018a, 142. 135 The senator acted as curator viae Latinae. 136 The senator acted as curator viarum Labicanae et Latinae.

218

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297–301 300–303 303–305

L. Aelius Helvius Dionysius (Nr. 2) Amnius Anicius Iulianus (Nr. 6) C. Annius Anullinus (Nr. 9)

305/6

C. Ceionius Rufius Volusianus (Nr. 29)

Incerti aevi Between 285–290 Between 290–294 Between 293–305, maybe 300–301

Aurelius Antiochus (Nr. 14) T. Claudius Aurelius Aristobulus (Nr. 32) M. Tullius T[---]nus (Nr. 75)

Legati proconsulis Africae

Year Incerti aevi Between 290–294 Between 300–303

Office-holders

C. Macrinius Sossianus (Nr. 54) Amnius Manius Caesonius Nicomachus Anicius Paulinus (Iunior) signo Honorius (Nr. 7)

Proconsules Asiae

Year

Office-holders

Incerti aevi Between 286–293 Between 287–298 Between 293–303 Between 293–305 Between 300–305 Around 300 (?) Around 300 (?) Around 300 (?)

T. Flavius Festus (Nr. 38) L. Artorius Pius Maximus (Nr. 12) Iunius Tiberianus (Nr. 49) An[nius? Epi?]phanius (Nr. 10) Aurelius Hermogenes (Nr. 15) Cassianus (Nr. 25) T. Oppius Aelianus Asclepiodotus137 (Nr. 53) Taurus (Nr. 74)

Legatus proconsulis Asiae

Year

Office-holder

Incerti aevi Between 293–305

Iunius Priscillianus Maximus (Nr. 48)

137 The senator acted as proconsul et corrector Asiae.

The ‘Hammer of the Aristocracy’ Senatorial governor in Dalmatia

Year

Office-holder

Incerti aevi Around 300 (?)

M. Aurelius Iulius (Nr. 16)

Senatorial governors of Syria Phoenice

Year

Office-holders

Certi 286 292/293

L. Artorius Pius Maximus (Nr. 12) Rutilius Crispinus (Nr. 69)

Senatorial governors of Syria Coele

Year Certi 293 294 Incerti aevi Between 286–298 Around 295 (?) Incertus 290

Office-holders

Latinius Primosus (Nr. 51) Verinus (Nr. 80) L. Artorius Pius Maximus (Nr. 12) L. Aelius Helvius Dionysius (Nr. 2) Charisius (Nr. 31)

Proconsules Achaiae

Year

Office-holders

Incerti aevi Between 284–290 Around 300 (?) Around 300 (?)

L. Turranius (Venustus?) Gratianus138 (Nr. 77) Flavius Severus (Nr. 40) Anonymus 2139 (Nr. 86)

138 The senator acted as corrector Achaiae. 139 The senator acted as praeses et corrector Achaiae.

219

220

NIKOLAS HÄCHLER

Senatorial governors of Phrygia et Caria

Year

Office-holders

Incerti aevi Between 286–301 Between 293–305 Around 300 (?)

[---]us Priscus (Nr. 67) L. Castrius Constans (Nr. 27) T. Oppius Aelianus Asclepiodotus (Nr. 53)

Senatorial governor of Creta (et Cyrene?)

Year

Office-holder

Incerti aevi Between 286–293

Aglaus (Nr. 5)

Curatores rei publicae

Year

Office-holders

Offices and Cities

Between 283–284

Rutilius Crispinus (Nr. 69)

curator rei publicae Puteolanorum

Between 286–293, possibly 291/292

Axilius Iunior (Nr. 19)

curator Comensium

Before 290

T. Flavius Postumius Titianus (Nr. 41)

Incerti aevi

Between 293–300 Between 293–305 Between 293–305 Between 293–305

Ovinius Gallicanus (Nr. 63) Iunius Priscillianus Maximus (Nr. 48) (Q.? Octa)vius Stratonianus (Nr. 62) C. Macrinius Sossianus (Nr. 54)

Around 295

Egnatius Tuccianus (Nr. 35)

Around 300

Silius Tertullus (Nr. 73)

Around 300

Sattius Crescens (Nr. 70)

Around 300

Egnatius Caeci[lius A]ntistius Luce[rinus] (Nr. 34)

curator coloniarum Lugudunensium, Campanorum, Calenorum curator Teanensium curator Laurentium Lavinatium curator rei publicae Thugganorum curator Laurentium Lavinatium curator rei publicae Thugganorum curator Uticae curator rei publicae Beneventanorum curator rei publicae Campuensium

THE LAST PHARAOHS THE EGYPTIAN RECEPTION OF LATE ROMAN EMPERORS Nicola Barbagli* INTRODUCTION The Roman conquest brought about a new phase of foreign domination in Egypt. Once again, the region became part of a larger empire whose centre was far removed from the Nile valley. And once again, the new rulers – just like their Persian and Macedonian predecessors – were conceptualised locally in the traditional terms of Egyptian kingship. The Egyptian religious system needed a pharaoh who, as mediator between gods and humans, maintained the cosmic order through the perpetuation of rituals. The continual performance of these rites was guaranteed both by the scenes carved on the walls of the temples, which depicted the pharaoh making offerings to the gods, and by the priestly personnel who actually carried out the ritual duties. Egyptian religion was centred on the temples of the local deities, and it was particularly in and around these sanctuaries that the figure of the pharaoh continued to be meaningful throughout the Graeco-Roman period.1 The essential step in integrating a foreign ruler into Egyptian kingship was for members of the priestly elite to elaborate the royal titulary.2 The royal protocol was a pillar of Egyptian kingship, defining the identity and principal characteristics of the pharaoh. Augustus and his successors received the customary hieroglyphic titulary, duly updated during and after each reign in step with developments in the imperial nomenclature, and occasionally influenced by events at the core of the empire. The titulary of the first emperor, which became the model for those of subsequent Roman rulers, was made up of three elements (instead of the traditional five): the Horus name and the two cartouches.3 The Horus name described the extraordinary *

1 2

3

I am grateful to all those who, during the spring of 2020, when libraries and institutions were inaccessible, readily helped me to obtain the material I needed in order to complete this work. I am also much indebted to John Baines, Fabio Guidetti, and Leyla Ozbek for having read this chapter and improved it with their valuable suggestions. Of course, any errors and omissions are my own responsibility. Support for part of this research came from the University of Pisa Research Project PRA 2018–2020 ‘Paesaggi funerari tra rito e società: nuovi approcci allo studio delle necropoli nel mondo antico’. DERCHAIN 1962. 1996. 1997. OTTO 1964, 63–83. CAUVILLE 2008. VON BECKERATH 1999, 1–33. LEPROHON 2013, 5–19. I choose to employ the terms ‘titulary’ and ‘protocol’ (instead of ‘titulature’, more familiar to scholars of Roman history) because these are the words customarily used in Egyptology to designate the set of titles and names of a given ruler. GRENIER 1987. 1989a. 1989b. 1995.

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qualities of the king as the earthly equivalent of the falcon god of kingship, such as his military prowess and his favourable relationship with the Egyptian divinities. In contrast to the Horus names employed by most of the Ptolemies, which – like other parts of their titularies – were focused on the transmission of power from their divine parents, the Roman Horus name highlights the role of the emperor as heir of the Egyptian gods and is characterised by new elements such as a strong emphasis on world domination and, in some instances, the indication of Rome as the royal residence. The two cartouches, the so-called throne name (usually introduced by nswt-bity nb tA.wy, ‘King of Upper and Lower Egypt, lord of the Two Lands’) and the son of Ra name (usually introduced by sA Ra nb xa.w, ‘son of Ra, lord of crowns’), include the names and titles of the emperor, developing a practice that came into being in the last years of Ptolemaic rule, under Cleopatra VII and her son, Ptolemy XV Caesar (44–30 BCE).4 The cartouches of the Roman period were thus commonly made by transcribing or translating the Greek versions of the imperial titulary. For instance, the most common formula of Claudius’ Greek titulary, Τιβέριος Κλαύδιος Καῖσαρ Σεβαστὸς Γερµανικὸς Aὐτοκράτωρ, was rendered in the hieroglyphic script as follows: nswt-bity nb tA.wy (&brys Krwtys Ksrs nty xw)| sA Ra nb xa.w (Grmnyks Awtkrtwr)|, ‘king of Upper and Lower Egypt, lord of the Two Lands (Tiberius Claudius Caesar the revered one)| the son of Ra, lord of crowns (Germanicus Autokrator)|’.5 After the reign of Augustus there was no homogeneity in the choice and arrangement of the names within the cartouches. As was normal in the provinces, the Egyptians seem to have enjoyed considerable freedom in the selection of titles for inscriptions that mentioned the emperor. Nonetheless, a recurring pattern, modelled on the Greek titularies, emerged during the Flavian period. The first cartouche has the elements Aὐτοκράτωρ Καῖσαρ (the latter, however, consistently written as if transcribed from the genitive case, as was already the practice),6 sometimes with other onomastic elements; the second contains 4

5 6

BARBAGLI 2018, with earlier literature; see also KAPER 2012, 144–146, coming to similar conclusions. Contrary to some scholars (e.g, VON BECKERATH 1999, 246–247), I maintain that the cartouches of Ptolemy XV attested in Hermonthis and Dendera are the standard ones, while the throne name found in Coptos (almost identical to that of Ptolemy XII; attributed at Coptos also to Ptolemy XIII or XIV: TRAUNECKER 1992, 319–324) is a local variant, as further attested by the unique transcription of Καῖσαρ as Qhysrs instead of the common Kysrs. Since Ptolemy Caesar was not born from a Ptolemy, the possibility of an official throne name identical to that of his predecessors, with its distinctive focus on the parentage from the divine Ptolemaic ancestor, should be excluded. On this form of Claudius’ Greek titulary see BURETH 1964, 30–32. For this version of Claudius’ cartouches, inscribed on the façade of the temple of Khnum at Esna, see SAUNERON 1963, 104– 106, no. 47A. The name Caesar/Καῖσαρ was customarily transcribed Kysrs in Egyptian (both demotic and hieroglyphic, with variants in the spelling) from the reign of Cleopatra VII and her son, the first bearer of this element: KAPER 2012, 145 (his reasoning that the final -s was added because the priests assumed it on the basis of the endings of the other imperial names also works for the late Ptolemaic period); cf. CLARYSSE 2013, 4–6 on a case of a priestly title transcribed in demotic after the Greek genitive. Aὐτοκράτωρ, like other elements of the imperial titulary, was usually transcribed from its nominative form; only later, and seemingly inconsistently, was it

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the personal name of the emperor followed by nty xw, which is the most common Egyptian version of Σεβαστός,7 and in some cases other titles. Thus, the cartouches of Vespasian read: nswt-bity nb tA.wy (Awtwkrtr Kysrs)| sA Ra nb xa.w (Wspysyns nty xw)|, ‘king of Upper and Lower Egypt, lord of the Two Lands (Autokrator Caesar)| son of Ra, lord of crowns (Vespasian the revered one)|’.8 This scheme, too, was not binding. The hieroglyphic titularies were chiefly employed in temples. In particular, cartouches are almost ubiquitous in the sanctuaries, being used to caption the pharaoh’s image in ritual scenes, within various kinds of texts, and on many architectural elements.9 The titularies are also attested in texts and scenes carved on stelae and, in only two instances during the Roman period, by inscriptions on statues representing the emperor in the guise of a pharaoh. These examples originate from the same priestly environment which designed the decoration of the temples.10 Although reforms introduced soon after the conquest may have diminished the economic power base of the old sanctuaries to some extent11 – leading to their increasing dependence on funding from the emperor, the provincial administration, and local communities – the cartouches show that many temples were built, completed, or restored in the Roman period.12 By the second half of the 2nd century CE, however, building and decoration activity rapidly decreased, coming to a complete halt by the mid-3rd century CE.13 Around this time, the first signs of decline, abandonment or re-purposing of the old temples also appear.14 For instance, at the end of the 3rd century CE the temple of

7 8 9 10

11 12

13 14

taken from the genitive (for instance, in Esna, by the time of Trajan: SAUNERON 1975, 201 n. 1, suggesting instead a possible connection to the plural form Aὐτοκράτορες). On the range of meanings of the Egyptian version, from ‘revered’ to ‘holy’ and ‘divine’, see GRAEFE 1973/1974, 371–372. GRENIER 1989b, 419–420. On these cartouches, see SAUNERON 1963, 104–106, no. 47B. HÖLBL 2000. 2004a. 2005. The hieroglyphic documentation of the Roman era is conveniently gathered by KLOTZ 2012b. See also: KAPER 2020, with an update on publication of temple texts; BARBAGLI 2021, on the two statues with hieroglyphic inscriptions, now both attributed to Caracalla; PRADA 2022, on the inscriptions of privately dedicated obelisks in Italy. This long-held interpretation, however, has been recently challenged and reviewed in favour of a more nuanced one: MESSERER 2013. CONNOR 2014. MEDINI 2015, 247–253. ESCOLANOPOVEDA 2020, 283–294. CLARYSSE 2010, 275–276 with information on the number of scenes attributable to each reign from the end of the Late Period to the 3rd century CE. On the sources of funding for temple building during the Graeco-Roman period, see CLARYSSE & VANDORPE 2019, 412–413 and the references to earlier literature, to which one should at least add KOCKELMANN & PFEIFFER 2009. The last ritual scenes dated with certainty are two of Decius (249–251 CE) in the temple of Khnum at Esna: SAUNERON 1975, 65–68 and 84–87, nos. 495 and 503 (the first one was appropriated from Philip the Arab, as argued by SAUNERON 1952, 119–121). BAGNALL 1988, who ultimately attributes to the early Roman reforms the decline of the temples during the imperial period; DIJKSTRA 2011, on the transformations underwent by the temples between the 4th and 6th centuries CE, with a focus on the First Cataract region (see also

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Amun at Luxor, which had most likely been deserted for decades, was fortified, and a vestibule to the sanctuary was transformed into a chapel for the cult of the emperors, lavishly decorated with frescoes representing Diocletian and his colleagues.15 The main temple of Amun-Ra at Karnak was probably not in full operation at that time and certainly not when Constantine decided to remove two of its renowned obelisks, which were later erected in the circuses of Rome and Constantinople under Constantius II and Theodosius. Nevertheless, isolated occurrences of royal titularies and images of the pharaoh are attested near Thebes until the mid-4th century CE, in the hieroglyphic inscriptions of the funerary stelae of the Buchis bull and his Mother, the sacred animals of the city of Hermonthis (modern Armant, 15 km south of Luxor on the west bank of the Nile). These stelae were produced from the reign of Nectanebo II (347 BCE) to that of Constantius II (340 CE). The Buchis bull was linked to various divinities, primarily the sun god Ra, of whom the bull was the ‘herald’, and the warrior god Montu, the main deity of Hermonthis. After a bull’s death, he was also associated with Osiris and Atum (the bull necropolis was called ‘the House of Atum’). The mention of the Buchis in Macrobius’ Saturnalia (1.21.20-21) shows that, although not as famous as the Apis in Memphis or the Mnevis in Heliopolis, the bull of Hermonthis was also known outside Egypt. The animal necropolis, located north of the town, was excavated between 1927 and 1932; the results, including the complete edition of the stelae by Herbert W. Fairman, were published shortly after.16 The burial area consisted of two sites, the so-called Bucheum for the bulls and, less than 1 kilometre north of it, the Baqaria for the cows who bore them. Both were characterised by a series of underground vaulted chambers linked by passages, with each chamber originally containing one mummified animal; the majority of the bulls and some of the cows were buried in sarcophagi. The funerary stelae of the Buchis rested on a stone slab against the blocked entrance to its respective chamber, together with a rich variety of funerary objects such as offering tables, pots, etc. The stelae, although differing in detail over almost seven centuries, are generally consistent in their main features.17 The lunette is decorated with the winged sun disk and a pair of jackals. In the centre, the pharaoh, identified by his cartouches, makes offerings to the bull. Below, a hieroglyphic text gives an account of the bull’s life, with major events (usually birth, installation as sacred bull, and death) dated to the regnal year of a given king, who is named by his titulary. These documents stand out as a remarkable source for the last centuries of Egyptian religion, providing rich evidence of the local animal cult and its relationship with the rulers of Egypt.18

15 16 17 18

DIJKSTRA 2008 on late antique Philae); cf. MEDINI 2015, arguing against the idea of a gradual and unavoidable decline of the temples during the Roman period. JONES & MCFADDEN 2015. DECKERS 2020. BARBAGLI 2020. MOND & MYERS 1934. Cf. DODSON 2005 on bull cults in Egypt (Hermonthis, 95–100). MOND & MYERS 1934, I, 20–21 and 144 on the original positioning of the stelae. On their iconography, see GOLDBRUNNER 2004, 38–49. The reference work on the Buchis and its theology is GOLDBRUNNER 2004, to which one should add: BETRÒ 2003. PARLASCA & KURTH 2012. KLOTZ 2012a, esp. 79–80, 398–401. THIERS 2021, 129–161 (contributions by C. Sambin and Ch. Thiers).

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Two stelae from the necropolis bear the only secure attestations of the cartouches of Diocletian and his colleagues (a Buchis stela), as well as their successors Licinius and Constantine (a Mother of Buchis stela). A further funerary stela of Buchis, dated to the reign of Constantius II (the latest to be inscribed), features no pharaoh in the offering scene and has no mention of the ruling emperor in the dating formula, which refers instead to the regnal years of the long-dead Diocletian. Because of the peculiarities of this document, the evidence from Hermonthis dating between the end of the 3rd and the mid-4th centuries CE has been used to support a narrative of pagan reaction to the rise of Christianity: according to this, the local priests practised a form of resistance, avoiding the depiction of the Christian emperors as pharaohs and, as in the case of Constantius, even their mention. By contrast, they took into consideration the pagan pharaohs, primarily Diocletian, who was retrospectively selected for dating purposes at the expense of the ruling emperor. This hypothesis is allegedly corroborated by the reading of the name of another pagan emperor, Maximinus Daza, on two blocks belonging to a temple on the site of Tahta (in the Sohag Governorate of Upper Egypt).19 The aim of this article is to question this widespread narrative by analysing the hieroglyphic documents related to the Roman pharaohs from the tetrarchic period until the mid-4th century CE, outlining their reception in the tradition of Egyptian kingship and proposing a new interpretation of the evidence. The analysis is intended to broaden our understanding of how the four-fold imperial college was received in Egypt, add a new chapter to the history of coregencies as attested in hieroglyphic documents,20 and explore the legacy of the tetrarchic innovation and the figure of Diocletian in Egyptian texts. THE FOUR PHARAOHS The stela of the only known bull interred during the tetrarchic period (Pl. 17–18) pertains to burial no. 20, in the South Passage of the Bucheum.21 The mummified bull was found without a sarcophagus: from the mid-3rd century CE onward, the bulls were no longer entombed in proper chambers, a change that which may be a sign of the diminished economic means of those involved in their cult. The 19 This suggestion was first proposed, on the basis of the stela of Constantius II, by GRENIER 1983, then followed and developed by himself and other scholars: KÁKOSY 1995, 2931. FRANKFURTER 1998, 107–108. RITNER 1998, 25–26; 28. HÖLBL 2000, 45, 114. GRENIER 2002, 254– 256. KLOTZ 2012a, 380. 20 Even though the existence of coregencies is much debated for some phases of dynastic Egypt, during the Graeco-Roman period co-rulers were clearly represented and described as such in the Egyptian documentation: see MURNANE 1977, especially 94–109. Particularly on Ptolemaic coregencies, see MINAS-NERPEL 2014. 21 London, British Museum EA1696. Sandstone. H. 68 cm, l. 39 cm, w. 11 cm. MOND & MYERS 1934, II, 18–19, 34, 52; III, pl. XLVI, no. 19. See also: BELÇAGUY 1974. GOLDBRUNNER 2004, 117, 161. REFAI 2015, 97–98. On the tomb of the tetrarchic bull and its features see MOND & MYERS 1934, I, 31, 43, 171, 178.

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execution of the stela is quite rough, and the figures have markedly plump proportions. The winged sun-disk with the two pendant cobras takes up much of the lunette, enclosing figures of two seated jackals, each with a key tied around its neck. The two elements represent, respectively, the solar deity Horus of Edfu, with the cobras symbolising Upper and Lower Egypt, and the animal traditionally connected to the netherworld. This iconography, which is present on many of the earlier stelae, may symbolise the sun god overseeing the netherworld or his nightly journey through it.22 The middle register, framed by a depiction of the starry sky (top) and the hieroglyphic text (below), represents the pharaoh offering to the mummified bull, which lies on a plinth and is protected by a winged sun-disk behind him. The bull and the king are accompanied by inscriptions with their names and titles. In front of the king’s head are the two cartouches, preceded by the customary nswt-bity nb tA.wy, ‘king of Upper and Lower Egypt, lord of the Two Lands’, and sA Ra nb xa.w, ‘son of Ra, lord of crowns’. The cartouches, however, are small and differ in size; furthermore, they are empty, leaving the figure of the pharaoh without a defined identity. The bull, wrapped in bandages indicated by the net-like pattern on its body, wears a headdress made of a solar disc between its horns and two ostrich feathers. The features of the pharaoh are in keeping with the traditional iconography of kings of Egypt: he wears the double crown, with a fillet hanging down his back, a necklace that resembles a crescent, and a kilt with the royal bull’s tail hanging down. Instead of the usual short skirt with the characteristic projecting triangular front, the pharaoh wears another traditional combination, of a short kilt and a long skirt, the latter visible only in the background (suggesting a transparent fabric, a detail that may have been clearer when the stela retained its polychrome decoration).23 The king holds a burning censer in his left raised hand, while with the right hand he pours a libation on an offering table laden with food. The offering of incense and libations was part of the ‘opening of the mouth’ ritual, performed in order to animate a statue or the mummy of a deceased being.24 The same ritual is depicted almost identically on the stelae of Antoninus Pius and Aurelian.25 Indeed, the offering scene and the text attested for the first time by the stela of Antoninus constituted the model for the later funerary monuments under Aurelian and Diocletian,26 which are the only ones preserved from the series between the mid-2nd and late 3rd centuries CE. The main differences between the tetrarchic stela and those of 22 The motif of the two jackals with the keys to the afterlife, seated and facing each other, is common not only to the Buchis stelae of the 2nd and 3rd centuries CE but also to other funerary artefacts of the Theban area during the imperial age: RIGGS 2005, 238; cf. PARLASCA 2010. 23 Within the corpus of surviving Buchis stelae, this kind of composite skirt occurs only on the stela of Ptolemy IV (Cairo, Egyptian Museum JdE 53145. Sandstone. H. 86 cm, l. 48 cm; 214 BCE. MOND & MYERS 1934, II, 4 and 29; III, pl. XXXIX, no. 6). Its use here seems to be a unicum for the Roman period. 24 GOLDBRUNNER 2004, 177–179. 25 Stela of Antoninus Pius: Cairo, Egyptian Museum JdE 53146. Sandstone. H. 85 cm. Stela of Aurelian: London, British Museum EA1695. Sandstone. H. 64,8 cm. Cf. MOND & MYERS 1934, II, 17–18 and 33–34; III, pl. XLV, nos. 17 and 18 (the latter is called ‘stela of Valerian’). 26 See GOLDBRUNNER 2004, 75–78 on the structure and formulas of this text.

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Antoninus and Aurelian are the garment of the pharaoh, along with some details in the formulas and the overall quality of the inscription.27 Below the offering scene are seven lines of hieroglyphic text that become progressively less horizontal. The first two lines record the date and place of birth of the Buchis bull, which was born on 20 Phamenoth, year 4 of Probus (16 March 279 CE).28 The emperor’s names are enclosed in the two cartouches transcribed from the genitive case, the first containing Aὐτοκράτωρ Καῖσαρ and the second featuring only his personal name.29 The following five lines deal with the bull’s death, his heavenly journey, funerary formulas, and the identity of his mother. The end of Buchis’ terrestrial life is dated according to three different regnal years: 12 and 11, each followed by a single cartouche, and 4, followed by two cartouches. Regnal year 12 is attributed to Diocletian (Hahtyr 6, i.e. 3 November 295 CE). The phonetic transcription of his name as Nrswkriwtsyiwn requires some comments (Pl. 19.a). The sign r at the beginning of the name must be interpreted as an erroneous depiction of the t-bread loaf , a phenomenon attested elsewhere in the GraecoRoman period and probably originating from the influence of the hieratic script on the hieroglyphic writing.30 The opening group Nts for the Greek Δι is not unprecedented, as shown by the name of Diadumenian on the latest decorated scene of the so-called ‘Emperors’ corridor’ in the temple of Sobek and Haroeris at Kom Ombo (Ntsytwmnyns = Διαδουµενιανός).31 The hieroglyph , by contrast, is rather puzzling. The sign can bear the phonetic value w, thus making this part of Diocletian’s name similar to the demotic transcription of the emperor’s name Ṱswgl (with variants; see further below), but attestations of that value are extremely rare.32 Another possibility is that may be the result of confusion with the hieroglyph which, also bearing the phonetic value a, was

27 MOND & MYERS 1934, II, 34; cf. GOLDBRUNNER 2004, 48. 28 In the chronological references I adopt the system used by Fairman, referring to the months by their Egyptian names instead of their number within a given season as is written in the hieroglyphic text. Calculations for the Julian calendar are made with the help of https://aegyptologie.online-resourcen.de/ (last accessed 31.08.2022). 29 The spelling of the name may be Prwp (Πρόβος) or Prabwy (Πρόβου) depending on the reading of the hieroglyphs following as or as a double symmetrically arranged as . While the first reading is commonly accepted (BELÇAGUY 1974, 12. GRENIER 1988, 70. 1989a, 84– 85), I agree with VON BECKERATH (1999, 264; cf. the drawing by Fairman in MOND & MYERS 1934, III, pl. XLVI A no. 19) who proposed the second solution, which accords better with what can be seen on the stela itself. 30 KURTH 1999, 78 (m). 31 See also GRENIER 1983, 203 n. 1. On Diadumenian’s cartouches: HÖLBL 2000, 97–99, figs. 124–125. HALLOF 2010, II, 170. The transcription of Δι + vowel as Nts in the case of both Diadumenian and Diocletian perhaps reflects a dialectal feature of local Greek, indicating an affricate pronunciation [dj] > [dz] or [dzj]; the same applies to τια [tja] >[tsja]. See also n. 91 below. I would like to thank Leonardo De Santis for his help in this linguistic matter. 32 KURTH 2009, 239 n. 273.

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employed to transcribe a great variety of Greek vowels (α, ε, ια, ο).33 All things considered, the first hypothesis is preferable. Finally, comparison of the ending to the of the following name suggests that the hieroglyphs were arranged in this way either to fit into the cartouche or possibly by mistake, but that the reading should be the same as for the other cartouche, namely -niw. The hieroglyphic transcription of Diocletian’s name thus obtained, Ntswkriwtsyniw (or Ntsakriwtsyniw), surely comes from the Greek genitive case (Διοκλητιανοῦ). Regnal year 11 is associated with the cartouche of Maximian (Pl. 19.b): the transcription Miwksymyniw is connected to the Greek genitive form of his name (Mαξιµιανοῦ). Distinct from the two examples above, regnal year 4 is followed by two cartouches (Pl. 19.c-d); therefore, one may expect that it is linked to only one ruler with two names.34 This is what Fairman inferred from the text, suggesting that they contained the title Caesar and the name of Galerius (i.e. Maximian, as he was customarily referred to in antiquity), called Kwsrsyw Miwkrymyw. The attribution of the latter element to the fourth emperor of the ‘first tetrarchy’ is not particularly problematic – the name Maximian is transcribed with instead of the expected , and lacks the syllable an, but there can be little doubt that we are dealing with Galerius’ name, again transcribed from the Greek genitive case.35 What is more baffling, by contrast, is the element Kwsrsyw and its interpretation as Caesar.36 In his catalogue of the Egyptian royal titularies, Jürgen von Beckerath suggested that the unusual form Kwsrsyw resulted from the combination of the title Caesar and the transcription of the Latin epithet Iovius. The latter, however, is virtually absent from the titularies of the emperors in Egypt, while it is unlikely that Caesar would come before name of Galerius, since it regularly follows his name in Greek dating formulas. In the Greek evidence, the only name we would expect to see is that of Constantius, the other Caesar of the first tetrarchic imperial college, who was senior and is consistently mentioned before Galerius. The ending -yw, identical to the following cartouche (similar to the -iw of the preceding two names) is oriented in the same direction, suggesting that what is written is a personal name, transcribed from the genitive form, that is clearly different from the common 33 For this hypothesis, see GRENIER 1983, 203 n. 1. Cf. col. 1 of the inscription on the back pillar of the late 1st century BCE draped statue of Pakhom (Detroit, Detroit Institute of Arts 51.83. Granodiorite. H. 69,8 cm; WARDA 2012, II, 245–255 no. 23): the schematic carving of the hieroglyphs resulted, within the epithet nTr aA, ‘great god’, in the writing of in a sign resembling . For the reverse substitution of the signs ( replaced by ), based on the influence of the cursive hieroglyphic shape of them, see KURTH 1999, 88 (cb). On the use of a in the transcription of Greek names: KURTH 2009, 503 (11.6). 34 As for the names of Tiberius in certain stelae recording building and restoration activities in Thebes: KLOTZ 2012a, 259–260 (Luxor Museum, inv. 228), 263–267 (Luxor Museum, without inv.; Cairo, inv. CG 22198 and 22193), 272–273 (London, inv. BM EA617), 278–279 (Berlin 14401). For further occurrences see BARBAGLI 2021, 192–193 n. 17. 35 Defective transcriptions of imperial names are not uncommon, as shown, for instance, by a selection of Caracalla’s cartouches in Esna: SAUNERON 1975, 28–37 nos. 483–485, featuring, respectively, instead of the form antAnyns: atAnys; atAnys and antAnys; antAnnns and AntAnn. 36 BELÇAGUY 1974, 12–14. GRENIER 1989a, 85 no. A 1. VON BECKERATH 1999, 266.

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transcription of Καῖσαρ with the final -s. On closer inspection (Pl. 20.a), the second sign in the cartouche, which Fairman interpreted as the comma-like sign for w, has a different shape, more likely resembling the nw-vase .37 It seems, therefore, that the name should be read Knsrsyw or, amending to (as with Diocletian’s name), Knstsyw, a defective transcription of the name Kωνσταντίου. If this interpretation is correct, we are not dealing with an unusual and deficient dating formula with only three members of the imperial college but a more canonical one that records the names of all four emperors and attributes the same regnal year to the Caesares, consistently paralleling the format of the Greek documentation.38 Furthermore, the transcription of all the names from the genitive case, instead of the nominative, suggests that the dating formula may have been directly modelled upon one seen in a contemporary Greek document (the same may be true for Probus’ titulary). This hypothesis can also explain two new features of the hieroglyphic formula, namely the reference to multiple regnal years and the use of the expression pr-aA.w nty xw, ‘the kings who are revered’ (rather than rn.w nty xw, ‘the names which are revered’ or ‘whose names are revered’) to end the sequence of names.39 During the Graeco-Roman period, the general tendency of dating formulas in administrative documents was to indicate the regnal years of the senior king only, even when more than one ruler was referred to.40 For instance, the Greek and 37 The sign is made up of a circular point and a comma-like stroke and its shape is quite consistent throughout the text, unlike some other hieroglyphs in the stela. The sign I read as , by contrast, is made up of a point with the upper part slightly splayed, similar to the protruding rim of a vase: there is no space for the comma-like stroke of the beneath it. What may have led Fairman to read this as a is damage affecting the and the next to it, which looks like a straight stroke attached to the bottom of . Furthermore, he may have been persuaded by that reading if, as it seems, he interpreted the -like sign with the stroke on the line above (l. 2) as a genitival adjective introducing a personal name, which he tentatively transcribed ¡r-nriwrA-br. From a palaeographical point of view, can indeed assume a different shape in the upper part, with a slender neck and/or a wider mouth (very similar to many occurrences of the sign in this stela): see, for instance, the different writings of the sign in the text incised on the back pillar of the statue of Pakhom referred to above, n. 33. If was intended here, the scribe or stonecutter must have been confused, realising a cross-like shape over the circular form (cf. GOLDBRUNNER 2004, 232, who proposes two different readings of the phrase: sA n ¡r-nriw-rAbr or sA Nfr-¡r-nriw-rA-br ‘the byre of ¡r-nriw-rA-br/ Nfr-¡r-nriw-rA-br’). 38 BAGNALL & WORP 2004, 43–44; cf. THOMAS 1971 on the developments of the tetrarchic dating formula. 39 The sign usually has the meaning rn ‘name’, hence Fairman’s suggestion to read the epithet as ‘whose names are revered’ (MOND & MYERS 1934, II, 18; BELÇAGUY 1974, 10). By the early 4th century BCE, however, the same sign was also used to write pr-aA, ‘pharaoh, king’ (DE MEULENAERE 1959, 13 n. 3. 1960, 97 no. 13). Such a reading is for sure a more satisfactory one, both from the point of view of the textual parallels to pr-aA.w nty xw in some demotic documents (see n. 50 below) and the syntax: one does not have to read the whole epithet as a kind of parenthetic sentence focussed on the names instead of the rulers, as in ‘the names which are revered’, nor to add a relative pronoun in the translation, as in ‘whose names are revered’. 40 The only securely attested separate counting of regnal years due to a coregency are: Cleopatra III and her son Ptolemy X (in Greek and in demotic: CHAUVEAU 1990, 147–150. 1997, esp. 164–165); the emperor Aurelian and Vaballathus, the king of Palmyra (in Greek only:

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demotic documentation shows that the regnal years of the Severans were always reckoned by Septimius Severus’ rise to power in 193 CE.41 The hieroglyphic dating formulas also demonstrate a tendency to use a single count for regnal years, with exceptions mainly confined to the Ptolemaic period.42 One Roman formula occurs on a funerary stela of a Mother of Buchis, dated on stylistic and iconographic grounds between the mid-2nd and the late 3rd century CE.43 The first line of the hieroglyphic text reads: [rnp.t-sp x +] 5 xr Hm 3 (or Hm.w), ‘[regnal year x +] 5 under the three Majesties of’ or ‘under the Majesties of’, followed by two blank cartouches. The indication of the plurality of ruling pharaohs is rather surprising and, according to Grenier, may reflect the joint rulership of three emperors, the most plausible candidates being the Severans. The scribe’s difficulty in notating this political circumstance, perhaps also determined by the model for the hieroglyphic text and the difficulty of adapting it, resulted in the two blank cartouches. What is relevant for our analysis is that, following traditional usage, only one regnal year is indicated at the beginning of the text, regardless of the plurality of rulers. The formation of a new imperial college under Diocletian, however, led to the adoption of multiple regnal years in the Greek dating formulas that indicate seniority and use specific titles, aptly conveying the composite imperial hierarchy. The formulas refer to the emperors in different ways, for instance distinguishing each regnal year and the corresponding emperor,44 or listing the different regnal years and then referring synthetically to the members of the imperial college.45 Thus, the

41 42

43

44

45

BAGNALL & WORP 2004, 43, with earlier literature. Aurelian, because of his rank, is placed first regardless of the lower regnal year count). A particular case is the joint rule of Ptolemy VI, Cleopatra II and Ptolemy VIII between 170 and 164 BCE, when a new single reckoning was used: CHAUVEAU 1990, 148 and n. 37; cf. the demotic documents in DEPAUW 2007, 91–93. BURETH 1964, 93–101 (Greek documents). DEPAUW 2007, 228–239 (demotic documents). Caracalla, similarly to other emperors of the late 2nd and 3rd centuries CE, continued to count the regnal years from his father’s accession in both Greek and demotic documents. See, for instance, the Buchis stela of Ptolemy XII (London, British Museum EA1698. Sandstone. H. 76 cm, l. 53 cm, w. 8 cm; 65 BCE. MOND & MYERS 1934, II, 11 and 31–32; III, pl. XLII, no. 12), which mentions the date of the bull’s birth as ‘year 16 corresponding to year 13’ followed by the empty cartouches of the king and the queen: this is a reference to the years of joint rulership of Cleopatra III and Ptolemy X (ll.1 and 3). Amsterdam, Allard Pierson Museum 10776. Sandstone. H. 75 cm, l. 50 cm. See: VAN HAARLEM 1995, 100–102. GRENIER 2003, 268–273. GOLDBRUNNER 2004, 98–99 suggests a 4th-century CE dating because of the absence of the offering pharaoh; however, there are many iconographic and stylistic differences from the extant 4th-century CE examples. E.g. P. Oxy. 38 2849. 23–26, 19 May 296 CE (TM 22236): (ἔτους) ιβ Αὐτοκράτορος Καίσαρος Γαΐου Αὐρηλίου Οὐαλερίου Διοκλητιανοῦ κ[αὶ] | (ἔτους) ια Αὐτοκράτορος Καίσαρος̣ ΜA[άρ]κ̣[ο]υ̣ Αὐρηλίου Οὐαλερίου Μαξιµιανοῦ Γερµανικῶ(ν) | µεγίστων Σαρµατικῶν µ[εγίστ]ων καὶ (ἔτους) δ τῶν κυρίων ἡµῶν Κωσταντίου καὶ | Μαξιµιανοῦ τῶν ἐπιφανεστάτων Καισάρων Σεβαστῶν. E.g. P. Sakaon. 3. 16, 1–26 January 300 CE (TM 13047): ἔτους ιϛ καὶ ιε καὶ η τῶν κυρίων ἡµῶν Διοκλητιανοῦ καὶ Μαξιµιανοῦ Σεβαστῶν καὶ Κωνσταντίου καὶ Μαξιµιανοῦ τῶν ἐπιφανεστάτων Καισάρων. Cf. BAGNALL & WORP 2004, 230–241 on the different types of formulas. There are no instances of dating formulas in demotic for the tetrarchic period. An unpublished stela that has been tentatively attributed to year 6 of Diocletian (Paris, Musée du

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anomaly of our dating formula is best explained as a result of the scribe’s effort to render what he had seen on a Greek document into hieroglyphic text, deviating from the traditional usage and patterns of a single regnal year as well as multiple regnal years, because he simply brought together dates and cartouches, without using any of the connecting verbal forms occurring in double dates, such as rnp.t-sp N ir.t rnp.t-sp X, ‘regnal year N which is regnal year X’. The scribe’s source document, moreover, may have been characterised by the attribution of the title Σεβαστός to all emperors, irrespective of their difference in rank, a treatment quite well attested in documentation pertaining to the administrative, monetary, and religious spheres.46 The Severans, for instance, were already represented as sharing the same features as if they were of equal rank, in spite of Geta’s status as Caesar, not only in some titularies47 but also in the painted Berlin tondo which features them sharing the same emblems48 and on a temple relief in Esna (on which, see below). Under the rule of Diocletian, although the difference between the Augusti and the Caesares is usually stated through the use of their respective titles, at times all four emperors are labelled as Σεβαστοί at the end of the dating formula.49 The author of the hieroglyphic text attempted to refer to all four emperors as Σεβαστοί, as he had probably found them named on his Greek document, by adopting the title pr-aA.w nty xw, otherwise not attested in hieroglyphic texts. The expression pr-aA nty xw emerged as a designation for the rulers in the

46 47

48 49

Louvre E 8029. Sandstone. H. 50,5 cm, l. 29,3 cm, d. 9 cm; DEPAUW 2007, 231; TM 53903), in fact belongs to the reign of Domitian (ll. 3–5): Atwkrtwr | (Gysrsa.w.s (&wmytyAnsa.w.s. | (%bstwa.w.s. (Grmnykwa.w.s, that is ‘Autokrator | (Caesarl.p.h. (Domitianl.p.h. | (Sebastosl.p.h. (Germanicusl.p.h.’. The first element has the foreign and divine determinatives; the others are preceded by the opening of cartouche and followed by the divine determinative, plus the wish ‘life, prosperity, and health’. On the lack of the closing of cartouche in some demotic titularies see CLARYSSE 2013, 8–9. SESTON 1946, 65 n. 2 with references to earlier literature. See also VAN’T DACK 1974, 870– 871 (on 3rd century CE emperors) and ALTMAYER 2014, 46–47 (on Carus, Carinus, and Numerian). E.g. I. Akoris 11. 3–7, 29 August 201 CE (TM 92988): ιʹ Σεουήρο[υ] | καὶ Ἀντωνίνο[υ] | [καὶ Γέτα] τῶν κυρίων Σεβαστῶν. Among the few demotic documents dated to Septimius Severus’ reign, only one graffito in Philae mentions the emperor and his two sons (CRUZ-URIBE 2016, 76 no. 585, 204 CE; TM 806097. Geta’s names were erased after his death in December 211 CE). Although it is not possible to see if all three emperors originally shared the Egyptian version of Σεβαστός because the titularies are not well enough preserved, the inscription shows that they were considered to have the same rank: the emperors are referred to as nA pr-aA.w nAy=n Ts[y.w], ‘the kings, our lords’ (l. 6; cf. l. 11), a set of titles that is usually attributed to the Augusti (Septimius Severus and Caracalla: Graff. Dodec. Philae 432. 3–4 and 431. 3–4, 27 March and 15 April 200 CE; TM 50862 and 52191. Valerian and Gallienus: Graff. Dodec. Philae 301. 5, 255/6 CE; TM 53415). Berlin, Staatliche Museen, Antikensammlung inv. 31329. Tempera on wood. Diameter: 30,5 cm. See: PFEIFFER 2010, 188–189. BERGMANN 2012, 287–290. E.g. P. Oxy. 31 2578. 2–4, 30 March 298 CE (TM 16895): ιγ καὶ ιβ καὶ ε τῶν κυρίων ἡµῶν Διοκλητιανοῦ | καὶ Μαξιµιανοῦ καὶ Κωνσταντίου καὶ Μαξιµιανοῦ | Σεβαστῶν; cf. also the document mentioned at n. 44 above. On this feature of tetrarchic titularies, see MARESCH 2006, 64–66.

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demotic titularies during the 2nd century CE when the royal title pr-aA, ‘pharaoh, king’ was revived after a break of a century and a half.50 Differently from the Ptolemaic period, when pr-aA had eventually become the Egyptian equivalent of the Greek βασιλεύς ‘king’ (thus leading to its abandonment in the early Roman period), the title was now employed as an element following the ruler’s names rather than preceding it;51 furthermore, it was used either alone or in combination with other elements, as in pr-aA nty xw. It is probable that, as Grenier seems to imply,52 at some point the Egyptian royal title was reinstated in demotic titularies as a version of κύριος ‘lord’, either as an alternative or as a compound of the epithet Tsy, ‘master, lord’ (already used for imperial titularies), perhaps because it evoked explicitly the traditional appellative of ancient kings. If this was the case, the scribe’s Greek source document might have featured as a closing element the expression οἱ κύριοι Σεβαστοί. One cannot exclude the possibility that he would have chosen pr-aA.w nty xw even if he had found a slightly different wording of those elements, like the widespread formula framing the imperial names οἱ κύριοι ἡµῶν… Σεβαστοί.53 It is noteworthy that none of the four cartouches is preceded by any of the usual titles, contrary to the titulary of Probus above; furthermore, each emperor is represented only by one cartouche. It seems unlikely that the lack of titles must be attributed to the scribe not recognising the emperors as pharaohs. If that had been the case, he might have avoided such clear marks of kingship as the cartouche and the closing epithet. Of course, it cannot be ruled out that the scribe was attempting to fit the four co-rulers into the framework of Egyptian royal ideology, as we have seen elsewhere. Although scribes were used to dealing with the plurality of kings in Greek and demotic documents, they may have found the more traditional formulas of the hieroglyphic script difficult. The ritual scenes featuring joint pharaohs in the Roman period, however, demonstrate that it was possible to use the customary

50 The last occurrence of the title (and the only one of the early Roman period) is found in P. Dime 2 43. A. 5–6, 6–9 September 25 BCE (TM 100256): pr-aAa.w.s. pA nTr ˹nty˺ mHe ‘the kingl.p.h. the god who conquers’. Then, it is found again by the time of Marcus Aurelius (Graff. Dodec. Philae 429. 3–4, 5 August 169 CE; TM 53545). The expression pr-aA nty xw is attested for Commodus (P. Zauzich 31. 8–9, 10 April 190 CE; TM 50654); Septimius Severus and his son(s?), who are mentioned only as pr-aA.w nty xw (P. Zauzich 32. 12, 199/200 CE; TM 93284. P. Zauzich 33. 9, 25 July 203 CE; TM 50657); Severus Alexander (Graff. Dodec. Philae 317. 4, 230/231 CE; TM 53431); Trebonianus Gallus and his son (Graff. Dodec. Philae 416. 25, 10th April 253 CE; TM 51871); Valerian and Gallienus (Graff. Dodec. Philae 273. 3–4; 258/259 CE; TM 53386). 51 The only exception is found on a demotic ostracon from Medinet Madi (Cairo, Egyptian Museum OMM 298; TM 89467) recording a visit by emperor Hadrian, which is unlike the other documents attesting to the use of pr-aA in the imperial period, all of administrative and votive nature; see KLOTZ 2012a, 323, with earlier literature. 52 GRENIER 1989a, 67 no. A 2 n. b. 53 In the late 3rd and early 4th century CE the former expression (formulated as οἱ κύριοι ἡµῶν Σεβαστοί) is attested only during the joint rule of Diocletian and Maximian, while οἱ κύριοι ἡµῶν… Σεβαστοί occurs also in later documents, when the imperial college comprised four members; see the titularies in BAGNALL & WORP 2004, 226–241.

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titles for more than one ruler at a time.54 Such scenes are well represented by the panels of the ‘Emperors’ corridor’ at Kom Ombo (depicting co-Augusti, like Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, as well as an Augustus with his Caesar, like Macrinus and Diadumenian) and by the depiction of the Severans on the south wall of the hypostyle hall in the temple of Khnum at Esna.55 The latter provides a comparative piece of evidence for our case, as it depicts three kings and one queen, namely Septimius Severus, his wife Julia Domna, and their two sons Caracalla and Geta, in front of the ram-headed god Khnum, his companion Nebetuu, and the child god Heka. Each emperor has a pair of cartouches, preceded by the customary titles, containing their names and the epithet nty xw. The three male members of the family are thus equated in rank from both the Egyptian (all three are presented as fullfledged pharaohs) and the Graeco-Roman (all three are Σεβαστοί) perspectives.56 The absence of royal titles before the cartouches in the tetrarchic stela may have a different explanation. The other stelae from Hermonthis show that this epigraphic peculiarity is not unique or unprecedented. The hieroglyphic text inscribed on the stela of the Buchis born under Valerian, for instance, bears two examples of an irregular use of the royal titulary. The first line of the text refers to the emperor as nswt-bity nb tA.wy (Wrryns)| sA Ra nb xa.w, ‘king of Upper and Lower Egypt, lord of the Two Lands (Valerian)| son of Ra, lord of crowns’, without a following cartouche. Then, in the dating formula recording the bull’s death, only the small cartouche of Aurelian follows the indication of the regnal year, without any title before it.57 This feature is also found in the second quarter of the 4th century CE, in the fragmentary stela of a Mother of Buchis (see further below). In the second line of the text, the indication of year 4 is followed by a cartouche with the name of Licinius without any introductory titles; by contrast, the dating formula on the first line features a pair of cartouches. Thus, these 3rd- and 4th-century CE texts share characteristics in the naming of the rulers: while the first line of the text maintains the traditional pair of titles and cartouches (except in the case of Valerian), the following dating references have a single cartouche containing only one name (Aurelian, Diocletian, Maximian, Constantius, Galerius, Licinius). This phenomenon may hint at the growing unfamiliarity of the scribes with the old titles and formulas, resulting in a different, local epigraphic habit. Perhaps, the author of the tetrarchic inscription slightly adapted the text of an earlier stela (seen on stone or in a master copy), and 54 This also reinforces the impression that the dating formula with blank cartouches on the Mother of Buchis stela attributed to the Severans may constitute an exceptional case of partial adaptation of traditional patterns because of the multiplicity of rulers. 55 On the reliefs of the ‘Emperors’ corridor’, see HOFFMANN 2015, 152–154. On the Severan relief: SAUNERON 1952, 113–118. 1975, 68–70 no. 496. HÖLBL 2000, 108–111. PFEIFFER 2010, 191–192. HOFFMANN 2015, 151–152. 56 PFEIFFER 2010, 191 n. 1066, rightly points out that the different crowns worn by the emperors do not imply a difference in rank, since each one of them is characterised as king. 57 On the reading of this name as Aurelian instead of Probus, see GRENIER 1988, 69–71 (no. 6). It is unlikely that the small dimensions of the cartouche and the lack of titles on the stela resulted from a miscalculation of space by the stonecutter, since the signs are widely spaced throughout the text.

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while attributing a canonical pair of cartouches to Probus, he only added one name for each of the four emperors in the following lines, simply marking their royal status with the cartouches and the encompassing title pr-aA.w nty xw. The latter was surely a more convenient and current way to refer to the four emperors as pharaohs than the old system, which would also have entailed a multiplication of titles and have taken up much more space of the stela. It remains to discuss the depiction of the pharaoh in the offering scene. The presence of only one offering figure instead of four should not surprise, because even during coregencies the pharaoh was most often depicted alone, including in temple scenes. The Severan family image at Esna, for instance, is the only one on a wall that features eighteen other panels representing each male member of the family alone as pharaoh (admittedly, some of Caracalla may have been carved during his sole rule).58 Furthermore, the design of the Buchis stelae always featured the pharaoh offering alone.59 Thus, it is to be expected that the tetrarchic stela would depict one king and not four; moreover, there would hardly have been enough space to depict four pharaohs and the bull. What may at first appear more surprising is the choice to carve small, empty cartouches that leave the royal figure unnamed. Modern scholars tend to correct this apparent oddity by identifying the figure with Diocletian.60 While such a specific identification may have been implied, the anonymity of the pharaoh has precedents within the Buchis corpus of the Roman period. Two early isolated cases are the stela of Augustus dated to the first year of Roman rule (16 April 29 BCE), and that of Tiberius.61 Both show the pharaoh offering the field sign to the image of the living bull in accord with the Ptolemaic iconography, but the offering figure on the first stela has no cartouches, while that on the second stela has empty ones. In the first case, the lack of cartouches can be attributed to the uncertainty surrounding the young Caesar’s status immediately after the conquest (his name, occurring in the first dating formula, is not enclosed within the cartouche, while the other Ptolemaic cartouches are empty). The blank cartouches of the Tiberian stela, however, have no clear explanation. Moreover, each of these stelae is followed by another (a second stela of Augustus and one of Domitian, the other two extant from the 1st-century CE series) that features the pharaoh accompanied by cartouches with the emperor’s titulary.

58 The same applies to the Ptolemies, e.g. in the relief decoration in the temple of Hathor at Deir el-Medina dating to the rule of Ptolemy VI, VIII and Cleopatra II: MURNANE 1977, 97. MINASNERPEL 2014, 146–150. 59 However, see the stela dated to the transition from Ptolemy VI’s to Ptolemy VIII’s rule, which features the offering pharaoh, the bull and, behind it, the goddess Isis: Cairo, Egyptian Museum JdE 53147. Sandstone. H. 84 cm. MOND & MYERS 1934, II, 6–9 and 30; III, pl. XLI, no. 9. Cf. CHAUVEAU 1990, esp. 144 and n. 19. CHAUVEAU 1991. 60 MURNANE 1977, 108. FLUCK, HELMECKE & O’CONNELL 2015, 52 no. 46. 61 Stela of Augustus: København, Ny Carslberg Glyptothek AEIN 1681. Sandstone. H. 90 cm, l. 57 cm. Stela of Tiberius: Toronto, Royal Ontario Museum 932.10.1. Sandstone. H. 78 cm. MOND & MYERS 1934, II, 11–15 and 32–33; III, pls. XLIII–XLIV, nos. 13 and 15. On the texts of these stelae, see GOLDBRUNNER 2004, 64–71.

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From the mid-2nd century CE onwards, all the surviving stelae display an anonymous pharaoh; the offering figure on the stela of Hadrian has two cartouches containing only the title pr-aA,62 while on the stelae of Antoninus Pius and Aurelian he has empty cartouches and no cartouches respectively (these are unlikely to have been painted).63 It is possible that giving an identity to the offering pharaoh was not seen as fundamental because the ruling emperor played a diminished role in the cult of Buchis at that time. The texts of the stelae of the 2nd and 3rd centuries CE may also hint in this direction: in all of these, the relationship between the Roman ruler and the sacred bull is not referred to explicitly, making for a less active presence for the emperor.64 The stela of Tiberius, however, shows that the empty cartouches could be associated with an active role of the emperor, since this is conveyed by the texts in the offering scene and the account of the bull’s life, which ends with the common augural formula referring to the bull’s blessings towards the pious emperor.65 Perhaps the incipient separation between the ruling emperor, portrayed as an Egyptian king by the traditional epithets and cartouches in the dating formulas, and the function of pharaoh in the offering scene, whose identity was probably not as important as its simple presence, had become definitive in the bull cult by the time of Hadrian. The figure of the offering pharaoh could have represented any emperor – a particularly convenient solution in the presence of coregents like the tetrarchic imperial college – and its identity could be inferred from the text or even attributed by visitors to the necropolis of the bulls. MAXIMINUS DAZA AS PHARAOH? In the late 19th century, the Russian Egyptologist Vladimir S. Golénischeff discovered two decorated and inscribed blocks, most likely pertaining to a temple dedicated to the god Horus, close to the modern settlement of Tahta.66 As shown by the picture of the best-preserved block (Pl. 20.b), the decorated surface features marks from a claw chisel, showing that the surface had not received a final polishing. 62 Moscow, State Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts I.1.a 3017. Sandstone. H. 60 cm, l. 53,3 cm. HODJASH & BERLEV 1982, no. 147. Cf. GOLDBRUNNER 2004,74–75, 115–116, no. 16a. 63 Both features, particularly the use of the title pr-aA within the cartouches instead of the ruler’s names, also recur in some temple scenes and stelae from the late Ptolemaic and Roman periods. See DERCHAIN 1996, 95–97. HÖLBL 2004b, 533–534. PFEIFFER 2010, 226–228. 64 On the formulas of these stelae and the role of the king, see GOLDBRUNNER 2004, 71–78; 179– 180. 65 A similar phenomenon is attested by the multilingual stelae which Parthenios, overseer of the Isis temple in Coptos, erected to commemorate his building activity in the name of the JulioClaudian emperors (from early Tiberius to the death of Nero). The hieroglyphic text of these stelae consistently attributes to the Roman pharaohs the traditional role of donor of a construction, although the king is often represented with empty cartouches; the Greek and demotic texts make clear that it is Parthenios who is the builder and dedicant on behalf of (ὑπέρ = n-i.irHr/i.ir-Hr) the named emperor. The corpus of stelae and other inscriptions collected by FARID 1988 (cf. SEG 55 1826) is now larger: see the literature in PANTALACCI 2018, 18 n. 59. 66 GOLÉNISCHEFF 1889, 96–97.

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According to the drawings published by Golénischeff, both the blocks featured the upper part of a royal figure, identified by accompanying cartouches, and some lines of hieroglyphic inscription. The composite crown worn by the pharaoh is identical on both, but on the first it is topped by a line of hieroglyphs, while the second features the symbol of the sky. The cartouches bear the same three onomastic elements, with minor differences in the choice of signs: the throne name, introduced by the customary titles, can be read Awryrs Makans or Awryrs Kmans; the son of Ra name (which, at least on the photographed block, seems to lack the sign ) contains Kaysars. While the content of the second cartouche is clearly a variant spelling of the name Caesar, the reading and interpretation of the throne name has been much discussed, giving rise to scholarly debate about ‘L’enigme de Tahta’.67 The most successful interpretation of the second element of the cartouche has been as a defective rendering of ‘Maximinus’ (which could have been properly transcribed *Maksamns), which would suggest that the reliefs were intended to represent the appointed successor of Galerius, who ruled in the East as Caesar (305–309 CE), as filius Augustorum (309–310 CE), and then as Augustus (310–313 CE). This suggestion was corroborated by the reading of another cartouche on a stela of the Mother of Buchis, allegedly bearing two further instances of Maximinus’ personal name in a defective transcription (Mykns).68 Although the latter reading has been revised in favour of two other late antique emperors, Constantine and Licinius (as discussed below), some clues may argue in favour of the interpretation of the Tahta cartouches as indeed rendering Maximinus’ names. First, the sign can also be read mn, producing a version (Makamns) that is closer to the Greek Mαξιµῖνος. Second, there are some occurrences of a less accurate phonetic transcription of the Greek letter ξ in Egyptian (usually rendered phonetically with ks), for instance in the temple of Haroeris and Heqat at Qus, where one of the son of Ra cartouches of Ptolemy X Alexander I bears his second name written [A]rkitrs.69 Whether the spelling of the first element in the throne name as Awryrs resulted from Οὐαλέριος remains an open question; the name of the emperor Valerian (Οὐαλεριανός), which is the only form close to the name ‘Valerius’ in the Egyptian documentation, is transcribed Wrryns (hieroglyphs) or WlrynA and WAlryaAnnA (demotic, referring to the Οὐαλεριανοί, i.e. Valerian and Gallienus), so one might have expected an initial W in the Tahta cartouches if they were intended to render a Οὐαλέριος.70 If the blocks do date to the beginning of the 4th century CE, they would represent an isolated and extraordinary attestation of temple decoration decades after other known evidence. This apparent revival has generally been linked to Maximinus’ heavily antichristian policy and support of traditional cults. Some scholars 67 CAPART 1940, with previous bibliography; GRÉGOIRE 1940. 68 Proposed for the first time by WIEDEMANN 1896, 122–123 with a different reading of one hieroglyph, and then restated by CAPART 1940 on the base of the stela of the sacred cow. 69 HALLOF 2010, I, 215 P.10/.1. There are also some instances of defective writings in the second cartouche of Alexander the Great: see BOSCH-PUCHE 2014, 89–98, esp. the writing h), attested in Karnak and Hermopolis Magna. 70 GRENIER 1989a, 82–83 nos. A-C; cf. KURTH 2009, 504 on the hieroglyphic transcription of ουα with wi (11.9, based on the transcription of the name Nέρουας).

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believed his representation as pharaoh appeared fitting because he could be considered the ‘last great pagan emperor’ ruling in the East, before Christianity acquired pride of place as the emperors’ religion (with the short-lived exception of Julian’s rule).71 A different reading of the cartouches, however, suggests that the blocks may be dated to the reign of Commodus, thereby undermining the idea of temple decoration resurgence in the early 4th century CE.72 Some time after the discovery of the first blocks, Urbain Bouriant saw another fragmentary inscription at Tahta. Unlike the stones found by Golénischeff, the inscription displayed the cartouches horizontally.73 According to his publication, the order of the signs allows the following reading (Pl. 20.c): [nswt-bity nb tA.wy (?]wrrs Kmats)| sA Ra nb xa.w (Kysars)|, ‘[king of Upper and Lower Egypt, lord of the Two Lands (?]urelius Commodus)| son of Ra, lord of crowns (Caesar)|’, that is, a version of Commodus’ titulary. The other two blocks might have been inscribed with the names of the same emperor, even if the element ‘Commodus’ shows an erroneous instead of and the transcription of ‘Aurelius’ and ‘Caesar’ is slightly different. Bouriant did not supply any drawing or photograph, nor did Georges Daressy, who checked the same inscription and suggested reading rather than , attempting to argue against the reading ‘Commodus’ in favour of ‘Aurelius Maecianus’ or ‘Aurelius Magnus’.74 The only information one can glean from Bouriant’s note is that the first cartouche lacked its beginning, but it is not possible to know how extensive the break was, or if, for instance, the cartouche actually began with the sign w. The absence of a photograph means we cannot verify if the hieroglyphs were set within the cartouche as shown by Bouriant. His interpretation of the names as Commodus’ royal titulary is nonetheless appealing, because it implies only one (repeated) error, namely the substitution of the expected t-bread loaf with a nw-vase .75 Moreover, it agrees with the spelling Awryrs at the beginning of the throne name, which can easily be interpreted as a possible transcription of the name Aὐρήλιος.76 Overall, it seems more likely that the blocks from Tahta attest another version of Commodus’ hieroglyphic titulary and should be definitively excluded from the corpus related to the late antique pharaohs.77 71 KÁKOSY 1995, 2931. RITNER 1998, 25–26. HÖLBL 2000, 45 and 114. 72 The construction of the temple of Tahta was dated to the reign of Commodus by PORTER & MOSS 1937, 5, the unattributed author of the entry in the Lexikon der Ägyptologie, vol. VI, col. 184 (s.v. ‘Tahta’), and by ARNOLD 1999, 271. Their interpretation seems to have gone unnoticed. 73 BOURIANT 1896, 150 (§ 22). 74 DARESSY 1898, 80 (no. CLVIII), who also refuted Wiedemann’s interpretation as Maximinus Daza. Cf. CAPART 1940, 47. 75 Cf. KURTH 1999, 93 (ej). 76 Similar to other components of the Roman protocol, the hieroglyphic transcription of this name varies even for the titulary of the same ruler, ranging from Arrs to Awrrays, as shown by the cartouches of Marcus Aurelius, Lucius Verus and Commodus. On their titularies, see GRENIER 1989a, 65–73; HALLOF 2010, II, 152–160. 77 The format of this titulary, lacking the elements Αὐτοκράτωρ and Σεβαστός, and featuring ‘Caesar’ alone in the second cartouche, is consistent with a usage that was probably widespread across the region, since it is common to both Dakhla and Kharga oases (KAPER 2012, 143–144)

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CHRISTIAN EMPERORS AND EGYPTIAN KINGSHIP The latest known inscribed funerary stelae of a sacred cow and a Buchis bull bring our analysis to post-Diocletianic developments of the Roman pharaoh. Unlike the tetrarchic stela, these two did not derive from scientific excavations in Hermonthis, so it is not possible to associate them with any known burial; both arrived to their respective collections – the University of Aberdeen and the Egyptian Museum in Cairo – in the late 19th or early 20th century. The stela of the Mother of Buchis in Aberdeen is fragmentary (Pl. 21.a); only the upper part with three incomplete lines of the main text is preserved.78 The lunette shows the customary winged sun disk and the starry sky but no jackals, while the mid register is occupied by the scene and the first two lines of the text. There is no clear differentiation between the space of the figural representation and that of the inscription, nor does the latter feature any dividing lines. The scene shows an individual wearing the typical priestly attire, with a long, draped garb and a smooth headdress, burning incense and pouring a libation on the offering table before the mummified cow, which is labelled Ih.t [wr.t] ‘the [great] cow’ (a title applied to the Mother of Buchis). The offering table is accompanied by two lines of inscription: the upper one is not clearly legible from the photograph,79 but the second surely reads x.t nb.t nfr(.t), ‘all good things’, referring to the offerings on the table. The first line of the main text (Pl. 21.b), mentioning the date of the cow’s death, reads rnp.t-sp 8 xr Hm (n) nswt-bity nb tA.wy (Kstntnnys)| sA Ra nb xa(.w) (Wry[…?)|], ‘regnal year 8 under the Majesty of the king of Upper and Lower Egypt, lord of the Two Lands (Constantine)|, son80 of Ra, lord of crowns (Vale[rius?)|]’. The reading of the signs in the second cartouche is far from definitive, but the first cartouche certainly encloses the name of Constantine.81 The cow was thus buried in regnal year 8 of Constantine. Another royal name just below, in the second line of the text, likely refers to the date of delivery of the Buchis bull, or perhaps even to the cow’s birth, which took place in regnal year 4. Contrary to the other cartouches, this one

78 79 80 81

as well as the city of Athribis (see the cartouches of Domitian and Hadrian: ALTMANN 2012, 206. LEITZ & MENDEL 2021, 32). University of Aberdeen, Human Culture Collection, ABDUA 21697 (formerly B1619). Sandstone. H. 54 cm, l. 44,5 cm. See REID 1912, 204, no. 1618 (from the Grant-Bey collection). CAPART 1940, 47–50. GRENIER 2002. GOLDBRUNNER 2004, 96–98. There is an empty cartouche on the left which has a different orientation from the other signs on the same, and the following lines; on the right there are three signs which, although oddly grouped, may read nswt ‘king’. Grenier’s facsimile shows a for nb, but the sign is actually a for sA, together with the sundisc Ra. The hieroglyph before xa might be a squeezed nb: a new analysis of the stela might help to clarify this point. CAPART 1940, 47–50 proposed My for the beginning of the second cartouche on the first line, but see GRENIER 2002, 249–251, who argued for a cursive version of the signs for w and r followed by the double reed y. Cf. GRENIER 2003, 277–278, for a reading Ly of the same cartouche and the interpretation of the formula as an aberrant titulary referring to two different kings (Constantine and Licinius) and regnal years, allegedly also attested by the latest Buchis stela.

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is not introduced by titles. Its content, as already mentioned, was first interpreted as a further instance of the hieroglyphic name of Maximinus Daza; Grenier, however, convincingly argued that it should read Lykns, i.e. Licinius.82 The choice to date the events according to the regnal years of a sole ruler may appear unsurprising at first glance, as this was the system commonly used throughout ancient Egyptian history. If measured against the recent developments in the dating formulas in the tetrarchic Buchis stela, however, the use of single regnal years seems indicative of the scribe’s discomfort in dealing with the complexities of a system of multiple reckonings. Such discomfort was likely due more to practical reasons than ideological concerns; as is shown by the Greek documentation, the multiple years occasionally led scribes to simplify the formulas and reduce the references. Moreover, a few years after Diocletian, the system of dating by regnal years, both with full imperial titulary and without, was almost entirely substituted by other dating methods, notably the consular dates and indictions, which made Egypt’s chronological system more consistent with those of the other Roman territories.83 The author of this stela, therefore, probably settled for the simplest solution, closer to the traditional system of dating. But, as suggested by Grenier, there is another peculiarity in the dating formulas of our stela: regnal years and their attribution to only one ruler each appear to make sense only if the time has been calculated from the date of the emperors’ effective rule over Egypt and not, as would be expected, from their co-optation into the imperial college. Were this the case, regnal year 4 of Licinius would have to be interpreted as 311/312 CE, when Maximinus controlled the eastern provinces, while year 8 of Constantine would be 315/316 CE, when Licinius ruled the eastern part of the empire. If the stela was produced then, one would expect a double dating from the rule of Constantine and Licinius in the first line, and a triple dating in the following one, mentioning Maximinus, Constantine, and Licinius, as they occur in Greek documents.84 By contrast, if one follows Grenier’s hypothesis, given that Constantine defeated Licinius in September 324 CE, the stela would date to 331/332 CE, while the date referring to the bull’s delivery or the cow’s birth under Licinius’ rule (and Constantine’s, as senior emperor) would be 316/317 CE, four years after his victory over Maximinus at Campus Serenus near Hadrianopolis. The image of a priest in place of the pharaoh has been interpreted as a clear mark of the detachment between the Christian emperor and his role as pharaoh. This separation would be the first step towards the disappearance of the traditional royal figure attested by the latest Buchis stela (see below).85 However, neither of the two other extant Mother of Buchis’ stelae displays a pharaoh in the offering scene. The stela of Commodus’ year 30 (190 CE) shows a man with a long cloth pouring a libation and burning incense in front of a mummified human figure (labelled as Isis) 82 GRENIER 2002, 251, also tracing the possible genesis of the phonetic value r/l for at the beginning of the cartouche; cf. KURTH 2009, 262 n. 190. KURTH 2010, 116, n. 756. 83 BAGNALL & WORP 2004, 44–45. 84 See the dates and formulas in the documentation in Greek: BAGNALL & WORP 2004, 246–248. 85 GRENIER 2002, 254–256, followed by GOLDBRUNNER 2004, 122–123 and KLOTZ 2012a, 80.

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and the mummified sacred cow.86 No cartouches accompany the offering figure, which therefore has to be a priest, an identification supported by his garment, whose shape is similar to that of the figure in our stela. The second stela is the one tentatively dated to the Severan period that we have already encountered; the scene features only the mummified cow and the altar with offerings. It is unlikely that a human figure was included in the lost part of the scene, because with a symmetrical reconstruction of the rest of the offering table there would be no space for such a figure.87 Therefore, the offering priest on the Constantinian stela may well have been a recurring, if not mandatory, feature of the stelae produced for the cow necropolis.88 In view of the precedents just mentioned, it surely cannot be taken as a witness to the disappearance of the pharaoh due to the emperor’s Christian religious affiliation. Moreover, the names of Constantine are still enclosed in the traditional cartouches and used to date the major events of the animal’s life. The funerary stela of the latest known Buchis was perhaps produced for the bull which was born of the cow discussed above (Pl. 22).89 As with her stela, this one features the winged sun disk and the sky with stars but lacks the jackals. The first, macroscopic difference from the other Buchis stelae is the absence of the offering pharaoh in the scene; the mummified bull is shown alone for the first time, lying on a funerary bed and facing a bouquet whose appearance loosely recalls an offering table. Two hieroglyphic inscriptions with wish formulas for the afterlife of Buchis run vertically behind the bull and over the bouquet. The main hieroglyphic text differs in structure and phrasing from that of the previous two centuries. Instead of indicating the dates of Buchis’ birth and death, with a focus on funerary formulas at its end, the new text adds a mention of the bull’s installation in Hermonthis and features a different distribution of formulas throughout its three parts. While the creation of a new text suggests that someone could still be able put together simple formulas in the hieroglyphic script, the quality of the workmanship is poor, especially regarding the layout and carving of the hieroglyphs. The first line starts directly in front of the bull’s pedestal with the indication of regnal year 33 (birth), which is followed by years 39 (installation) and 57 (death). As Grenier rightly argued, all of these refer to Diocletian, called ‘king of Upper and Lower Egypt, lord of the Two Lands (&sywkrtsiwnw)| son of Ra, lord of crowns (Kwisrs?)|’. Diocletian, however, ruled for only twenty-one years; therefore, the dates mentioned here must be a unique hieroglyphic attestation of the era of Diocletian. This system of reckoning time was based on the Egyptian civil year and 86 Swansea, Egypt Center of the University College Swansea W946 bis (ex-153443). Sandstone. H. 58,5 cm, l. 39 cm. MOND & MYERS 1934, II, 20, and 35; III; pl. XLVII, no. 21. Cf. GOLDBRUNNER 2004, 95–96, 122, 181. 87 GOLDBRUNNER 2004, 181. 88 Cf. GRENIER 2002, 255, n. 16. 89 Cairo, Egyptian Museum JdE 31901. Sandstone. H. 66 cm, l. 42 cm. MOND & MYERS 1934, II, 19, 34–35 (unknown emperor); III, pl. XLVI, no. 20. See also DARESSY 1908 (Tiberius, dating according to the Actian or Alexandrian eras). GRENIER 1983 (Constantius II, dated according to the era of Diocletian). GRENIER 2003, 273–276. GOLDBRUNNER 2004, 78–79, 117–118, 161, 180, 301–302. KURTH 2015, 47–48.

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counted the time from the emperor’s accession in 284 CE; by the late 8th century CE it also had the designation ‘era of the Martyrs’, and by this name it is still used by the Coptic Orthodox Church of Alexandria.90 The date of the bull’s death, the 8th day of Hathyr in year 57, that is, 4 November 340 CE, makes this stela the penultimate known hieroglyphic document, and the latest one in the region of Thebes. Before discussing the meaning of the era and the changes in traditional iconography, some comments on the initial dating formula and the cartouches are needed. The name in the first cartouche has a different spelling to that used in the tetrarchic stela. In this case, the transcription of Δι with &s brings the emperor’s name closer to the demotic version attested by four graffiti in the temple of Isis at Philae dating to Hathyr and Choiak of year 90 (November/December 373 CE).91 However, instead of the w in the demotic version of the name (and perhaps on the tetrarchic stela), the following signs allow a reading yw. The content of the second cartouche is difficult to interpret because the surface is abraded and the hieroglyphs within are stacked. The signs have been read as a variant spelling of ‘Caesar’ by both Fairman and Grenier, but latter subsequently withdrew his former suggestion and instead proposed that it reads ‘Licinius’ and a group of strokes that would correspond to the numeral 9. Accordingly, the second cartouche would indicate a Licinian era in an aberrant way, in addition to the era of Diocletian. This hypothesis is allegedly supported by the presence of two strokes after the sign , indicating the presence of ‘two Majesties’.92 The signs within the second cartouche, however, do not seem to allow such an interpretation: for instance, the for K is clearly visible at the beginning of the cartouche, so the original interpretation of ‘Caesar’ appears preferable. Furthermore, the presence of the two strokes next to may not be a reference to two rulers. The first stroke can be interpreted as marking the ideogrammatic function of the sign , as occurs in the Buchis stelae of Aurelian and the tetrarchic emperors, as well as in the Constantinian stela of the sacred cow. The second stroke may have resulted either from a simplification of (which follows in the two Buchis stelae just mentioned) or, more likely, from a carving error. Other hieroglyphs on this stela are sketchily or badly carved (for example, the two reeds at the beginning of Diocletian’s name). All in all, it is most likely that the stela attests to the consistent use of a single dating system referring to Diocletian. According to Grenier, the choice of the Diocletianic era in place of years of the current emperor was ideologically motivated. For the representatives of traditional religion coping with the hostile Christian emperor, the reference to the most prestigious recent pagan ruler would have been the only suitable means of dating a document that was so deeply embedded in local religious tradition and practices. The pagan connotation of the era would be 90 WORP & MACCOULL 1990. BAGNALL & WORP 2004, 63–87. 91 Graff. Dodec. Philae 369–372 (TM 53490–53493), where the name of Diocletian is diversely transcribed as Ṱswgl/ ṰswglA / Ṱswgla/ ṰswglaA after his original form Διοκλῆς, attested in the early months of his rule (STEFAN 2015). The transcription of δι with ts is also attested in demotic by the defective transcription of Septimius Severus’ victory title Ἀδιαβηνικός as Atsybynyns in the partially erased inscription mentioned above at n. 47. 92 GRENIER 2003, 273–276.

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demonstrated by its occurrence in documents pertaining to ‘heathen environments’, namely temples and priestly circles, such as the papyri with Greek horoscopes (recording birthdates from year 21 to 224, i.e. 304/305-507/508 CE) and the religious graffiti inscribed at Philae (Greek and demotic, from year 90 to 173, i.e. 373/4456/7 CE).93 The pagan allure of the Diocletianic era, however, needs to be demonstrated more firmly. The proskynemata at Philae are linked to a context where traditional cults were still practiced in some form, but the emperor’s name is omitted in most of the demotic instances and some of the Greek ones, so one may wonder if the association with Diocletian had any strong meaning. The horoscopes, although usually linked to the milieu of the temples, do not necessarily entail this kind of connection.94 Even if one were to assume this, it would not necessarily mean that their use of era dating was ideologically, rather than functionally and practically, motivated. The fact that this reckoning is the sole system used in the horoscopes to indicate birthdates – occasionally coupled with the reference to the indiction year – after the third decade of the 4th century CE, when regnal dating also fell entirely out of fashion in the administrative sphere,95 suggests that the Diocletianic era has emerged no later than this time. While the dates recorded cannot help to establish securely when the era came about, because the horoscopes may have been cast decades after a given individual’s birthdate,96 the local astronomers could not have used the consular dating for their calculations, since it was based on a different calendar year than the Egyptian one (starting on 1 January instead of the traditional 1 Thot, corresponding to 29/30 August in the Egyptian civil year); nor did they use other systems based on the same calendar. Thus, the retention of Diocletian’s regnal years, which were formally identical to the traditional dating system according to regnal years, was probably a matter of practicality, and it could have been introduced shortly after Diocletian’s reign.97 Its later diffusion, equally among pagan (Theon of Alexandria, for instance) and Christian authors (like St. Epiphanius of Salamis), seems suggestive of its value primarily as a useful chronological reference.98 93 In addition to the Buchis stela, and perhaps one Greek graffito in the Valley of Kings (SB 3 6632; TM 95999), which may have been carved in year 59 (see BAGNALL & WORP 2004, 64). 94 JONES 1999, 8. 95 The regnal year habit had by then almost vanished, except in some areas where it was still used without imperial titularies. The Oxyrhynchite and the Herakleopolite nomes still employed it, but the former also used a complex system of counting the years of one dead emperor in association with those who were living. See BAGNALL & WORP 2004, 44–45, 55–62. 96 BAGNALL & WORP 2004, 63–64. 97 On the emergence of the era as concurrent to the consular date, see BICKERMAN 1968, 72; cf. MOSSHAMMER 2008, 171–178. John Mal. Chron. 12. 41, apparently links the creation of the Alexandrian era with the aftermath of the revolt’s suppression by the emperor in the late 3rd century CE (cf. WORP & MACCOULL 1990, 408). 98 This does not rule out that the explicit mention of Diocletian may have borne different connotations depending on its contexts of use and reception. Dionysius Exiguus (epist. de pasch. 1, p. 64, 8–14, ed. Krusch), for instance, felt uncomfortable with the memory of the emperor and, while introducing his Easter table to the bishop of Alexandria Petronius, he stated that the count of years from the Incarnation of Christ was deliberately chosen to avoid any connection with

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The purpose of the era as a mere dating tool does not wholly explain its substitution for the reigning emperor’s year in this stela – unlike the roughly contemporary stela of the Buchis’ Mother – nor the conspicuous absence of the pharaoh in the offering scene. Even so, the hypothesis that this may have to do with a pagan response to the hostility of the Christian emperor is not tenable, as it is based on false assumptions about what those involved in the stela’s production might have thought of the emperor’s faith. Constantius II’s anti-pagan legislation targeted against animal sacrifice began after 340 CE, and it is improbable that the Egyptians knew or cared about his previous attitudes to their cults.99 The Roman emperors had always been attributed the ritual role of pharaoh, regardless of their personal religious allegiance, their (non)-participation in the rites of traditional Egyptian religion, and their opinions about it. There is no reason why, within this time frame, things should have been different from how they had been in the past, if the issue at stake really concerned the relationship between emperors and their role in Egyptian religion. One explanation may be proposed if we consider this stela as the final outcome of theological developments affecting the role of the emperor and the figure of the pharaoh in the local bull cult. It has already been noted that the stelae from the 2nd and 3rd centuries CE refer to the emperor mainly to date the major events of the bull’s life, without his being characterised as involved in rituals or having any active connection with Buchis. This, however, did not result in the disappearance of the function of pharaoh. He was still depicted, captioned with anonymous cartouches, offering in the figural scene, and as such he was identifiable with the emperors mentioned in the stela, or if needed with the ruling emperor. Adopting a ‘minimalist’ reading of the evidence, it can be suggested that, by the end of the 3rd century CE at the latest, the pharaoh of the Hermonthite stelae was a vestige of what he had been when Egyptian kingship was fully operative. If so, the image in the offering scene would be a perpetuation of a traditional iconography caused by the use of an older model, while the cartouches and titles would be essentially linked to the use of graphic trappings in hieroglyphic script that were suitable for the ruler. The tetrarchic dating formula demonstrates how contemporary usage could have heavily influenced the hieroglyphic patterns; the Constantinian stela also shows signs of differentiation from traditional ways of using regnal dates. Therefore, in the context of the rapidly changing chronological systems of the 4th century CE, the refashioning of the dating formula becomes more easily explainable: the author of the Diocletian and his reign. The name change of the era in ‘year N of/from the Martyrs’, instead, was probably conditioned by the political and cultural climate in which the Christian community of Egypt and Nubia found itself under Abbasid rule, as suggested by WORP & MACCOULL 1990, 382–386. The new name, however, did not replace the old one, which is attested until the 14th century. 99 According to the Codex Theodosianus, the first law prohibiting sacrifices was issued by Constantius at some point in 341 CE (CTh 16.10.2). Since the law was sent to the vicar Madalianus, identifiable with the Vicar of Italy, L. Creperius Madalianus, it is most likely that the law was also issued by Constans, responsible for the western provinces, whose name was dropped from the Codex. See BRADBURY 1994, 126–127.

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hieroglyphic text could have picked the dating system more familiar to him that was easiest to fit into the traditional means of dating with regnal years. What still escapes full understanding is the process that led to the dispensability of the pharaoh’s function, and ultimately the reasons for a change in the format and text of stelae in the 4th century CE. The funerary stela of the bull which lived between 295 and 316/317 CE might have been a decisive piece of evidence for addressing these issues, but unfortunately it is not an excavated piece. It seems that the cult of the Buchis bull did not continue long after 340 CE. No other inscribed stelae are known, either from the Bucheum or the Baqaria. A separate tomb for a sacred cow (no. 29), buried about 100 m from the vaults of her predecessors and close to the Roman village, may date later, but her offspring and its burial place have not been detected. The presence of coins of the 350s and 360s CE inside some burials in both parts of the necropolis seems to date a robbery that could signal the abandonment of the site and the end of the cult’s history.100 Hermonthis subsequently emerged as an important centre of Christianity in the Theban region, and its surroundings were populated by monastic settlements. It is not unlikely that these monks left their mark on the stela of Constantius II, painting over the lunette and the bull with a now-faded symbol of the cross and the name of Christ. CONCLUSIONS The history of Egyptian kingship in its latest stage can only be examined through the three stelae from the necropolis of the Buchis bull and his Mother in Hermonthis. I argue above that the blocks from Tahta cannot be included among the relevant evidence. Therefore, this study has narrow geographical and typological limits, presenting a local history of the last pharaohs. These documents nonetheless serve to deepen our understanding of the Egyptian reception of the late Roman emperors, as conveyed in the time-honoured medium of the hieroglyphic script. The bull cult in Hermonthis was unaffected by events in the Theban region during the late 3rd century CE. In 293/294 CE, just a few months before the death of the tetrarchic bull, Galerius had personally crushed a revolt led by the cities of Busiris (or Boresis) and Coptos, a fact that eventually led to the creation of the Thebaid as a separate province with its own main centre some way to the north in Antinoopolis.101 The tetrarchic stela, however, bears no trace of these circumstances; its appearance and text keep essentially the same features of the previous stelae, with the exception of the format of the second dating formula. The adjustment of the latter reflects the adoption of a new pattern in dating formulas in Greek administrative documents throughout Egypt. Because of its innovative character, the recognition of separate regnal years in administrative practice can be viewed as a change imposed from above by the imperial government that was aimed at 100 MOND & MYERS 1934, I, 171; 177–178. 101 LEADBETTER 2000.

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marking the degree of seniority of each emperor and clarifying who among them held the highest authority. In the Hermonthite stela, however, the expression of the hierarchical order within the imperial college is restricted to the emperors’ seniority. The epithet which accompanies the four cartouches characterises the rulers as Σεβαστοί, thus tending to making them equal. This is not a novelty of the tetrarchic period but a recurring element in the concept and depiction of Roman co-emperors in Egypt, attested in the contexts of Greek administrative practice and traditional Egyptian religion: all co-rulers were at times marked as Σεβαστοί ‘revered ones’, regardless of hierarchic issues. From this perspective, the mindset of some Egyptians was somewhat different in the perception and representation of power from, for example, that of those who commissioned the frescoes in the imperial cult chamber in Luxor. These paintings, particularly the depiction in the niche, are characterised by an emphasis on clothing and attributes in order to express the difference in rank and role between the Caesares and the Augusti, as well as the absolute prominence of Diocletian among them. The hieroglyphic dating formula of this stela thus ultimately reveals that, in some contexts, the underlying conception of the Roman emperors was essentially the same in the tetrarchic period as it had been in the past. Until the almost total disappearance of the regnal dating system around the end of Constantine’s reign, the new format of dating formulas, with its implied ideas of imperial hierarchy, was implemented into administrative practice, despite the growing complexity deriving from the increase in the different counts of the subsequent emperors and the emergence of other chronological systems. The author of the Constantinian cow’s stela, however, chose a solution that resembles the old-fashioned dating system, avoiding mention of multiple rulers and indicating only the one who controlled Egypt at a particular date. The use of cartouches – and for Constantine even of traditional titles – demonstrates that the emperors were still included in the framework of Egyptian kingship, or at least that they were still seen as rulers through the traditional graphic trappings of rulership within the decorative system and the hieroglyphic script. The choice to depict a priest in the figural scene was made not as a reaction to the emperor’s faith, but according to (one of) the iconographic models for the sacred cow’s stela. The latest Buchis stela stands out for its differences in comparison to the preceding ones, both for the new text and the offering scene. The ruling emperor is now absent from the dating formula, while the pharaoh in the scene has disappeared, leaving the mummified bull alone with the offerings for the afterlife. It is most unlikely that this choice was made in order to circumvent depicting Constantius II as pharaoh. A variety of other factors may have influenced the creation of this very unusual stela. The predominance of different dating systems when it was created means than the traditional regnal years may have resulted in the choice of the Diocletianic era which functioned like the old system, whereas the disappearance of the pharaoh may be due to his not being needed in the local religious context of the 4th century CE. The era has nothing to do with positive associations with the memory of Diocletian as a pagan ruler par excellence, nor can the presence or absence of the offering pharaoh be positively linked to the ruling emperor’s religious affiliation. Therefore, the stela cannot be interpreted as shedding light on the local reaction to

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the emperor’s Christianity. Rather, it illustrates the theological developments within the Buchis cult during the 4th century CE. The cartouches of Diocletian on this stela are the latest so far known. With them, after more than three thousand years, the long history of Egyptian kingship comes to its definitive conclusion.

THE ENEMIES OF THE TETRARCHS BARBARIANS, REBELS AND USURPERS IN THE IDEOLOGY OF DIOCLETIAN’S TETRARCHY Adrastos Omissi Ideologies and communities frequently define themselves as much in negative terms – what they are not – as they do in positive terms. To understand how a community sees itself, therefore, it can often be useful to explore how it characterises its enemies. For the tetrarchy, the field is a fertile one, since the tetrarchs had many enemies: over the course of their reign, they faced war upon quite literally every frontier, in particular against Germanic tribes that fringed the Empire’s long riverine boundaries in Europe and against the (relatively) newly established Sāsānian Empire in the Middle East; they fought and defeated at least half a dozen rival emperors; they suppressed popular uprisings within the Empire; they enacted punitive laws against economic malfeasance; they spearheaded intense persecutions of two of the Empire’s burgeoning religious sects; and they carefully maintained the ranks of their own subordinates by rooting out any hint of treachery or disloyalty.1 This chapter is an attempt to explore how the ‘tetrarchic language’ sought to shape, to explain, and to incorporate within its own ideological system the challenges posed by various of the tetrarchs’ enemies. In so doing, we are likely to learn little enough about the enemies themselves, given the way they are caricatured and stereotyped, but we can learn much about the way in which the tetrarchs sought to frame and to justify their own power. The most important evidence we have for the way in which this process was undertaken are the panegyrics. Four Latin speeches and a highly fragmentary Greek speech of unknown provenance survive from the period of Diocletian’s tetrarchy.2 Pan. Lat. X (2) was delivered to Maximian on the 21st April of (probably) 289 on the occasion of Rome’s birthday; Pan. Lat. XI (3) was delivered to Maximian in the summer of 291 on the occasion of the emperor’s own birthday; Pan. Lat. VIII (5) was delivered to the Caesar Constantius in 297 1 2

As for example happened to the grandfather of Libanius: Lib. or. I 3, 125, II 10–11, XI 158– 62, XIX 45–6, XX 18–20, and ep. 1154/124 (though the orator was naturally keen to stress that accusations against his grandfather were ill founded). Though panegyrical material from a later period of the tetrarchy certainly exists, namely the five Constantinian panegyrics in the Pan. Lat. collection, but these represent such a changed political world that I have chosen not to consider them here. The destabilising influence of the Constantinian and Maxentian usurpations radically changed the nature of imperial presentation, introducing a new and more competitive aspect that rendered as neutered the collegiate language of Diocletian’s tetrarchy; see, for example CULLHED 1994. SMITH 1997 and HUMPHRIES 2008 on Maxentius, Licinius, and Constantine’s legitimation strategies respectively.

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after the reclamation of Britain from the usurpers Carausius and Allectus; and Pan. Lat. IX (4) was delivered by one Eumenius to the governor of Lugdunensis, probably in 297 or 298. Of these, the first three are by unknown authors, and were probably delivered at Trier.3 Eumenius is otherwise unknown, and probably delivered his panegyric at Autun.4 The Greek speech was delivered to an unknown tetrarch and is preserved within the Corpus Hermeticum; given its highly fragmentary nature and uncertain date, this speech will be referred to where it provides corroborative insights, but will not bear any weight of argument on its own.5 Because of the clustering of the panegyrical evidence in the vicinity of Gaul and during the decade 289–298, this chapter will focus primarily on three very specific groups of enemies: on the Germanic tribes of northern Europe, on the British usurpers Carausius and Allectus, and on the elusive bacaudae who troubled north western Gaul during the 3rd century.6 Panegyrics are not, themselves, direct outputs of the court, but rather the personal compositions of their individual authors. Nonetheless, two generations of scholars working with these texts have demonstrated conclusively that the speeches were the targeted productions of informed individuals who knew centrally composed propaganda well and sought to reflect it back to the emperors. The speeches may thus be seen as a fairly accurate reflection of how the tetrarchs would have wished their regime (and its enemies) to be presented.7 Furthermore, we can add to the panegyrical evidence with material drawn from complimentary corpora: from triumphal monuments, which give visual expression to tetrarchic ideologies; from direct pronouncements of the court in the form of edicts and laws; and finally, from the coinage of the tetrarchic regime. As will be seen these four separate media, all either direct productions of the court or responses to them, present a unified picture of the nature and meaning of tetrarchic messaging concerning enemies of the tetrarchic order. From this evidence, three significant conclusions may be drawn. The first is that, far from shying away from consideration of those who opposed the tetrarchy, panegyric and wider tetrarchic media positively embraced these oppositional forces, devoting considerable energies to recounting the exploits of the emperors in waging war. The enemies of the tetrarchy were not a problem for tetrarchic legitimacy, they were the cornerstone of it. Secondly and importantly, it is vital to see that the language in which the tetrarchs’ enemies were framed was of a fundamentally traditional and conservative character. As subjugators of barbarians and even 3 4 5 6

7

Here I follow my own previous practice in rejecting the identification of Mamertinus as the author of Pan. Lat. X (2) and XI (3), cf. OMISSI 2018, 82. For a clear and concise introduction to these four speeches, see the individual introductions in GALLETIER 1949–1955. NIXON & RODGERS 1994. MÜLLER-RETTIG 2008–15. Corpus Hermeticum XVIII, tr. in SCOTT 1924–36 and COPENHAVER 1992. The other major enemy against whom the tetrarchs contended, the Persians, is not considered here, as the Persians feature only scarcely in the surviving panegyrics. Nonetheless, consideration of representation of the Persians can be found in this volume in the chapters of GUIDETTI, HUNNELL CHEN, and TIPOLD. NIXON 1993. REES 2002, 23–25. OMISSI 2018, 54–59.

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as suppressors of usurpers the tetrarchs utilised a vocabulary and a conceptual landscape that (certainly in the case of barbarians) virtually every single one of their predecessors had also employed. This vocabulary communicated well-worn themes of Roman dominance and of the emperor(s) as the paradigmatic representative(s) of virtue, reason, and order, ranged against forces of chaos, madness, and disorder. If this were all that could be said – that the tetrarchs embraced their enemies and they used a well-established verbal and visual vocabulary to do so – there would be little that was distinctly tetrarchic to this story. Our third conclusion, however, is that these highly traditional representations, refracted through the very specific circumstances of the tetrarchy, take on a unique texture that granted these traditional representations two very particular characteristics. The first was the continuous and recurrent notion of the tetrarchs as pacifiers and restorers of the Empire. Though such rhetoric was common in imperial self-presentation of all periods, it gained a particularly sharp currency in the 280s and 290s, a period in which Romans felt themselves to be returning to an era of a peace and stability after the political and institutional crises of the 3rd century. The tetrarchs’ wars, therefore, were different from those which had preceded them, for rather than merely being part of the endless cycle of violence that had dogged the past two generations, they served to bring that violence to a (relative) end, and to usher in a new chapter in the ongoing story of Roman hegemony. Secondly, every aspect of this rhetoric was framed in such a way that it contributed to the novel ideology of imperial collegiality, a deep-reaching and sometimes seemingly contradictory emphasis on the multiplicity and the omnipresence of the two (and later four) emperors who, though many, ruled the world as one. As we will see, it was the need to frame more or less traditional messages within this novel political and even cosmological framework that gave to tetrarchic ideology a unique character, subtly different from any that either preceded or post-dated it. The aim of tetrarchic rhetoric concerning enemies was thus twofold: firstly, to create a stark binary between the emperor(s), as representative of Roman order, and their opposition, who therefore represented non-Roman disorder; secondly, to weave all aspects of this programme into the novel ideology of multiplicity of rule, so that the enemies of the tetrarchs, at every turn, reinforced the value of the tetrarchs’ experiment in a new form of government for the Roman world. HOW TO TALK ABOUT THE ENEMY From the panegyrics, it is immediately and abundantly clear that the identity of the tetrarchs was fundamentally bound up with their status as warriors and generals and that, to those who praised them, no achievement seemed as worthy of commendation as their victories on the battlefield. It helped that material for such praise existed in abundance; the diarchs and later tetrarchs were all exceptionally active campaigners, engaged in warfare on the frontiers in virtually every campaigning season,

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and usually with considerable success.8 Nonetheless, the fact that this activity was habitual is not sufficient to explain its ideological importance; emperors also habitually enacted laws, hosted embassies, and presided over games, but tetrarchic panegyric showed little interest in such activities. Pan. Lat. X (2), the earliest of our speeches, is perhaps the clearest and most sustained declaration of the unity of diarchic legitimacy with the destruction of barbarians. Delivered in the wake of Maximian’s victories in Gaul against the Burgundians, Alamanni, Chaibones, and Heruli and of his invasion of Germany, the panegyric is largely devoted to extolling Maximian as a terror of the barbarians. The orator delights in the image of Maximian switching from the toga praetexta to the thorax on the day that inaugurated his second consulship (1st January 288), fulfilling the roles of consul, general, and triumphator all in a single day.9 He makes clear that the victories won were personal victories, as he imagines the emperor himself darting across the battlefield, so that the barbarians could not believe he was a single man as he was ‘borne over the whole field of battle in the fashion of a great river, swollen with winter rain and snow, which is wont to flow wherever the plain extends.’10 These victories not only bring the delightful spectacle of barbarian destruction, but they extend the boundaries of the Empire and bring security to its people, with Maximian memorably protecting the provincials of Gaul by carrying Roman arms beyond the Rhine and thereby not only removing the need for the Romans to cower behind the protection of the river, but enlarging the totality of Roman dominion by the action.11 Importantly, these victories act – in and of themselves – as a justification of the diarchs’ position, and the panegyrist imagines the victories (too many to count!) of Diocletian and Maximian as a process of steady and determined restoration after the crisis of the previous generation that will culminate in the return of the emperors to Rome.12 Pan. Lat. VIII (5), likewise, though more properly devoted to the victories of Constantius over Carausius and Allectus, nonetheless glories in the wars waged by the emperor against peoples external to the Roman dominion. Like X (2), Pan. Lat. VIII (5) expounds upon the inevitability of Constantius’ victories. As in X (2), these victories are clear proof of Constantius’ energy and his uirtus, and are thereby a clear confirmation of his right to rule.13 Like X (2), VIII (5) presents these victories both as a part of a wider programme of restoration – in which a glory recently lost is restored to the Roman world by the reassertion of

8 9 10 11

12 13

This is thanks in a large part of course to the fact that all four were career soldiers, like many of their late third century predecessors: HEIL 2006. DAVENPORT 2016. Pan. Lat. X (2) 6. Pan. Lat. X (2) 5.3: toto quippe proelio ferebare, non aliter quam magnus amnis solet hibernis imbribus auctus et nivibus passim fluere qua campus est. Pan. Lat. X (2) 7.7: ‘Let the Rhine dry up, and with its gentle current scarcely move the smooth pebbles in its transparent shallows; there is no fear from that quarter: all that I see beyond the Rhine is Roman!’ (licet Rhenus arescat tenuique lapsu vix leves calculos perspicuo vado pellat, nullus inde metus est: quidquid ultra Rhenum prospicio, Romanum est). Pan. Lat. X (2) 14.1. E.g. Pan. Lat. VIII (5) passim (though especially 1.4–5, 4, 9.5–6, 10.4, 14.2–5).

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Roman dominance across the border and of peace behind it – and as part of a shared portfolio of victory in which all emperors participated.14 Yet even in those panegyrics in which military victory is pushed more into the background, it is striking how central the theme of military domination of the barbarians remained to the presentation of the emperor. Pan. Lat. IX (4) celebrated the joint adventus of Diocletian and Maximian at Milan in the winter of 290/1, and was also written in the wake of recent defeat against Carausius’ British Empire.15 Given this, its main themes were the pietas and felicitas of the emperors, and the joy of their joint meeting. Yet though the author claims that he will pass over the emperor’s military triumphs (and compared to other speeches, he does), nonetheless he cannot resist reminding his audience how universal the victories of the diarchs against the barbarians truly are: he will pass over, he claims, German victories, the expansion of Raetia, the devastation of Sarmatia, the subjugation of Saracens and of Frankish kings, and the Persian shah coming to treat with the emperors.16 At the conclusion of his speech, likewise, he bends the themes of pietas and felicitas back to the ever-present theme of victory, for the virtues of the emperors are such that now they conquer without even needing to wage war.17 Thus, a speech that (unusually) avows a disinterest in military affairs nonetheless cannot restrain itself from reminding the audience that it is – above all – as conquerors of foreign peoples that the tetrarchs reign supreme. In similar fashion, though Eumenius, orator of Pan. Lat. IX (4), devotes his speech to pleading with the provincial governor that the crumbling school of rhetoric in Autun ought to be restored, when the emperors surface in his speech, it is as conquerors of the barbarian foe.18 What the panegyrics make clear, moreover, is that the barbarians in whose downfall the orators so repeatedly rejoiced were not simply an enemy, but a very palpable ‘other’. The emperors’ defeat of the barbarians was not merely a victory of friendly arms over foreign. Rather Germanic outsiders were a fundamentally oppositional force of savagery that threatened the very fabric of civilised society, which is coterminous with Roman society.19 It was not merely that the tetrarchs defeated the barbarians. Rather, by their victories, the tetrarchs were bullishly asserting the power of Roman order in the face of chaotic forces that sought to unwind the civilised world. For this reason, tetrarchic oratory took visceral delight not just in victory over, but in the humiliation and subjugation of the barbarian peoples. Thus, it was an especial pleasure to the orator of Pan. Lat. X (2) that Maximian took war into Germany, so that the peoples there felt not only the sting of defeat, but ‘that they would grieve at the capture of their wives and children and parents

14 15 16 17 18 19

Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 20–21. OMISSI 2018, 87–91. Pan. Lat. XI (3) 5.3–4. Pan. Lat. XI (3) 16–18. Pan. Lat. IX (4) 9.1, 18.4–5, 20–21. For expression of the subhuman nature of barbarians, see for instance Prudentius Contra Symmachum 402–403 and Claud. VI Cons. Hon. 146–158.

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and all they held dear.’20 Pan. Lat. VIII (5) likewise celebrates the happy [sic] sight of bound Germanic captives huddled in the porticoes of every Gallic city. To a modern reader, this triumphant gloating over the misery of captured prisoners of war – many of them explicitly children, women, and the elderly – is exceptionally distasteful. Within the Roman conceptual landscape, however, in which barbarians (particularly Germanic barbarians) represented a lower order of human life, such an attitude was perfectly acceptable. By conquering and enslaving them, Maximian and Constantius brought the barbarians within the ambit of the Roman order and opened to them the possibility – if not for themselves then for their descendants – of becoming Roman and of thus entering that higher form of human experience that was the civilised man. This came with a double benefit to the Empire, for not only were barbarians set on a path toward fuller humanity but regions of Gaul depopulated by the depredations of the third century were now to be filled again with farmers and made productive. In Pan Lat. VIII (5), all those women looking sadly upon their desolate sons and little children bound together and whispering comforts to one another as they waited to be sold are – to the panegyrist – nothings more than the seedcorn of civilisation, provided for the Empire by Constantius’ wars: ‘The Chamavian and the Frisian now plough for me,’ the orator proudly declares, ‘and that rogue, that pillager toils at the cultivation of the neglected countryside and frequents my markets with livestock for sale and the barbarian cultivator lowers the price of grain.’21 Nothing in this was new, of course. The Roman division of the world into civilised (largely coterminous with Graeco-Roman culture) and barbarian long predated the principate.22 Similarly, the firm association of imperial power with military strength and foreign conquest was implicit in the emperors’ adoption of the title ‘commander’ (imperator), explicit in the imperial monopoly of the triumph after 19 BC.23 The well-established ideological power of violence against and warfare with the barbarian world was visible perhaps most grandly in the two storiated columns of Rome, the one depicting Trajan’s conquest of Dacia, the other Marcus Aurelius’ wars with the Marcomanni.24 In the latter, it is notable that the scenes of violence depicted extend also to women and children, precisely the same kind of – seemingly unproblematic – evocation of violence against non-combatants that seems to permeate our panegyrics.25 In the 3rd century, as emperors began to be drawn almost exclusively from the ranks of the military, the force and the relevance of this rhetoric seems only to have increased. Christopher Malone has charted a 20 Pan. Lat. X (2) 8.2: ipsi coniuges et liberos [suos] et parentes suos et carissima omnia capta maererent. 21 Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 9.3: arat ergo nunc mihi Chamavus et Frisius et ille vagus, ille praedator exercitio squali‹di› ruris operatur et frequentat nundinas meas pecore venali et cultor barbarus laxat annonam. 22 E.g. DIHLE 1994. WOOLF 2011. JENSEN 2018. FORD 2020. 23 LANGE 2017, 30. 24 Trajan: DAVIES 1997. LEPPER & SHEPPARD 1988. Marcus Aurelius: FERRIS 2009. BECKMANN 2011. 25 FERRIS 2009, 114–128.

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‘consistently elevated level of violent imagery’ on imperial coinage after the 260s, including an abundance of types showing violence done by both gods and emperors to prone barbarian captives.26 Thus, in this regard, tetrarchic emphasis on the barbarians and on their suppression fitted unproblematically into a centuries old tradition, and was in keeping with the growing emphasis on these aspects of imperial power that seems to have taken place during the 3rd century. Within this cultural framework, the violence and aggression of the Germani needed neither explanation or rationalization, and the violence directed against these peoples likewise manifested itself as a prima facie good. Violence that occurred beyond the boundaries of this relationship between the civilising influence of Rome and the chaotic forces of barbarism, however, required a more nuanced management. It is notable, therefore, that in panegyric the Empire of Carausius and Allectus, which ruled Britain and part of northern Gaul from 286 to 296, was never treated as a rival imperial power, but was rather denounced as an act of banditry and lawlessness. Across Pan. Lat. X (2), XI (3), and VIII (5), Carausius was referred to simply as ‘the pirate’ (pirata), and his Empire ‘the nefarious act of brigandage’ (istud nefarium latrocinium).27 Likewise, it was a factio, a word connotative both of the malicious influence of a minority bent on shaping power to their benefit at the expense of the wider majority and of the roving criminal bands that plagued the countryside.28 If there was a causal factor to be sought for its emergence or its continuance, it was in the corrupting influence of madness and disease; after its destruction, the panegyrist of 297 imagined it as a plague – lues illa – that had attacked the otherwise resurgent Empire of the tetrarchs, and in madness the panegyrist imagined Allectus frantically discarding his feigned imperial garb upon the field of battle as the crumbling edifice of his banditry collapsed about him.29 Within tetrarchic ideology, therefore, the British usurpers were not rival claimants of imperial power, but robbers who struck impotently against the restorative power of the tetrarchy. Carausius was not merely excluded, however. At the same time as tetrarchic ideology demeaned the British emperors’ imperial pretentions beneath the language of brigandage, it also carefully blurred the line between Roman usurper and barbarian outsider. Speeches given while Carausius’ Empire still stood focussed on banditry, but in Pan. Lat. VIII (5), delivered after its fall, the panegyrist can hardly see a distinction between the British rebels and the other northern barbarians against whom Maximian and Constantius had waged such continual and successful wars. He asked his audience to imagine the outbreak of the rebellion, noting that a Roman legion was ‘captured’ (occupata) by Carausius, that the pirate built ships ‘in our style’ (in nostrum modum), and that hordes of barbarians were recruited with the promise of spoils from the provincials.30 Upon the field of the final battle, the bodies 26 27 28 29 30

MALONE 2009. Cf. BELLONI 1976. VITALE 2017, 257–263. Pan. Lat. X (2) 12.1, VIII (5) 6.1, 7.3, 12. Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 6.1, 15.5; cf. SEAGER 1972. Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 16.4–5, 18.1. Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 12.

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of the enemy soldiers all appeared to be those of barbarians, whether they were Franks in earnest or Romans who had given themselves over to barbarian manners: ‘The corpses of barbarians and those who had formerly imitated the barbarians in their manner of dress and their long, reddened hair, now lay, befouled with dust and gore and scattered in various postures as a result of the pain of their wounds…’31 And if the point was unclear to the audience, the orator drove it home at his conclusion: ‘O manifold victory of innumerable triumphs, by which the Britons have been recovered, by which the power of the Franks has been utterly destroyed, by which, besides, the necessity of surrender has been imposed upon the many peoples caught up in the conspiracy of the crime, by which finally, the seas have been swept clean and made perpetually quiet.’32 Indeed, thirteen years later, an orator speaking before Constantine could recall Constantius’ campaign against the British Empire as if it had solely been a war against a Frankish aggressor.33 The tetrarchs asked their subjects to remember the destruction of the usurpers in Britain not as a civil war, but as the liberation of the island from barbarian overlordship. It is also worth noting that this presentation encompassed a very clear double standard on the part of both orator and emperor. The usurpation was painted as a Frankish invasion in all but name and Carausius’ own connections – or rather proximity – to the world beyond the frontier would be used to give this a particular bite. Carausius would, in the speech to Constantine mentioned above, be remembered simply as ‘a former native’ (quondam alumnus) of Batavia, and through the association of this region with the Franks, his Roman-ness was thus called into open question. Menapia, Carausius’ homeland, was a region of northern Gaul that straddled the Scheldt river and thus – importantly – lay west of the Rhine and well within Roman territory. It was a frontier region, certainly, but a region that had been part of the Empire for more than three centuries and longer, indeed, than the Illyricum from which Constantius and the other tetrarchs all hailed.34 Diocletian, remember, had begun his life as Diocles, and only picked up his more grandiose -tianus suffix later in life (perhaps at his accession).35 In Pan. Lat. X (2), however (the only place where the emperors’ heritage is explicitly addressed), the Illyrian upbringing of the emperors was unwaveringly asserted to be a source of pride for Diocletian and Maximian and, importantly, was used to mark them out as thoroughly Roman as if they had been born in the City itself: ‘Shall I recall, indeed, the services of your native land to the State? …while Italy indeed may have been the mistress of nations 31 Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 16.2–4: illa barbara aut imitatione barbariae olim cultu vestis et prolixo crine rutilantia, tunc vero pulvere et cruore foedata et in diversos situs tracta, sicuti dolorem vulnerum fuerant secuta iacuerunt. 32 Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 17.2: O victoria multiiuga et innumerabilium triumphorum, qua Britanniae restitutae, qua Francorum ‹vires› penitus excisae, qua multis praeterea gentibus in coniuratione illius sceleris deprehensis imposita est necessitas obsequendi, ‹qua› denique ad perpetuam quietem maria purgata sunt! 33 Pan. Lat. VI (7) 5.1–3. 34 On the humble origins of Diocletian, see: Eutr. 9.19.2. Zon. 12.31. Hier. Chron. a. 286. Epit. de Caes. 39.1. 35 CAMBI 2004, 38–40.

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by virtue of the antiquity of her glory, Pannonia has been in valor?’36 Yet this egregious doublethink – that a Menapian Gaul was essentially a Frank whilst an Illyrian peasant was a son of Italy in all but name – points to the commanding necessity of this Romanising/barbarising rhetoric. Diocletian and his brother emperors were hailed by their panegyrists as true Romans because only true Romans could be the kind of glorious emperors that the tetrarchs had to be presented as. By exactly the same token, however, the taint of the frontier was too tempting a stick not to beat Carausius and his entourage with in the quest to frame the British usurpers as something fundamentally oppositional to Roman order. That these strategies of de-legitimation for the British regime found their ultimate origin in the court seems highly probable. Though panegyrics were ultimately the product of their orator, not of the court itself, they were responsive to imperial self-fashioning, and in fact we can see throughout the Gallic panegyrics clear themes that were drawn from court-produced media.37 In relation to the usurpers, the idea of a Britain restored to Roman-ness is to be found most explicitly in the so called Arras Medallion, a 10-aurei commemorative medallion depicting on its obverse the stern, laureate head of Constantius, and on its reverse the emperor armed and mounted on horseback, emerging from an oared galley to be greeted by the prostrate and supplicant figure of Londinium beneath the legend REDDITOR LVCIS AETERNAE.38 The medallion thus imagines the Britons – represented in the form of the personified London – as a formerly subjugated people restored to the light of Roman control, stating clearly that their former condition had been their loss of their civilising influence of Rome. The rhetoric of this medallion is found clearly articulated in both of the Gallic panegyrics delivered after Constantius’ victory. The panegyrist of 297 declared, of the liberated Britons: ‘Nor is it any wonder that they were borne away by such joy after so many years of miserable captivity, after the violation of their wives, after the shameful enslavement of their children, they were at last free and at last Roman, at last restored by the true light of Empire’ (tandem vera imperii luce recreati).39 Likewise, Eumenius, speaking in 297 or 298, imagined how Britain had ‘raised itself up to the vision of Roman light’ (ad conspectum Romanae lucis emersit).40 The use by both these speakers of this highly specific metaphor can hardly be coincidental (not least given that the orator of 297 may very well have been a recipient of one of the medals of which the Arras Medallion is the only surviving example), and it shows that orators and court were engaged in a reciprocal process of image formation in which the tetrarchs were

36 Pan. Lat. X (2) 2.2: commemorabo nimirum patriae tuae in rem publicam merita? … Italia quidem sit gentium domina gloriae vetustate, sed Pannonia virtute? 37 Above, n. 7. 38 BASTIEN & METZGER 1977. CASEY 2000. 39 Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 19.2: nec mirum si tanto gaudio ferebantur post tot annorum miserrimam captivitatem, post violatas coniuges, post liberorum turpe servitium tandem liberi tandemque Romani, tandem vera imperii luce recreati. 40 Pan. Lat. IX (4) 18.3.

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identified uniquely with Roman civilisation, whilst their opponents thereby became degenerate perversions of that glory.41 We know sadly very little about the way that other usurping regimes faced by the tetrarchs were treated in public media. That said, we do not know nothing, and a few small pieces of evidence can be assembled to suggest that the strategies employed in other instances were similar to those directed against Carausius and Allectus. Eumenius, in his panegyric, gives a very clipped mention of the recent suppression of a usurpation in Egypt, under the emperors L. Domitius Domitianus and Aurelius Achilleus during the period 297–298.42 Here again madness is the explanatory device that can, if not justify, then at least explain why it was that a group of provincials might cede from the benevolent care of the tetrarchs: ‘meanwhile, the minds of those looking on each of these [regions depicted on the Autun map] will direct themselves to Egypt, its madness put aside (furore posito), peaceful beneath your clemency, Diocletian Augustus.’43 And though civil war could not be represented in the plastic arts with the same bellicose vigour with which conquests over barbarian peoples were celebrated, there are nonetheless hints that, in the East, Diocletian also borrowed from the visual iconography of barbarian conquest to mark his recapture of recalcitrant Egypt.44 Most notable in this regard is the victory column that was raised to him in Alexandria by the governor of Egypt, Publius, following his recapture of the city after the Domitianus/Achilleus revolt. Towering over the city’s Serapeum at a height of more than 20m, and probably once topped by a colossal porphyry statue of the emperor in military dress, a monument such as this was properly the commemorative bookend of a foreign war (Trajan’s and Marcus Aurelius’ at Rome again being the most famous examples). Its erection – not tied to any particular event in its (admittedly very fragmentary) accompanying inscription but merely dedicated to ‘the most revered emperor, the guardian-god of Alexandria, Diocletian the invincible’ – thus blurred the line between warfare with the barbarians beyond the borders and warfare between competing claimants to Roman imperial power.45 Though we know considerably less about the ways in which civil (as opposed to foreign) war was commemorated in the years before the tetrarchs, it is unquestionable that here again the fundamental currents of this presentation were nothing new. Colouring civil war with the texture of barbarian conflict was certainly a wellestablished custom, perhaps the best example being Octavian’s war with Anthony at the end of the 30s BC which was presented in public media largely as a war with 41 On the contention that the orator of Pan. Lat. VIII (5) may have received a medallion, see OMISSI 2018, 57. 42 JOHNSON 1950. SCHWARTZ 1975. BARNES 1976b, 180–182. 43 Pan. Lat. IX (4) 21.2: dumque sibi ad haec singula intuentium animus adfingit aut sub tua, Diocletiane Auguste, clementia Aegyptum furore posito quiescentem. 44 On the taboos around representing civil war, see MAYER 2006. HUMPHRIES 2015. WIENAND 2015b. 45 On the column, see MCKENZIE, GIBSON, REYES & GRIMM 2004. THIEL 2006. For the putative statue, see LSA 1005. For the text of the inscription, see CIG III 4681 with additions by KAYSER 1994, 54–6. See also HELLSTRÖM, this volume.

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the foreign kingdom of Egypt.46 In other cases, the taint of civil war might be carefully buried beneath the glory that accrued from a genuinely foreign conflict, as the Flavians did in lionising their conquest of Judea to help smooth the agony of the civil war of 69.47 And according to the Historia Augusta, when the emperor Aurelian finally defeated the last of the Gallic Emperors, Tetricus, and ended the Gauls’ fourteen year experiment in a separatist government, he led a bound Tetricus in his triumph at Rome as if he were a captured foreign king.48 The non-barbarising language also had comfortable antiquity. Pirata was a term of abuse levelled against purely Roman enemies stretching back at least to Cicero, who memorably used it of Antony in his Philippics, and Augustus likewise portrayed the war against Sextus Pompey as a war with pirates and slaves (indeed, eschewing a triumph on which account).49 Like the strategies employed to deal with barbarian enemies, therefore, the language of tetrarchic public pronouncement seem to have been firmly grounded in long traditions of Roman political discourse and polemic. This broadly traditionalist bent manifests itself in the presentation (or rather lack of presentation) of one final group: the bacaudae. Here, unlike with barbarians and usurpers, the panegyrists seem to have little to say about their emperor’s victory. Their single pronouncement on the subject, coming in 289, is clipped enough that it may be quoted in its entirety: Was this not similar to that calamity of two-shaped monsters in our lands, I know not whether to say suppressed by your bravery, Caesar, or calmed by your mercy? Inexperienced farmers sought military garb; the plowman imitated the infantryman, the shepherd the cavalryman, the rustic ravager of his own crops the barbarian enemy. This I pass over in haste, for I see that such are your dutiful feelings that you prefer that victory to be cast into oblivion rather than glorified (video enim te, qua pietate es, oblivionem illius victoriae malle quam gloriam).50

Immediately of note is that the comparison is again made to barbarian aggression, reinforcing the notion of the barbarian as a universal referent for the aberrant within the Roman (and here specifically Gallo-Roman) imagination. However, what is perhaps more arresting is just how little Pan. Lat. X (2) has to say on this subject.51 Indeed, the orator seems volubly aware that this is not a valuable subject on which to linger, and it merely forms the bridge from his proemium to the true heart of his speech (the recollection of German victories and the promise of future victory 46 47 48 49 50

ZANKER 1987, 88–96. E.g. VASTA 2007. Aur. Vict. Caes. 35.5. Eutr. 9.13.2. DRINKWATER 1987, 41–43; 90–91. Cic. Phil. 13.18; Res Gestae 25 (cf. Suet. Aug. 22). Pan. Lat. X (2) 4.3: An non illud malum simile monstrorum biformium in hisce terris fuit quod tua, Caesar, nescio utrum magis fortitudine repressum sit an clementia mitigatum, cum militaris habitus ignari agricolae appetiverunt, cum arator peditem, cum pastor equitem, cum hostem barbarum suorum cultorum rusticus vastator imitatus est? Quod ego cursim praetereo; video enim te, qua pietate es, oblivionem illius victoriae malle quam gloriam. 51 All the more striking given that most modern commentators argue that appointment of Maximian as Caesar was largely motivated by his desire to create a subordinate to deal with the bacaudae, or as a reward for Maximian’s success in doing so: e.g., KOLB 1987a, 38–40. CASEY 1994, 50. REES 2002, 29. LEADBETTER 2009, 53–54.

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against Carausius). The victory against the bacaudae is generally regarded to have been won in 285 and to have been the first major achievement of Maximian’s reign, which explains its inclusion here.52 No later orator, however, thought it worthy of mention and, though the bacaudae came to the attention of later epitomators, it seems these latter had little to add (or considered the subject of insufficient importance to expand upon), since we learn nothing further from them barring the name bacaudae itself and the names of two leaders, Amandus and Aelianus.53 Indeed, it is thanks largely to this extreme terseness on the part of contemporary sources that modern scholars have been so divided on the status and identity of this group, from proto-Marxist peasant revolutionaries to disenfranchised aristocrats whom the 3rd century disturbances had cut off from flows of imperial patronage (and every shade in between).54 Why this reticence in a public idiom that showed itself so saturated by the theme of the conquest of the emperor’s enemies? The answer may again lie in the broadly traditionalist bent of tetrarchic media for if, as seems the likelihood from the emphasis on the uprising’s rural origins, the bacaudae were indeed Gallic peasants, then there was little room to glorify in their destruction. Genuine bandits and rural rebels (not usurpers denounced as such, as was Carausius) had always carried with them a certain stigma, their defeat not meriting the glory that came from warfare against a ‘proper’ enemy. When the Third Servile War broke out in 73 BC, the Romans initially failed to field regular legions against the rebels in Italy, deeming it below the dignity of Roman soldiers to fight with slaves, and Crassus never claimed a triumph for the victory.55 Aulus Gellius stated that the triumph had often been refused to generals who had no defeated a ‘proper enemy’ (iustus hostis) but merely slaves or pirates.56 Indeed, after the establishment of the Empire, slave and peasant uprisings feature far less heavily in our literary record precisely because the suppression of such activities was generally viewed as beneath imperial dignity; bandits, when they emerge, become figures that highlight the weaknesses and hypocrisies of the imperial edifice.57 Perhaps this is why the panegyrists have so little to say of the bacaudae. Contemporary imperial self-display seems to echo this reticence, for no known monuments or coin types record the wars against the

52 THOMPSON 1952. OKAMURUA 1988. MINOR 1997. VAN DAM 1985, 25–54. 53 Aur. Vict. Caes. 39.17. Eutr. 9.20. On the name, see MINOR 1975. Though coins exist suggesting this pair were emperors, I follow MINOR 1997, 171–181 in regarding these as modern forgeries 54 THOMPSON 1952 would have them as revolutionaries, VAN DAM 1985 as frustrated local aristocrats. 55 App. BC 1.116. Plut. Cras. 9.1–7; 11.8. Gell. NA 5.6.23. 56 Gell. NA 5.6.21; see also Livy’s proelia aliquot nulla memoriae Digna adversus latronum magis quam hostium excursiones… sunt facta (35.7.7–8). 57 SHAW 1984b, 46–52.

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bacaudae.58 Like Aulus Gellius, it seems that the tetrarchs preferred to concentrate their ideological (if not their military) energies on iusti hostes. WHY TO TALK ABOUT THE ENEMY The bacaudae notwithstanding, the tetrarchs clearly drew an enormous political capital from their role as conquerors, and that conquest was almost entirely viewed – at least in the West – through the prism of a dichotomy between the order of romanitas and the chaos of barbaritas. Neither this dichotomy nor the fact that emperors sought so consistently to position themselves in relation to it was uniquely tetrarchic, however. Domination of the barbarians, as we have seen, was a vital pillar of any emperor’s position, and the techniques employed against the usurpers Carausius and Allectus and against the bacaudae seem to have clear precedent also. Thus the form of much of what we have so far considered can be viewed as broadly conservative. In the rest of this chapter, we will consider ways in which tetrarchic idiom innovated on these well-worn themes. Of note firstly is the sheer dominance of this victory narrative in surviving material. Though the theme of military victory was an old one, the way in which it so utterly shaped the panegyrics and the self-presentation of the tetrarchs was less so. Compare, for example, the amount of space devoted to military themes within the tetrarchic Panegyrici Latini and their most notably progenitor, the 100 CE Panegyricus of Pliny. Pan. Lat. X (2) gives the vast majority of its length to the military activity and the recollection of victory. Pan. Lat. VIII (5) does the same. Even in Pan. Lat. XI (3), which explicitly eschews military themes, gives perhaps a third of its space up to the topic.59 Pliny’s Panegyricus sees the same themes commanding no more than one twelfth the speech.60 Pliny, of course, wished to shape his emperor as a civilis princeps, and we know too that the speech we now have is of a much greater length than the speech he actually delivered. Much of the additional material may have accrued in the ‘civil’ sections. Nonetheless, Trajan was hardly a shrinking violet and not one of his imperial predecessors could boast as sustained or determined an interest in personally carrying out his Empire’s military activities. The monomania regarding military accomplishments in the tetrarchic panegyrics would seem to indicate something particular about the self-fashioned identity of the tetrarchic emperors, at least as far as panegyric and aristocratic perceptions of the tetrarchs were concerned. That the emphasis on military prowess came from the emperors themselves can again be seen in media produced by the court itself. Much has been made of the stark military dress of the tetrarchs in their porphyry statue groups, and on their 58 LASSANDRO 1987 argues that a statue preserved in the Museum of Metz, France, represents a mounted Maximian spearing the personified monstrum of the bacaudae, but I remain unconvinced this is anything other than an example Jupiter column of a type common in Roman Gaul. 59 Pan. Lat. XI (3) 5–7 and 16–19 60 Plin. Pan. 12–19 (8 of 95 sections).

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emphasis, within their coinage, on military themes.61 Perhaps the clearest statement of the way in which the tetrarchs firmly fused their military accomplishments to every aspect of their rule, however, comes in the preamble of the 301 Edict of Maximum prices, which appears to have been published widely, at least in the Eastern part of the Empire.62 Tellingly, a law whose purposes were social and economic begins with a declaration of the emperors’ supremacy as conquerors of foreign peoples. After the seemingly endless register of the four emperor’s victory titles (on which more below) the law declares: It is fitting to give thanks to the good fortune of our state, to which, alongside the immortal gods, is owed recollections of the wars that we have successfully waged: the condition of the world has been placed in the lap of the deepest quiet and of peace for good men… so that we, who by the abundant favour of the gods have crushed the raging depredations of the past with the slaughter of the very peoples and nations of the barbarians, will encircle in perpetuity the quiet we have established with the bulwark owed to justice.63

From here the law launches more fully into an account of economic hardship – grounded almost entirely in economic hardship experienced by the emperors’ loyal soldiers – and then its long list of goods and their maximum prices. What this introduction stresses, however, is that the tetrarchs presented themselves, first and foremost, as the men who had re-established Roman dominion over the world, had pushed back the barbarian tribes, and had brought peace to the world by slaughtering those savage peoples to whom peace was anathema. All other reforms proceeded from that basic tenet of tetrarchic power, and, whether being praised by elite orators or berating intransigent shopkeepers, the emperors were, first and foremost, conquerors. Opening this law with a recollection of the many victories against the barbarians, however, was not merely an act of machismo or self-aggrandisement. As even the short extract above indicates, the emperors’ wars were not ancillary or incidental to the stated reasons for and purpose of the law, but were fundamentally bound up with it. By their wars, the tetrarchs had restored order to a chaotic world and had brought a long absent peace and prosperity to Roman territory. In the law this manifests as an exasperated disbelief that economic malfeasance can still thrive in an Empire thus restored, but more generally it points to one of the important pillars of tetrarchic idiom, that of the emperors as restorers. Thus, the tetrarchs presented themselves – and were presented by their orators – as the genitors of a new age of peace. Again, there is nothing wholly remarkable in this, and emperors during the 3rd century always wanted to communicate the notion that their accession had

61 On the statues, see LAUBSCHER 1999. On coinage, see MALONE 2009, 64–65. 62 On the edict, see CORCORAN 2000, 205–233. 63 Edictum de pretiis rerum venalium praef.5, from Mommsen’s edition in LAUFFER 1971: fortunam rei publicae nostrae, cui iuxta inmortales deo bellorum memoria, quae feliciter gessimus, gratulari licet tranquillo orbis statu et in gremio altissima[e] quietis locato, etiam pacis bonis, … ut nos, qui benigno favore numinum aestuantes de praeterito rapinas gentium barbararum ipsarum nationum clade conpressimus, in aeternum fundatam quietem [deb]itis iustitiae munimen[ti]s saepiamus.

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ushered in a new era.64 What marks the tetrarchs as different is that (unlike any 3rd century predecessor), there was some reality in these claims, and it is no doubt thanks in part to the greater stability of the tetrarchic period that we have surviving literary sources which give testament to this spirit of restoration. 3rd century Romans – at least those living near the Empire’s European and Middle Eastern frontiers – were intimately aware that they had lived through a troubled era. For the Gauls, in particular, this had been a difficult and bitter period.65 Thus in their oratory – I would argue – we see a sincerity of hope in their proud declarations that the tetrarchs were not merely great generals and conquerors, but that their wars and conquests were at last restoring peace. Hence the assertion, in Pan. Lat. X (2), that ‘In truth, most sacred emperor, one might with justice call you and your brother the founders of the Roman Empire (Romani imperii… conditores): for you are, what is very near to that, its restorers… and the first days of your rule are the first in its salvation.’66 The distasteful crowing over barbarian prisoners, discussed earlier in the chapter, was grounded in the same notion, for the orator of Pan. Lat. VIII (5) saw in the barbarians the promise that regions of the Gallic frontier long depopulated would now be returned to cultivation and to productivity. Similarly, the recapture of Britain healed the single blemish on a world otherwise regaining its health and unity, and the comparison here with former periods was an explicit one: ‘The defection of these provinces from the light of Rome, although distressing, was less dishonourable in the Principate of Gallienus. For then, whether through neglect of affairs or through a certain deterioration in our fortune, the State was dismembered of almost all its limbs.’67 Later too he cites disorders under Probus.68 Both these references, unusually direct (negative imperial exempla being usually alluded to, rather than named), speak of an earnestly conceived hope that better and more stable times lay ahead. This hope rings out perhaps most clearly in the latest of our panegyrics, Pan. Lat. IX (4), which, in its evocation of the great map of the Empire housed in the school of rhetoric at Autun, surveys the Roman world with a tangible sense of pride and confidence: There let the most noble deeds of the bravest emperors be recalled through diverse representations of the countries while, with messengers of victories constantly pouring in, the twin rivers of the Persian, the thirsty fields of Libya, the curved horns of the Rhine, and the many-cleft mouths of the Nile are seen again; meanwhile the minds of those looking on each of these will direct themselves to Egypt, its madness put aside, peaceful beneath your clemency, Diocletian Augustus, or to you, invincible Maximian, striking like lightening upon the stricken crowd of the Moors, or to Britain and Batavia raising their muddied heads from beneath woods and water under your right hand, lord Constantius, or you, Maximian Caesar [Galerius], trampling

64 ALFÖLDY 1974, 97–98. 65 ALFÖLDY 1974. BACHRACH 2010. 66 Pan. Lat. X (2) 1.5: re vera enim, sacratissime imperator, merito quivis te tuumque fratrem Romani imperii dixerit conditores: estis enim, quod est proximum, restitutores et … vestri imperii primi dies sunt principes ad salutem. 67 Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 10.1: minus indignum fuerat sub principe Gallieno quamvis triste harum provinciarum a Romana luce discidium. tunc enim sive incuria rerum sive quadam inclinatione fatorum omnibus fere membris erat truncata res publica. 68 Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 18.3.

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For Eumenius, the map provides a convenient locus on which to link his own determination to see the school of Autun restored with the wider world of geopolitics.70 It also, however, encapsulates the hopefulness of the tetrarchic speeches – a speech to a local governor, devoted to the theme of the restoration of a civic building, nonetheless finds its conclusion in the happy consideration of a world made secure and made Roman once more. As the fragmentary panegyric in the Corpus Hermeticum states (in a faintly Orwellian pairing), by their continual wars the emperors have at last brought peace.71 Eumenius’ map – at once a survey of the bounds of the Empire and a summary of all four emperors’ victories within and without them – points to the second important particularity of tetrarchic victory narratives: that tetrarchic victory was, at all times, a collegiate enterprise. The collegiate and unifying language of the tetrarchic panegyrics has been amply studied, but as it pertains to victory the salient point is that the tetrarchic orators always made sure to relate the specific and local victories for which they praised their emperor to the wider schema of tetrarchic military dominance. Thus, all four of the complete panegyrics we possess include framing devices – summative elements near their conclusions – that give an overview of the totality of tetrarchic victory and make explicit the point that these victories mirror one another: in Pan. Lat. X (2), Maximian’s conquest of the Germans across the Rhine mirrored Diocletian’s victory over the Persian across the Euphrates, and they received alike the submission of German and Persian kings; in XI (3) the lists of Maximian and Diocletian’s victories is intermingled, without distinction by emperor (all simply vester) and across a dizzying array of frontiers and peoples the orator delights that the barbarians now war with one another, not the Romans; VIII (5) compares the barbarians settlements made by Diocletian, Maximian, and now Constantius; and Eumenius, as we have seen, surveys the totality of conquest in his map.72 Each emperors achievements could be seen as mirroring one another and as contributing to the achievements of the others: the victory of each emperor was the victory of all. 69 Pan. Lat. IX (4) 21.1–3: ibi fortissimorum imperatorum pulcherrimae res gestae per diversa regionum argumenta recolantur, dum calentibus semperque venientibus victoriarum nuntiis revisuntur gemina Persidos flumina et Libyae arva sitientia et convexa Rheni cornua et Nili ora multifida; dumque sibi ad haec singula intuentium animus adfingit aut sub tua, Diocletiane Auguste, clementia Aegyptum furore posito quiescentem aut te, Maximiane invicte, perculsa Maurorum agmina fulminantem aut sub dextera tua, domine Constanti, Bataviam Britanniamque squalidum caput silvis et fluctibus exserentem aut te, Maximiane Caesar, Persicos arcus pharetrasque calcantem. Nunc enim, nunc demum iuvat orbem spectare depictum, cum in illo nihil videmus alienum. Cf. Pan. Lat. X (2) 7.5, 8.6–11.3; Pan. Lat. XI (3) 5.3–4, 17–18; Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 4–5, 20–21. 70 The map as a geographical construct is discussed in DIEDERICH 2019, 101ff. 71 Corpus Hermeticum XVIII.16; cf. Pan. Lat. XI (3) 15–20; Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 10; Pan. Lat. IX (4) 21. 72 Pan. Lat X (2) 7, 10.3–7; XI (3) 5.3–4, 17–18; VIII (5) 21.1; IX (4) 20–21.

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This panegyrical commonplace again clearly had its roots in the courts’ own self-presentation. Certainly, the tetrarchs might advertise one another’s victories, as was done with the widely issued VICTORIA SARMAT / SARMATICA coinage, struck in silver at mints across the Empire after 294 and bearing an image of the four emperors sacrificing together on their reverse.73 The united nature of military triumphs was visible likewise in the way that the tetrarchs employed military titles. Under first diarchy and then tetrarchy, titles became not a specific reward for an emperor to mark a specific campaign, but rather a shared titulature enjoyed by all rulers alike. Thus, in the preface to the Edict of Maximum Prices, Diocletian boasts no fewer than seventeen such titles: Germanicus maximus VI Sarmaticus maximus IIII Persicus maximus II Brittanicus maximus Carpicus maximus Armenicus maximus Medicus maximus Adiabenicus maximus.74 Some of these he had won for himself, such as three of the four Sarmaticus maximus titles. Others, however, had clearly been won by his colleagues: to Maximian and Constantius belonged five of the six Germanicus maximus titles, to Constantius Britannicus maximus, and to Galerius (among others), the more exotic sounding Armenicus maximus, Medicus maximus, and Adiabenicus maximus.75 Titles had since the time of Septimius Severus been communicated from father to son, a heritable property like any other, and previous emperors’ coinages had likewise dined out on victories not belonging to the emperor who advertised them.76 Since the tetrarchs were a – fictive – family, in some senses they were again continuators in this practice rather than innovators.77 The unquestionable military energy of the tetrarchs, however, gave this decades old practice new resonance. Tetrarchic orators could afford explicitly to scorn the past examples of ‘those leaders who, while spending their days at Rome, had triumphs and cognomina of nations conquered by their generals accrue to them’, for the tetrarchic sharing of victory titles was given weight and power by the fact that each emperor was, at virtually all times, actively campaigning within his own territory.78 Thus the sharing of victory titles was, for the tetrarchs, not merely a convention of familial nomenclature, but an expression of the profound unity of the emperors. So says Pan. Lat. XI (3): ‘That laurel from the conquered peoples inhabiting Syria and that from Raetia and that from Sarmatia made you celebrate a triumph with duty and with joy; in the same way the peoples of the Chaibones and Heruli here destroyed, the victory across the Rhine, and the piratical war stamped out when the Franks were conquered returned 73 74 75 76

On the wide-ranging uses of this legend, see RIC VI, p. 705. Cf. LAUFFER 1971, 90. BARNES 1976b. On titles: KNEIßL 1969, 185. On coinage, Domitian (or his subordinates) clearly continued to draw propaganda value from his father and brother’s conquests in Judea long after both Titus and Vespasian were dead, minting coins that recalled their victories in the region: HENDIN 2007. 77 On the ‘family’ of the tetrarchs, see CARLÀ-UHINK and WALDRON, this volume. 78 Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 14.1. In the oration this is a specific dig at a former British ‘conqueror’, Antoninus Pius, who claimed credit for victories won in that province though he himself never once left Italy as emperor.

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Diocletian as a concelebrant in your vows.’79 Furthermore, by pooling their titles in this way, and by the emperors’ individual energy in acquiring them, victory titles could thus overawe by their sheer overwhelming number. In the Edict of Maximum Prices in 301, Diocletian could boast no fewer than seventeen victory titles, and in the four years that separated this law from Diocletian and Maximian’s abdication in 305, the tetrarchs would claim eight more.80 This daunting mass, which rendered each emperor’s full name and titles (even in highly abbreviated inscriptional language) as a heroic epithet of several lines, spoke clearly of tetrarchic pretensions to an unsurpassed record on the military plane. Even compared to the soldier emperors of the late 3rd century, tetrarchic titulature dwarfed all previous precedent. Gallienus, who ruled for fifteen years, claimed perhaps half a dozen victory titles, and even the bellicose Aurelian only four.81 Collegiality of victory too was visible in the tetrarchs’ monumentality.82 Precious little triumphal monumentality survives from the period of the first tetrarchy, but what we have suggests strongly that collegiality was made a clear focus.83 The Arch of Galerius, for instance (discussed more fully in chapters by Anne Hunnell Chen and Fabio Guidetti in this volume), set up in Galerius’ Thessalonika in c. 300 to commemorate the emperor’s stunning victories in Persia in the year 298, bristles with scenes, both historic and figurative, which lionise Galerius and his achievements, showing him in battle or even single combat at heroically magnified scale.84 Yet on the north face of the south pier, low over the main road at a point of maximum visibility, the Arch displays a relief depicting all four tetrarchs enthroned together and surrounded by a panoply of divine figures who – with Jupiter, Oceanus, Tellus, Coelus and the Orbis Terrarum among their number – represent the total dominance of the tetrarchs over the mortal and the cosmic worlds. Importantly, kneeling personifications of Britannia and Syria are being raised to their feet by the seated emperors, an overt pairing of Galerius’ victory in Persia with Constantius’ almost contemporaneous recapture of Britain.85 In the frescoes at Luxor the tetrarchs were likewise portrayed together in semi-divine quartet, to commemorate the visit of only one of their number to the city (a visit that was likely part of

79 Pan. Lat. XI (3) 7.1–2: laurea illa de victis accolentibus Syriam nationibus et illa Raetica et illa Sarmatica te, Maximiane, fecerunt pio gaudio triumphare; itidemque hic gens Chaibonum Erulorumque deleta et Transrhenana victoria et domitis oppressa Francis bella piratica Diocletianum votorum compotem reddiderunt. 80 BARNES 1976b, 190. 81 Gallienus: KIENAST, ECK & HEIL 2017, 218. Aurelian: WATSON 1999, 175–176. 82 On the tetrarchs multiple presentation more generally, see especially REES 1993. ECK 2006, and KALAS 2015, 23–45. 83 An obvious manifestation of this is the porphyry tetrarchic groups, of which the Vatican and San Marco groups are now the only surviving examples of what was surely a very common stylistic type (cf. see LAUBSCHER 2000), and likewise the numerous tetrapyla or tetrakiona monuments raised in numerous provincial cities (cf. THIEL 2002). 84 On the arch, see VON SCHÖNEBECK 1937. LAUBSCHER 1975. POND ROTHMAN 1977. REES 1993. 85 Cf. POND ROTHMAN 1975.

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Diocletian’s tour of the region after its reclamation from Domitianus and Achilleus).86 And Frank Kolb has argued persuasively from the surviving fragments of relief and from literary descriptions of the Arcus Novus in Rome that it was constructed in 297/8 to mark the joint quinquennalia of the Caesars and the recapture of Britain, though it was remembered in later sources as a monument constructed by the Augusti, indicative of the way in which all four emperors were represented in its scheme.87 All these monuments communicated – in a strikingly visual way – the same theme that the panegyrists worked so hard to expound, that the multiple emperors shared in a single experience, that diverse victories all formed threads within the wider tapestry of the emperors’ overarching narrative of victory and of a world restored. That this theme was understood with perfect clarity is perhaps most clearly visible in the ultimately fruitless attempt of an outsider to share in it; following the conclusion of a fragile peace between the diarchs and Carausius after 290, Carausian mints issued the famous CAVRAVSIVS ET FRATRES SVI coinage, complete with jugate busts of Carausius, Diocletian, and Maximian.88 Carausius knew that the tetrarchic message was inseparably bound up in the themes of fraternity and harmony. CONCLUSION Tetrarchic idiom drew on well-worn and long-established norms of how the emperor(s) ought to be ideologically situated in relation to their military opponents, whether these were tribal groups that lived beyond the Empire’s frontier or challengers that originated on Roman soil. In many ways, the representation of enemies within this framework was normalised to the point of being hackneyed. The astounding emphasis upon the emperors’ martial qualities – often at the exclusion of almost everything else – was a development of the 3rd century, and the tetrarchic experiment in collegiate government gave it its particular character. Throughout tetrarchic media, the recurrent themes are of a single and united world, in which the multifarious achievements of the tetrarchs form a single narrative of victory. Prominent within this narrative was the theme of a world restored, and of an Empire that had but recently been laid low and subjected to humiliations and to chaos now restored and rejuvenated across every frontier by the united efforts of its rulers. This rhetoric appears to have come to a screeching halt in the years after 305, and the panegyrics delivered to Constantine in the period after his accession revert to a highly personalised and localised celebration of the emperor as a warrior and a general – gone are the surveys of a united Empire, and of a myriad of different theatres of war in which the actions of each emperor mirror and contribute to the achievements of all others. Though the hyper-martial presentation of the imperial office was retained long into the fourth century, it was the tetrarchs’ emphasis on fraternity 86 KALAVREZOU-MAXEINER 1975. JONES & MCFADDEN 2015. 87 KOLB 1987a, 180–4. 88 CASEY 1994, 110.

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and rejuvenation that most marks their rhetoric as distinct. In a world where the multiplicity of emperors threatened to neuter or to desacralize the uniqueness of the imperial person, the firm articulation of this message became all the more important. Everywhere, tetrarchic subjugation of ‘the other’ to the will of Rome – identified with the emperors themselves – confirmed the fundamental oneness and harmony of the tetrarchs.

IN THE SHADOW OF VALERIAN GALERIUS’ PERSIAN CAMPAIGNS AND THE COMMUNICATION STRATEGIES OF TETRARCHIC EASTERN POLICY Marc Tipold INTRODUCTION He [Galerius] insolently dared to affirm that, in the fashion of Olympias, the mother of Alexander the Great, his mother had conceived him after she had been embraced by a serpent.1

It was not only the mythical snake father that linked Galerius to Alexander the Great: like the Macedonian king, the Roman Caesar could also claim a Persian victory.2 Henning Börm has emphasized that a victory over the Persians was particularly significant as means of legitimizing the rule of Roman emperors, and not comparable to a triumph over other opponents: ‘the Persians were the Romans’ only neighbours who could match their military might over the long term.’3 Once the neighbour to the East had been defeated, this gave the ruler a boost in legitimacy: no Augustus who was victorious against the Persians had ever been removed from their throne.4 Conversely, every defeat in the East fuelled public pressure for revenge.5 The defeat and imprisonment of Valerian in 260 played a decisive role in the Roman political consciousness for decades to come.6 Galerius’ campaign was the first successful one after this event, so his satisfactory ‘revenge’ may be considered even greater – of course, it was used correspondingly in the new communication strategies of the Tetrarchy. According to Rene Pfeilschifter, it was precisely the ‘außenpolitische[n] Beruhigung’ that paved the way for the stabilising measures for *

1 2 3 4 5 6

I would like to thank the editors for including my article in this volume and for their constructive discussions and feedback. Furthermore, I am grateful to Henning Börm (Rostock) for his remarks and comments. Many thanks to my friends and colleagues who kindly corrected the German manuscript and after that the English version; any remaining errors are solely my responsibility. Epit. de Caes. 40.17 (transl. Banchich), similarly Lact. DMP 9.9, which, however, claims that Galerius accused the mother of fornication for the sake of his divine descent. For more detail on this, see CARLÀ 2012, 75f. Cf. KOLB 1987a, 172. KÜHNEN 2008 provides an introduction to the imitatio Alexandri. BÖRM 2016, 620. Cf. BÖRM 2016, 622, in which he also lists controversial examples. BÖRM 2016, 622, with n.46 cites an example from the early Principate: Augustus was expected to avenge the defeat of Crassus. All dates are CE.

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which the tetrarchy is mostly known.7 However, such ‘pacification’ is not generically situated in the field of ‘foreign policy’, but rather specifically located on the Persian border. To achieve a better understanding of how such an exceptional victory was ‘used’ and celebrated in its specific context, one needs to look first at the time before its achievement, when within the tetrarchy a successful communication strategy was developed that revolved around the necessity of making the best out of the lack of a victory on the eastern front. The preserved panegyrics from 284–298 (Pan. Lat. X (2) from 289, Pan. Lat. XI (3) from 291, Pan. Lat. VIII (5) from 297 and Pan. Lat. IX (4) from 298)8 convey various strategies of legitimizing the tetrarchic rule in such a context. Moreover, these panegyrics reveal and react to pressure from within the Empire by combining traditional motives with recent incidents. I will begin with a brief overview of Roman-Persian relations in the 3rd century. Subsequently, I will first focus on Galerius’ triumph, before analysing the reception and communication of the defeat of 260 and the ensuing failed attempts to overcome this ‘nightmare’, before eventually coming back to the years preceding the victory of 298. This sequence, which breaks the chronological order, is necessary to show in a clearer and more consistent way, with the help not only of literary sources but also of architectural remains, such as the Arch of Galerius in Thessaloniki and the complex of Gamzigrad, how the ‘shadow’ of Valerian’s defeat in 260 CE was dealt with in the communication strategies of the tetrarchy. THE SHADOW OF VALERIAN The conflicts on the eastern border had a long history: after the rebellious prince Ardašīr was able to gradually gain power in the Arsacid Empire in 224 and install his own family as the ruling dynasty, there were repeated disputes with the Roman Empire.9 Due to its position between Rome and the Sāsānian Empire, the question of Armenia’s territorial affiliation was the main focus of the conflicts.10 In 252, Šāpur I declared Armenia a Sāsānian province.11 From that moment on, the Great 7 8

PFEILSCHIFTER 2014, 14. The Latin text follows the edition by Roger A. B. Mynors, Oxford 1964, whose main counting method is also kept for reasons of clarity, despite the now disputed chronology. On the problems within the chronology of the Panegyrici, cf. REES 2002, 20 with n.78 on the transmission of the manuscripts and n.79 on the problems within the counting method. I will not examine the Panegyrici chronologically, but will start with the latter two first, as this will allow me to highlight legal strategies of legitimation concerning the Persian campaign that was never carried out. 9 The question of a possible restoration of the borders of the Achaemenid Empire will not be discussed in detail here. For an overview of the debate, see KETTENHOFEN 2002. MOSIG-WALBURG 2009, 19. 10 Cf. MOSIG-WALBURG 2009, 63f. 11 About ten years later, ŠKZ §2 (= Middle Persian [mp.]/Parthian [parth.]/Greek [gr.]) named Armenia as part of the Sāsānian provinces, cf. also Zonar. 12.21. On the battles in the run-up, cf. ENßLIN 1949, 19 and more recently MOSIG-WALBURG 2009, 79–85.

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King found himself in conflict with Rome, although we cannot definitively determine the exact chronological connections of the individual disputes until the year 256.12 Following a victory over the Roman army led by Barbalissos, the Persians marched into the province of Syria and were able to take possession of Hierapolis, Antioch on the Orontes, and other cities.13 Likely due to the general conception of the campaigns as raids that did not aim to conquer territories west of the Euphrates, Šāpur and his army withdrew from Syria again.14 Further raids were undertaken until 256, when the destruction of the caravan city of Dura-Europos in particular constituted a severe defeat for Rome.15 The calm that had prevailed at the frontier since 256 was broken again in the spring of 260 by Šāpur’s large-scale offensive on the middle section of the border between Carrhae and Edessa. Valerian responded to this by marching into the region with a large army.16 In 260, the King of Kings – šāhān šāh in Middle Persian – succeeded in capturing the emperor in Edessa along with numerous high officials and others who were following the Roman army (technicians, scholars, artists).17 This traumatic event for Rome was one of the greatest Sāsānian triumphs ever.18 According to Zosimos’ report, ‘everything sank into chaos and helplessness spread’ in the eastern regions.19 The circumstances of Valerian’s capture are reported differently in the extant sources: in his monumental inscription, Šāpur speaks of a great battle in which he captured the emperor with his own hands – a tradition that is also visualized in the iconography of the famous cameo preserved at the Cabinet des Médailles in Paris (Pl. 11.b).20 Roman sources, by contrast, provide four possible scenarios for the capture (which do not always necessarily exclude each other): Valerian had either been deceitfully taken captive during a personal meeting with Šāpur;21 had fallen into Persian hands after a defeat; had been encircled by the troops;22 or had surrendered after seeing no way out.23 John Frederick Drinkwater expands the latter version into a passive resistance by Valerian in Persian captivity: the emperor was unwilling to cooperate and thus made Šāpur’s negotiating position more difficult.24

12 Cf. KETTENHOFEN 1982, 50–96. SCHIPPMANN 1990, 21–23. DIGNAS & WINTER 2007, 22f. MOSIG-WALBURG 2009, 79–85. BONNER 2020, 51. 13 Cf. ŠKZ §§ 10–11 (= mp./parth./gr.). 14 GOLTZ & HARTMANN 2008, 234. BÖRM 2019a, 106. 15 For an overview, see DIGNAS & WINTER 2007, 24. 16 GLAS 2014, 219–225 mentions that it could have been Emperor Valerian who had started the aggression against Sāsānian Iran. 17 In ŠKZ § 22 (= mp./parth./gr.) Šāpur emphasises the capture of Valerian by his own hand. 18 ŠKZ §§ 18–22 (= mp./parth./gr.). 19 Zos. 1.37.1: πάντα μὲν ἦν ἄναρχά τε καὶ ἀβοήθητα. 20 ŠKZ § 22 (= mp./parth./gr.). 21 E.g. Aur. Vic. 32.5. HA Valer. 1.2. Zos. 1.36.2. Petr. Patr. frg. 9 (FHG IV 187). 22 Agath. 4.23.7. Eutr. 9.7. Epit. de Caes. 32.5. 23 Zonar. 12.23. 24 DRINKWATER 1989, 130: ‘My point is, therefore, that Valerian, immediately on being taken prisoner, deliberately chose not to cooperate with his captor, whatever the cost. In insisting on what amounted to his abdication, and the resignation of his general staff, the emperor showed

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The most plausible explanation seems to be that Valerian was trapped with his army by the Persians when he tried to take Edessa. Plague or famine may also have played a role in forcing the emperor to negotiate.25 In the course of these parleys, Valerian was taken prisoner. Since at the same time Germanic tribes were invading Northern Italy, Valerian’s son Gallienus probably felt unable to enter negotiations for the release of his father, and a campaign for revenge was out of the question because of the limited military capacities.26 The Historia Augusta gives the impression that Gallienus already considered his father a dead man.27 Meanwhile, Šāpur began negotiations with Valerian’s former rationalis Fulvius Macrianus and apparently requested a ransom.28 However, these negotiations failed. Odaenathus, who had in the meantime been appointed dux Romanorum, began a successful offensive against the Persians in 262, which Gallienus claimed for himself and was likely celebrated with a great triumph in Rome in 263.29 The Historia Augusta mentions that Gallienus ‘held a triumph because of Odaenathus’ victory; but he still made no mention of his father and did not even place him among the gods, when he heard he was dead, until compelled to do so – although Valerian was still alive, for the news of his death was untrue.’30 However, this mentioned triumph did not meaningfully contribute to a feeling that revenge had been obtained. In 268, after Odaenathus’ violent death had become known, Gallienus supposedly planned a campaign against the Persians himself, but his assassination prevented him from carrying out these plans.31 Aurelian was able to secure the eastern and western borders, which is why the Epitome de Caesaribus compares his successes to those of Julius Caesar and Alexander the Great.32 Nevertheless, there was no significant Persian campaign during his reign; it was not until the reign of Probus (276-282) that any events worthy of mention occurred. As emperor, he travelled to the east twice. The sources do not shed light on the situation at the border with Persia; however, a foedus may have been concluded following border disputes, but a military campaign that might have been in planning did not take place, as Probus was assassinated by the troops.33

25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33

immense, and hitherto unrecognized courage; he received his reward as the tide of events began to run against Shahpuhr.’ GOLTZ & HARTMANN 2008, 251. BONNER 2020, 52. E.g., Aur. Vic. 33.3. Eutr. 9.8.2. Zonar. 12.24. Zos. 1.37.2 and GOLTZ & HARTMANN 2008, 255. HA Gall. 3.8–9. Cont. Dio. frg. 3. Petr. Patr. frg. 159. HA Trig. tyr. 12.1. For a short overview of Macrianus’ career: PLRE I, 528 s.v. Fulvius Macrianus 2. HA Gall. 10.5. HA Gall. 10.5: vincente Odaenatho triumphavit Gallienus nulla mentione patris facta, quem ne inter deos quidem nisi coactus rettulit, cum mortuum audisset, sed adhuc viventem, nam de illius morte falso compererat (transl. Magie). HARTMANN 2008, 297–323. Epit. de Caes. 35.2: haud dissimilis fuit magno Alexandro seu Caesari dictatori. An overview of the unclear events is provided by KREUCHER 2008, 407–409. HA Prob. 18.1: Facta igitur pace cum Persis. For the assassination of Probus see: HA Prob. 17.4; 20.1 and cf. DIGNAS & WINTER 2007, 25.

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His successor Carus, according to retrospective literary fiction, was proclaimed emperor only to destroy the Persian Empire.34 Indeed, profiting from internal Persian conflicts, the emperor actually succeeded in achieving a respectable result and in 282 advanced as far as Ctesiphon, which was sacked.35 Yet, this great achievement could not be deployed in imperial communication and self-representation as the cornerstone of Carus’ legitimation: the emperor died suddenly when he was said to have been struck by lightning, and his son Numerian broke off the campaign and signed a peace treaty with the Sāsānian Empire.36 Udo Hartmann recently suggested seeing in the lightning strike the literary adaption of a murder plot.37 The Illyrian officer corps had not agreed to a further advance into Persia. The state of affairs on the eastern border when Diocletian was proclaimed emperor in 284 was thus the same it had been at Carus’ death.38 It is unclear whether the Romans or the Persians were the aggressors when a new war began in 296; what is certain, however, is that Galerius lost the first exchange of blows in 297.39 This made it clear, once again, that the Sāsānians were a dangerous opponent for the Romans. After this initial loss however, Galerius was able to defeat the Persians on his second attempt. Against this background, Galerius’ victory of 298 – along with the capture of the royal harem – must have seemed downright overwhelming. VICTOR ORIENTIS: IMAGES OF A VICTORY Pan. Lat. VIII (5) and Pan. Lat. IX (4) were, as all Panegyrici Latini, composed and recited in the western part of the empire; the events in the east, in spite of their great importance, appear therefore rather as a sideshow.40 Indeed, other themes dominate these two speeches and serve to emphasise the unity of rule.41 Possibly, the Persian victory was deployed in imperial representation in a much more relevant way in panegyrics written and held in the eastern part of the empire, but the loss of 34 Anon. post Dionem, frg. 12 (FHG IV 198). 35 The Historia Augusta cites an oracle saying that the crossing of Ctesiphon as the limit of fate was impossible. HA Car. 9.1–2: ‘The letter I have inserted for the reason that many declare that there is a certain decree of Fate that no Roman emperor may advance beyond Ctesiphon, and that Carus was struck by lightning because he desired to pass beyond the bounds which Fate has set up’ (Hanc ego epistulam idcirco indidi quod plerique dicunt vim fati quandam esse, ut Romanus princeps Ctesiphontem transire non possit, ideoque Carum fulmine absumptum quod eos fines transgredi cuperet qui fataliter constituti sunt) (transl. Magie). 36 Aur. Vic. 38.6. On the conquest of Ctesiphon see among others: Festus 24. Eutr. 9.18. HA Car. 8.1; 9.1. Aur. Vic. 38.3. Epit. de Caes. 38.3. 37 HARTMANN 2022, 54. 38 ENßLIN 1942, 7. WINTER 1988, 130f. DIGNAS & WINTER 2007, 46. MOSIG-WALBURG 2009, 56–58. 39 The Sāsānian Great King Narseh had come to power in 293 through a civil war, and was therefore under considerable pressure to legitimise himself. Cf. BÖRM 2019b, 190–196. 40 For an introduction see MÜLLER-RETTIG 2008, viii–xiii. For an analysis of the discourse on barbarians and other enemies in panegyric, see OMISSI, this volume. 41 NIXON & RODGERS 1994, 151. BROSCH 2006, 99–101.

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this literary production does not allow a direct comparison.42 Pan. Lat. VIII (5) may have been delivered in Trier in 297; the speech offers information on the devastations of the 260s and 270s and focuses on Constantius’ expedition against Allectus.43 In the year the panegyricus was delivered, Galerius had suffered his severe defeat against the Persians, but this can only be inferred indirectly.44 As is to be expected, a defeat is not the right topic for a panegyric: the scarce information we have on Galerius’ first conflict derives thus from other sources.45 At 21.1, nonetheless, Diocletian, Maximian and Constantius are mentioned by name, while Galerius is passed over and only implicitly included in the sphere of the ruler’s power, what is sometimes interpreted as a sign of dismay.46 The martial image appears to have been tarnished and a victory over the Persians was not foreseeable. Yet the Caesar again went into battle against the Persians only a few months later. Pan. Lat. IX (4) is the public speech delivered in Autun by the rhetorician Eumenius towards the end of 297 or in the spring of 298. Eastern policy is mentioned here in two points: it is stated that Diocletian was able to restore the order among the border troops on the Euphrates,47 and also that Galerius defeated the Persians. Galerius’ victory is mentioned only in passing, and is cited symbolically in a list of his deeds: he trampled over the Persians’ quivers and bows.48 Yet, Galerius’ Persian victory must have been overwhelming: in a panegyric delivered in Trier in 307 concerning Constantine’s military success, the speaker acknowledges (albeit in an embellished manner) that the emperor [i.e. Constantine] could win nothing more.49 The Persian victory is indeed not only reflected in literary sources, and its greatest extant celebration is the Arch of Galerius in Thessaloniki.50 This was built

42 ENßLIN 1942, 73. 43 NIXON & RODGERS 1994, 105–106. REES 2002, 100. 44 REES 2002, 93. For reference cf. Eutr. IX.24: ‘Galerius Maximianus at first suffered a defeat against Narses when he engaged him between Callinicum and Carrhae, although he had fought rashly rather than without spirit, for he joined battle with a very small force against an extremely numerous enemy’ (Galerius Maximianus primum adversus Narseum proelium insecundum habuit inter Callinicum Carrasque congressus, cum inconsulte magis quam ignave dimicasset; admodum enim parva manu cum copiosissimo hoste commisit) (transl. Bird). 45 Aur. Vic. 39.34. Eutr. 9.24. Festus 25. Zonar. 12.31. 46 REES 2002, 119f. BROSCH 2006, 99: ‘Allzu weitreichende Schlüsse sollte man daraus jedoch nicht ziehen.’ Nevertheless, the question arises as to why the entire college of rulers, except for Galerius, was enumerated and why this omission should have been an oversight on the part of the speaker. 47 Pan. Lat. IX (4) 18.4: Nam quid ego alarum et cohortium castra percenseam toto Rheni et Histri et Eufratae limite restituta? CIL III Suppl. I 6661 refers to the topic of Diocletian and his tetrarchic colleagues restoring the world order: [reparato]res orbis sui et propagatores generis humani. 48 Pan. Lat. IX (4) 21.2: […] Maximiane Caesar, Persicos arcus pharetrasque calcantem […]. This should not hide the fact that Galerius’ victory was a milestone for Rome’s territorial possession. Cf. EDWELL 2021, 147f. OMISSI, this volume, 265–266. 49 Pan. Lat. VII (6) 4.4: Plurimas ille barbaras nationes victoria domuit, venia mitigavit; tibi cunctis hostibus alacritatis tuae terrore compressis interim deest materia vincendi. 50 See HUNNELL CHEN and GUIDETTI, this volume. EDWELL 2021, 147–151.

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between 298 and 305, as Galerius is still depicted as Caesar.51 As formulated by Rees, ‘the panels of the Arch of Galerius in Thessalonika record various stages in the campaign and indicate how sweet revenge was.’52 Few, carefully chosen episodes of the Persian campaign are depicted; therefore, the iconographic programme does not improve much our knowledge of the actual course of events.53 Nonetheless, clear references to Galerius’ campaign can be identified54: frieze A I 2 depicts the capture of the royal harem, and B I 6 shows the reception of a peace envoy.55 Some of the represented events can be precisely located historically, for example through inscriptions such as those added to frieze A I 3.56 More generally, the scenes range from travel scenes, speeches, and battles to subjugated or captured Persians.57 In their conception, most of the themes elaborate on traditional themes deployed in the representation of Trajan’s and Septimius Severus’ Persian campaigns.58 But these conventional motives are joined by other elements: ‘Seine Reliefs preisen diesen Herrscher, insbesondere seine Erfolge im Perserkrieg, aber sie sind zugleich ein wichtiges Zeugnis tetrarchischer Herrschaftsideologie. In gewissem Sinne bilden sie das östliche Äquivalent zu den ausschließlich aus dem Westen des Reiches erhaltenen Panegyrici der tetrarchischen Epoche.’59 All in all, the visual programme indeed presents the viewer with the ideal world that was recreated by the Tetrarchy: the help of the gods ensures political stability and military victories, and thus also promises material prosperity.60 The restoration of the empire is thus divinely justified and inserted as evidence for the viewer in the series of images of the confrontation with the Persians.61 On the triumphal arch in Thessaloniki, Galerius is not singled out, but rather firmly inserted into the structure of tetrarchic power.62 Indeed, the reliefs depict the participation and share of all tetrarchs in Galerius’ victories.63 In frieze A III 9,10, for example, the two augusti Diocletian and Maximian accept the gestures of submission from captured Persians.64 Galerius appears on frieze B II 20, revealing that the imperial representation moved along the line of the imitatio Alexandri – which is also reflected in the legends surrounding his birth mentioned at the beginning of the paper. Next to Alexander, Galerius was assimilated also to another ‘conqueror of the Orient’, Dionysus 51 KOLB 1987a, 159. 52 REES 2002, 130. 53 LAUBSCHER 1975, 16. Moreover, it should be mentioned that these depictions are not historical images. 54 E.g. Lact. DMP 9.7. Eutr. 9. 25.1. 55 The depictions can be found in LAUBSCHER 1975, 28f. pl. 10; 11,1; 12–24. 56 There we find one of the few surviving inscriptions: ποταμὸς Tιγρις. 57 BOSCHUNG 2006, 360. 58 BOSCHUNG 2006, 361. 59 KOLB 1987a, 159. 60 BOSCHUNG 2006, 366. 61 CANEPA 2009, 85. 62 Lact. DMP. 9.8, however, emphasises that Galerius is said to have been dissatisfied with his role as Caesar. 63 KOLB 1987a, 167. 64 LAUBSCHER 1975, 38–42.

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– to whom indeed Alexander had already claimed a direct proximity, demonstrated by consecrations to this god during his campaign against the Achaemenids.65 These motifs were deployed in Galerius’ (self-)representation also in later years, as demonstrated by the iconographic programme of the complex of Romuliana (308311), such as the famous relief showing the sleeping Ariadne.66 Other smaller stylistic elements underline the Dionysian tropes in the building complex: for example, pilaster A is decorated with a luscious vine of ivy, a Dionysian symbol of happiness.67 Dionysus and Hercules are depicted on mosaics in the so-called Palace I and near the so-called Great Temple. The Dionysus mosaic in one of the two halls depicts the deity sitting on a leopard, the lower half of his body dressed in imperial purple.68 In addition to these representations in Gamzigrad, further examples of Galerius’ self-representation can be found in Thessaloniki, and in particular on the so-called small arch of Galerius, whose corners are carried by two young men who, by their clothing, are unmistakably identifiable as Persians.69 A remarkable detail in the depiction of the two men is their ‘carrying’ function. One holds a bust of Galerius and stretches it towards the sky, while the other carries a representation of the goddess Fortuna.70 Through these deliberate allusions, Galerius visualized his own proximity to the divine sphere, in the line of the mythical conquests of Dionysus. The Persian victory is thus by far Galerius’ greatest achievement, and is elaborated in this sense in the discourses and representations surrounding the emperor, his role and his legitimacy to reign. Some further reliefs from the Arch of Galerius in Thessaloniki show this very clearly. In the uppermost frieze (A III 9), a ruler seated on a throne assumes a prominent role through is greater height, shown by the isocephaly with the standing figures.71 The unidentified emperor wears muscle-revealing armour, is enthroned on a sella castrensis, with his left wrist bent and his hand raised to chest level. A lance is visible to the right, as well as a pleading Persian.72 The fact that the scene depicted is supposed to take place in the context of the peace negotiations can be inferred with the help of the represented women, who are at the same time personifications of the Sāsānian cities and a reference to the captured harem.73 On a symbolic level, Narseh thus receives his family directly from the hands of the Roman rulers. Although the šāhān šāh could not be captured personally, his most personal possessions, the great royal harem and his family fell

65 For example, the altars on the northern bank of the Jaxartes, or the reference that he even overcame the stone monuments of Dionysus, cf. Plin. NH 6.49. 66 KUHOFF 2001a, 761–782. F. KOLB 2001, 186–191, provides an overview of the city complex. For an illustration of the Ariadne relief, see BRANDL & VASIĆ 2007, 44 fig. 13. 67 SREJOVIĆ 1994, 143–152, esp. 145f. F. KOLB 2001, 164. 68 SREJOVIĆ 1975, 99 (with a rare image of the Dionysus mosaic). NICHOLSON 1984, 261. 69 CANEPA 2009, 97. 70 NICHOLSON 1984, 258. CANEPA 2009, 96f. 71 LAUBSCHER 1975, 39. CANEPA 2009, 87. 72 LAUBSCHER 1975, pl. 26,1. 73 LAUBSCHER 1975, 42f. CANEPA 2009, 88.

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into Roman captivity – something that could be presented against the background of the events of 260 CE as an accomplished revenge of Valerian’s capture.74 On the northwest side, on frieze B III 23, Galerius is given an elephant quadriga by a female figure.75 Elephant quadrigas appear on gold medallions from the time of Diocletian’s and Maximian’s accession to the consulship in 287; in the literary tradition, Lactantius also mentions elephants during the triumphal procession of the four Emperors in 303.76 Symbolically, thus, Galerius becomes victor orientis by receiving the four animals – even if there is no proof that the Caesar celebrated an actual triumph.77 A truly innovative iconography follows these depictions: in the centre of the frieze (B II 20), the emperor is depicted in combat on a rearing horse (Pl. 11.a).78 His opponent, a bearded Persian, is hit in the side by the slanted lance and is depicted falling out of his saddle. This depiction is very unusual in Roman iconography, and is reminiscent of the above mentioned cameo depicting the capture of Valerian.79 Therefore it has been suggested that the scene might represent a ‘duel’ in which Galerius strikes down Narseh, which obviously never took place in this form.80 In the area to the right, a Roman warrior steps on the neck of a Persian lying on the ground.81 This is not only intended to illustrate Roman dominance over the Persian Empire; the iconography, just like the horse fight, seems a direct quotation of Sāsānian images – and in particular of representations of Šāpur I.82 On the triumphal relief from Bīšāpūr, indeed, the great king sitting on his horse steps on the defeated Gordian III; before him, a kneeling Philip Arabs submissively asks for peace. Above all, Valerian stands out. His capture is represented by Šāpur’s firm grip on his wrists.83 The almost parallel composition of the friezes suggests a Roman knowledge of this relief. As Matthew Canepa has shown, this is not merely an appropriation of Sāsānian imagery, but a consistent elaboration:84 Narseh is defeated in equestrian combat, his harem, including the great royal family, is captured, 74 Thus, for example, Aur. Vic. 39.35: Denique ibidem Narseum regem in dicionem subegit, simul liberos coniugesque et aulam regiam. Aurelius Victor, however, erroneously emphasises that Narseh also fell into captivity. Eutr. 9.25.1 also mentions a rich treasure that could be captured: Pulso Narseo castra eius diripuit; uxores, sorores, liberos cepit, infinitam extrinsecus Persarum nobilitatem, gazam Persicam copiosissimam. Cf. for further details: MOSIG-WALBURG 2009, 119. BONNER 2020, 62. 75 CANEPA 2009, 88. LAUBSCHER 1975, 81 and pl. 62,1. 76 Lact. DMP 16.6. LAUBSCHER 1975, 82 with detailed examples in n.425. 77 LAUBSCHER 1975, 82. 78 LAUBSCHER 1975, 66f. and pl. 52; 54,1. 79 The scene is even more reminiscent of Ardaxšīr’s relief in Firuzabad, which suggests that this iconography was common in the East. For an introduction to the reliefs in Firuzabad see: LUSCHEY 1986, 377–380. 80 KUHOFF 2001a, 618. 81 LAUBSCHER 1975, 69 with n.331. Laubscher interprets the depiction as the personification of a Roman legion. 82 CANEPA 2009, 93. On the development of this motif see MALONE 2009. 83 CANEPA 2009, 93. MEIER 2019, 268. 84 CANEPA 2009, 94.

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and high Persian officials are submissive before the Roman ruling body. These are the same compositional elements encountered in Persian images, now mirrored in Roman iconography. This was an elaboration, in the end, of the ideal of the βασιλεὺς πολεμικός,85 deployed in the same period, for example, in the panegyric for Constantius Chlorus of 297/298. Here, the anonymous speaker reproaches the orator Marcus Cornelius Fronto of having wrongly praised Antoninus Pius for his campaign in Britain. According to the orator, the latter had hidden behind the walls of the palace and played no active part in the military campaign.86 Constantius Chlorus, on the contrary, had been personally engaged in the fight: ‘But you, invincible Caesar, were the commander in chief of that whole expedition of yours, both of the actual sailing and the fighting itself, not only by right of your imperium but by your personal participation, and by the example of your firm resolve were its instigator and driving force.’87 The expectation that the emperor must play an active military role is clear, regardless of the fact that this was most probably a topos and that augusti and caesares did not actually put their lives in danger by actually participating to the battle in the front lines. The Arch of Galerius made aware of the subservience of the šāhān šāh Narseh everyone who would pass through it. Now it was the Roman emperors, obviously dominant, who inflicted defeat on the Persians. The constant reference to evoke was first and foremost the capture of Valerian in 260. It is thus necessary to question at this point why Galerius’ victory, almost four decades after the event, still had to be represented as the due revenge for the emperor taken captive at Edessa. 260 CE – A ROMAN NIGHTMARE The defeat of 260 was a long-lasting nightmare for the Romans. The extent of the humiliation is also repeatedly and directly associated with the tetrarchs in numerous references. Lactantius, for example, who wishes to portray Valerian’s fate as a just punishment for a persecutor of the Christians, paints a sombre picture of how the emperor fared. Valerian was not only ignominiously defeated and captured, but the šāhān šāh used his back as a stool to mount his horse. After Valerian’s death, the emperor’s skin was dyed and then displayed in a temple.88 The question of whether Šāpur really treated his opponent in this way, cannot be pursued here. What is 85 Syn. de reg. 1100a. In it, the latter speaks about the virtues of a ruler in a speech delivered to Emperor Arcadius within the court in 398, and complains about the emperors who only rule from court. MAIER 2019, 24 emphasises the concept behind this in detail. Whether this speech really was delivered at court remains disputed. 86 Cf. Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 14.2. 87 Pan. Lat. VIII (5) 14.3: At enim tu, Caesar invicte, omnis istius et navigationis et belli non modo pro imperii iure praeceptor sed rebus ipsis et exemplo constantiae tuae hortator atque impulsor fuisti (transl. Nixon & Rodgers). 88 Cf. Lact. DMP 5.3; 6. Petr. Patr. frg.13. Aur. Vic. 32.5 speaks of foede laniatus. On the question of the historicity of Valerian’s flaying see REINER 2006.

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important is that in his story, Lactantius explicitly emphasises that Diocletian had become fearful of Narseh’s military outreach, as the admonishing example of Valerian was brought directly before his eyes.89 Constantine also uses the negative example of the persecutor Valerian in his Address to the Assembly of the Saints, in order to position himself as a Christian emperor.90 Despite all the religious polemics in the descriptions of Lactantius and Eusebius, these examples clearly show the strain on Roman self-confidence caused by the defeat of 260, often seen as the lowest point ever reached by the Roman empire.91 Still three centuries later, Petros Patrikios, drawing on older models, gives a detailed account of a meeting in 298 between a Persian peace delegation and Galerius. In these negotiations, the capture of Valerian is mentioned at a key point in the report: Galerius is said to have been very displeased with Apharbān’s request to continue treating the prisoners – Narseh’s family and harem – well, and to have explicitly referred to 260: For you guarded the rule of victory well in Valerian’s case, when you deceived him with tricks, took him captive and did not release him until old age and his shameful death, when you, after his death, conserved his skin with some disgusting method and thereby afflicted the mortal body with immortal offence.92

In Roman collective and cultural memory, Valerian’s fate must have run extremely deep, if such words are placed in Galerius’ mouth more than 300 years after the original event.93 As Bruno Bleckmann recently pointed out, the victory is portrayed as Galerius’ revenge on the Persians for their encroachment on Valerian.94 By referring to Valerian himself during the speech, it is emphasised that the circumstances are now exactly reversed and imperial power has been rehabilitated. Galerius was ‘born that he might wipe out the disgrace received by the captivity of Valerian.’95 As mentioned above, even Carus’ sacking of Ctesiphon had not been sufficient to make up for Valerian’s defeat in Roman discourses and perceptions – also

89 90 91 92

Cf. Lact. DMP 9.6. Cf. Eus. or. ad coet. sanct. 24. For an introduction to the speech see GIRARDET 2013, 9–25. See also HAVENER 2017. Petr. Patr. frg. 13: Καλῶς γὰρ καὶ ἐπὶ Βαλεριανοῦ τὸ μέτρον τῆς νίκης ἐφυλάξατε, οἵ τινες δόλοις αὐτὸν ἀπατήσαντες κατέσχετε καὶ μέχρι γήρως ἐσχάτου καὶ τελευτῆς ἀτίμου οὐκ ἀπελύσατε, εἶτα μετὰ θάνατον μυσαρᾷ τινι τέχνῃ τὸ δέρμα αὐτοῦ φυλάξαντες θνητῷ σώματι ἀθάνατον ὕβριν ἐπηγάγετε (transl. Banchich). 93 MEIER 2019, 267 reaches a similar conclusion: ‘Das Schicksal Valerians verliert sich im Dunkeln, er starb als Gefangener und steht damit für eine Schmach, die sich für immer in das Gedächtnis der Römer einbrennen sollte.’ See also EDWELL 2021, 146. Sir Percy Sykes already summarised this in his History of Persia published in SYKES 1915, 401: ‘Few if any events in history have produced a greater moral effect than the capture of a Roman Emperor by the monarch of a young dynasty. The impression at the time must have been overwhelming, and the news must have resounded like a thunder-clap throughout Europe and Asia. It was commemorated in stone by the victor both at Persepolis and at Shapur, and as long as the Sāsānian dynasty lasted it was never forgotten.’ 94 See BLECKMANN 2022, 87–89, esp. 87. 95 HA Car. 18.3: natus est, qui acceptam ignominiam Valeriani captivitate deleret.

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because the victorious commander had died before he could set foot on Roman soil.96 Carus’ sudden death caused a substantial loss of significance of this achievement for the purposes of imperial legitimation. Numerian’s immediate withdrawal had reversed the victory into a surrender.97 It was therefore not possible to effectively present or process Ctesiphon’s capture as a triumph. Numerian’s sudden and quick death, the following proclamation of Diocletian as Augustus by the troops and his civil war against Carus’ son Carinus, with the consequent construction of a negative representation of both in diocletianic and tetrarchic propaganda, made it impossible to exploit the capture of Ctesiphon in imperial self-representation any further. 98 And yet, Diocletian and his colleagues needed to display their military prowess and superiority to strengthen their rule, and a victory over Persia would clearly have represented the biggest asset in legitimating their right to the imperial thrones – and thus an extremely precious instrument in relating to the armies and in the confrontation with, or even prevention of, other claimants to the imperial title. A too often asynchronous view of the tetrarchy as a time of consolidated rule (often depending on the idea of a ‘master plan’ developed by Diocletian from the very beginning of his reign) risks obscuring the fact that stabilisation was not foreseeable after the turbulent – and constant – change of rulers of the 3rd century. A victorious Persian war thus represented the tetrarchs’ biggest possibility of making their position as rulers almost unassailable through military profiling.99 Open border questions or the unsatisfactory treaty settlement on the border with the Sāsānian Empire achieved by Numerian exerted thus a form of pressure on the tetrarchs – who seem to have felt the need, until 297-298, to justify why there had been no Persian campaign yet. UNDER PRESSURE Pan. Lat. X (2), the first of the two so-called dyarchic panegyrics, was delivered in 289 by an unknown orator, probably in Trier before and for Maximian.100 After the campaigns against the Sarmatians in 285, Diocletian had moved to the eastern provinces, spending the next four years carrying out military operations within the Syrian border region. A conflict with the Persians, however, did not occur.101 Nonetheless, the report of a Persian legation to Diocletian’s army camp represents a central

96 HA Car. 9.1 sees Carus’ sudden death as punishment for disobeying an oracle. Anyone who tried to conquer the Persian capital would be punished. On this aspect see DIGNAS & WINTER 2007, 26. HARTMANN 2022, 44. 97 Cf. Aur. Vic. 38.6. WINTER 1988, 130–137. 98 CARLÀ-UHINK 2019, 34–43. 99 It should not be forgotten that Diocletian himself began as a usurper, and first had to stabilise his rule. Cf. BÖRM 2015, 243–246. 100 REES 2002, 34f. 101 REES 2002, 30.

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point of the panegyric.102 This account has been interpreted as the indication of the conclusion of a peace agreement (foedus).103 In the same manner the Great King of Persia, who has never before deigned to confess that he is but a man, makes supplication to your brother and throws open the whole of his kingdom to him, if he should consider it worthy to enter. He offers him, besides, marvellous things of various kinds and sends him wild beasts of extraordinary beauty. Content to request the name of friend, he earns it by his submission.104

Regardless of whether and to what extent the gifts can be interpreted as the basis of an agreement, the panegyrist draws from this legation an almost pleading entreaty of the Great King, which is contrasted with the Persian arrogance that is otherwise displayed.105 The account goes so far as to claim that the Persian Empire had voluntarily submitted to Diocletian.106 The motif of imperial concordia makes it possible to communicate Diocletian’s apparent successes in a panegyric to Maximian as an achievement of both rulers, as building blocks of a successful reign through individual character traits. While Maximian is characterised as the more practical and warlike of the two rulers, with tangible military successes against the Germanic tribes, Diocletian is more of a statesman.107 This becomes explicit in the contrast between the dona persica, peaceful gifts of a king humbly seeking friendship, and the spolia germanica, spoils of war.108 That the panegyric nevertheless depicts the Great King in such a submissive manner still speaks for a less than satisfactory settlement after the singular events of 260.109 There was a tension between ideal behaviours and pragmatic actions concerning Persian policy, which is why the speaker introduces this complex topic in a speech about Maximian – in a way stressing that the lack of war was actually not be judged negatively. 102 Pan. Lat. X (2) 9.2; 10.6. 103 For example, WINTER 1988, 137f. CARLÀ-UHINK 2019, 87. MOSIG-WALBURG 2009, 58, by contrast, is sceptical: ‘Nun bezeugen Geschenke keinen Vertrag, wurden doch bei diplomatischen Kontakten üblicherweise Geschenke ausgetauscht [...]. Es ist methodisch nicht gerechtfertigt, auf der Basis dieser ‚Informationen‘ panegyrischer Herkunft, die nicht einmal von einer Vereinbarung sprechen, einen Friedensschluss zu vermuten.’ 104 Pan. Lat. X (2) 10.6–7: Hoc eodem modo rex ille Persarum, numquam se ante dignatus hominem confiteri, fratri tuo supplicat totumque, si ingredi ille dignetur, regnum suum pandit. Offert interim varia miracula, eximiae pulchritudinis feras mittit, amicitiae nomen impetrare contentus promeretur obsequio (transl. Nixon & Rodgers). 105 SONNABEND 1986, 306. For a general overview of Persian images in Late Antique historiography: BÖRM 2019a. Gifts had a special significance in Sāsānian, as well as in Achaemenid Persia. These were not, as suggested by the Roman side, servile obeisance, but a part of political communication; cf. WIESEHÖFER 1996, 44–47. 2001, 604–609. 106 Pan. Lat. X (2) 7.5: Credo, itidem opimam illam fertilemque Syriam velut amplexu suo tegebat Eufrates, antequam Diocletiano sponte se dederent regna Persarum. 107 REES 2002, 38. BROSCH 2006, 90. 108 Pan. Lat. X (2) 9.2: In quo vobis mutua praebuistis omnium exempla virtutum atque invicem vos, quod fieri iam posse non videbatur, auxistis, ille tibi ostendendo dona Persica, tu illi spolia Germanica. Cf. ENßLIN 1942, 10. 109 KOLB 1987a, 84. KUHOFF 2001a, 107f.

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The interpretations of diplomatic success mentioned here are thus a purely situational strategy of rhetorical justification, which is more than topical: it reduces the pressure on the emperor to act due to the still unfulfilled revenge against the Persians, and justifies the fact that no campaign had apparently been planned. It seems that the diplomatic success was actually not so significant, as it is not mentioned in other sources. This communication strategy can thus only be explained against the background of an as yet unsatisfied Roman desire for revenge. However, in that situation, a foedus was the best choice in terms of ‘Realpolitik’ to deal with the neighbouring eastern empire, and Diocletian stayed in the west after the presumed peace settlement.110 Due to the acute tension between the day-to-day political reality and the traditional expectations of a ruler fighting in the field – a tension that was specifically directed at the emperors – the room for manoeuvre in the field of Persian policy became nonetheless increasingly narrow. A military failure such as Valerian’s not only served as a cautionary example, but also fuelled desire for revenge in order to restore Roman prestige.111 An expeditio persica, ideally with a far-reaching incursion into the Sāsānian Empire, offered the unique opportunity to score an incomparable victory and thus enable the rulers to achieve a massive increase in prestige;112 yet a defeat could lead to a prompt demise of the augusti. The second dyarchic panegyric of 291 may have been delivered in Trier on the occasion of Maximian’s birthday.113 Between 286 and 288, Diocletian oversaw the fortification of the territories bordering the Sāsānians.114 The beginning of the expansion of the strata Diocletiana from Sura on the Euphrates to the Arabian desert probably fell within this period, but it is not possible to date precisely. Because of the usurpation of Carausius, Diocletian travelled to the west to meet Maximian after his battles with the Alamanni and the Iuthungs in the Raetian region. He returned to the eastern border via the middle Danube, where he fought against the Sarmatians. Pan. Lat. XI (3) recounts these events and goes on to state that not only was the Sarmatian country devastated, but the Saracens were also defeated.115 The two rulers were thus able to share this success: ‘Those laurels from the conquered nations inhabiting Syria and from Raetia and Sarmatia made you, Maximian, celebrate a triumph in pious joy.’116 The attribution to the two Augusti of the title Persicus Maximus is sometimes associated with the Saracen victory, as they were likely in alliance with the Sāsānians, but this is unsure.117 It is not crucial, however, to understand why exactly 110 ENßLIN 1942, 11. 111 For an introduction to the general reception of Valerian, see GOLTZ 2006. 112 This is emphasised by BÖRM 2016, 621 who argues that the ideal case was a sacking of Ctesiphon. 113 A more precise dating, however, remains questionable. Cf. REES 2002, 70. 114 For example, ENßLIN 1942, 10f. REES 2002, 30. 115 Pan. Lat. XI (3) 5.4. 116 Pan. Lat. XI (3) 7.1: Laurea illa de victis accolentibus Syriam nationibus et illa Raetica et illa Sarmatica te, Maximiane, fecerunt pio gaudio triurnphare (transl. Nixon & Rodgers). 117 CIL III 5810 = ILS 618: Diocletiano imp(eratori) / invicto Aug(usto) pont(ifici) / max(imo) Ger(manico) max(imo) Pers(ico) / max(imo) trib(unicia) pot(estate) VII. For the attribution,

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such title was awarded to Diocletian and Maximian: in the context of the Sarmatian and Saracen victories, the title Persicus Maximus – without a concrete Persian victory – reveals the importance that a Roman assertion over Persia had in constructing legitimacy.118 In relation to section 5 (5) the celebration of these achievements can be read at a different level, as the speaker announces ‘a new kind of law’ for his expositions.119 He wishes to focus on demonstrating that far greater merits are contained within the glories mentioned so far, and particularly pietas and felicitas, characterising the reign of the two fratres and thus occupying a central position in the speech.120 These two elements demonstrate that both rulers are under divine protection. Although the orator supposedly wants to end the speech, he begins a new set of themes that underlines the effectiveness of the imperial felicitas in relation to the neighbouring peoples. This section serves as a prelude to the actual point relating to Persian policy: [...] the felicity of your rule is so great that barbarian nations everywhere tear each other to pieces and destroy one another, by battles and treachery in turn they redouble and renew their own destruction; inspired by madness they re-enact on each other your expeditions in Sarmatia and Raetia and across the Rhine. Sacred Jupiter and good Hercules, at last you have transplanted civil wars to races worthy of that madness, and spread all of that fury abroad, beyond the boundaries of this Empire, among the lands of our enemies.121

The felicitas of the two Augusti thus appears to have initiated civil wars among neighbouring peoples; these, concerned with internal conflicts, did not force Rome to act militarily. Thus, without any major intervention, Rome’s enemies weakened themselves, while at the same time the stability of the rule of the two Augusti, divinely legitimised, guaranteed the pax Augusta within the empire. This generalising

118

119 120

121

see ENßLIN 1942, 18f. WIESEHÖFER 2007, 164. MOSIG-WALBURG 2009, 59–61, however, considers this construction as all too speculative and states that territorial gains in Armenia could also have served as a reason. Pan. Lat. XI (3) 5.4: ‘I pass over the boundary of Raetia extended by a sudden slaughter of the enemy, I pass by Sarmatia’s devastation and the Saracen subdued by the bonds of captivity, I ignore even those things which were done by the fear of your arms as if accomplished by arms: the Franks coming with their king to seek peace and the Parthian soliciting your favor with wonderful gifts’ (transeo limitem Raetiae repentina hostium clade promotum, omitto Sarmatiae vastationem oppressumque captivitatis vinculis Sarracenum, etiam illa quae armorum vestrorum terrore facta sunt velut armis gesta praetereo, Francos ad petendam pacem cum regevenientes Parthum que vobis munerum miraculis blandientem) (transl. Nixon & Rodgers). Pan. Lat. XI (3) 5.5: novam mihi propono dicendi legem. Pan. Lat. XI (3) 6.1: Quae igitur illa sunt? Pietas vestra, sacratissime imperator, atque felicitas. Cf. BROSCH 2006, 91. REES 2002, 72. BROSCH 2006, 92 counts the word pietas fifteen times in this speech, whereas it occurs only three or four times in each of the other four speeches cited in this study. Pan. Lat. XI (3) 16.1–2: tantam esse imperii vestri felicitatem undique se barbarae nationes vicissim lacerent et excidant, alternis dimicationibus et insidiis clades suas duplicent et instaurent, Sarmaticas vestras et Raeticas et Transrhenanas expeditiones furore percitae in semet imitentur. Sancte Iuppiter et Hercules bone, tandem bella civilia ad gentes illa vesania dignas transtulistis, omnemque illam rabiem extra terminos huius imperii in terras hostium distulistis (transl. Nixon & Rodgers).

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interpretation fits with the overall political sentiment underlying the two dyarchic panegyrics, and in particular with the sacral legitimation of the dyarchic rule expressed through the Iovius-Herculius ideology.122 With this in mind, a sentence in particular assumes almost the value of a foundational message: ‘Indeed, what that first writer of Roman poetry said, “from the rising sun to Lake Maeotis,” one may now extend farther and farther, if one reviews our enemies’ insane mutual destruction throughout the world.’123 The speaker picks up on an internal elite discourse and seems to advocate an active approach, inviting the emperors to finally engage in a campaign against the Persians. In particular, the section inserted as a connection, ‘one may now extend farther and farther’ (id nunc longius longiusque protendere licet), can be interpreted as an appeal. Within the speech’s structure, apparently topical elements are validated by recognisable events from daily life and thus taken out of the abstract-hypothetical realm. The description of the usurpation of Hormizd (17,2) falls into this context124: Ormies [Hormizd] with the Saci and Rufii and Geli as allies assaults the Persians themselves and the king himself [Bahrām II], and respects neither his king’s majesty nor his brothers’ claims on his loyalty.125

The Persian šāhān šāh Bahrām II was struggling with domestic unrest as his brother Hormizd, who had been entrusted with the regency of Khorasan, had revolted against him.126 Thus it must have seemed extremely expedient to Bahrām to ensure peace on the western border. The rhetor appeals to his audience’s prejudices that fratricide was typical among Persians, and can base his argument on verifiable events within the Sāsānian empire.127 The usurpation in the Persian Empire played into Rome’s hands, since a Persian attack was not to be expected.128 Yet this topical reference can also be embedded in the narrative structure of imperial ideology, as the ‘barbarian madness’ expressed in the fratricidal war between Bahrām II and Hormizd is the antithesis of the relationship between the brotherly pairing of Diocletian and Maximian, who ruled in harmony.129 Hormizd acts without regard for 122 For a characterisation of the two dyarchic panegyrics, cf. in summary: BROSCH 2006, 93 and HUNNELL CHEN, this volume. 123 Pan. Lat. XI (3) 16.3: Etenim, quod ait ille Romani carminis primus auctor, a sole exoriente usque ad Maeotis paludes, id nunc longius longiusque protendere licet, si qui hostilem in mutua clade vesaniam toto orbe percenseat (transl. Nixon & Rodgers). 124 For an overview: NIXON & RODGERS 1994, 76–80. BÖRM 2019b, 190–196. 125 Pan. Lat. XI (3) 17.2: lpsos Persas ipsumque regem adscitis Sacis et Rufiis et Gelis petit frater Ormies nec respicit vel pro maiestate quasi regem vel pro pietate quasi fratrem (transl. Nixon & Rodgers). 126 CHRISTENSEN 1944, 228. SCHIPPMANN 1990, 28. MOSIG-WALBURG 2009, 58. CARLÀ-UHINK 2019, 87. 127 REES 2002, 74. For the trope of Persian fratricide, see, with further literature: ALIDOUST 2016 and BÖRM 2019b, 202. 128 MOSIG-WALBURG 2009, 58f. DARYAEE 2009, 12. 129 The two contributions by CARLÀ-UHINK and WALDRON in this volume deal with the aspect of family relations and imperial brotherhood in more detail.

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his brother’s dignity as ruler, let alone behaving dutifully towards his brother or respecting brotherly love.130 By contrast, Diocletian and Maximian, whose concordia ensures the wellbeing of the state, are most favoured by fortune through mutual respect.131 Here, too, the text must also be read as a cautionary appellative example, as the mirror image offered by the Persian context highlights the consequences of an attempted usurpation and thus strongly invites the augusti to keep and never to endanger the current concordia.132 The audience can then be shown the consequences of such a conflict by means of verifiable events. The orator then proceeds to express the rather strange and inconsistent point that the civil wars of the ‘barbarians’ are better for the prosperity of the state than peace:133 Now you take vengeance on your enemies not by arms, not with armies, as you have done up to this time; now, I say, most fortunate Emperors, you conquer by felicity alone. Is there anything which Roman leaders have ever been happier to hear when praised for their felicity than that their enemies are said to be quiet and idle, keeping peace?134

Again, the new kind of law mentioned in section 5 resonates. Aside from specific military victories, the brothers, whose paths were determined by their destiny, achieve a victory that can be validated no further: their great abundance of power is linked to the unrest that seems to be spreading everywhere.135 This new form of victory is interpreted as a direct punishment for the unbending savagery and refusal of the barbarians to become Romans.136 The speaker also stresses that the two rulers come from provinces where vita militia est.137 This is a further way of communicating that even peaceful solutions had to be understood as militarily inspired. What is most obvious from this panegyric is at a first level that, in times of relative peace, more abstract motifs had to be used to represent the rulers’ power. These had to be consolidated by linking them to daily political events (Sarmatians, Saracens, throne disputes in Persia).138 In this way, the orator could introduce and interpret the characteristics of dual power. This applies also to the treatment of the empire’s external enemies, the barbarae nationes.139 The dyarchic panegyrics do not mention the cooperation and integration with these ‘barbarians’, or the peaceful 130 131 132 133 134

135 136 137 138 139

Pan. Lat. XI (3) 17.2. Cf. REES 2002, 74 and WALDRON, this volume. REES 2002, 75. Pan. Lat. XI (3) 18.1: fortunatissimi imperatores. Cf. NIXON & RODGERS 1994, 100. Thus REES 2002, 74: ‘It is even claimed that barbarian civil war is better for the empire’s prosperity than barbarian peace (18.3). But here the orator is disingenuous, since he has already established that the empire’s prosperity is not a product of barbarian madness.’ Pan. Lat. XI (3) 18.1–2: iam de perduellibus ultionem non armis, non exercitu capitis, sicut hucusque fecistis; iam, inquam, fortunatissimi imperatores, felicitate vincitis sola. Ecquid umquam Romani principes de felicitate sua praedicari laetius audierunt quam cum diceretur hostes quiescere, otiosos esse, pacem colere? (transl. Nixon & Rodgers). Pan. Lat. XI (3) 17.4: O magnam vim numinis vestri! Pan. Lat. XI (3) 16.5. Pan. Lat. XI (3) 3.9. MAUSE 1994, 188. MARANESI 2018, 64. On the legitimating factor of Panegyric, cf. OMISSI 2018, 41–71.

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contacts with the Sāsānians at the time, nor do they address of course the close interconnections in the border regions.140 Through stereotypical attributions, the barbarae nationes are presented as absolute Otherness.141 It is precisely through the character deformation of their opponents, for example Hormizd, that both rulers can be interpreted as examples of romanitas.142 The medium of the panegyric lends itself to transforming the image of the soldier-emperor, and to re-interpreting military virtues and victories in times of relative peace.143 This includes inventing a justification for not waging a campaign against the Sāsānians. As the representations and functionalizations of Galerius’ victory later make clear, the defeats of the 3rd century and especially Valerian’s capture were key events, which by the end of the century were firmly anchored in Roman collective memory, and it was expected that a Roman emperor would act upon them and seek revenge. It is therefore hardly surprising that the speaker of 291 presents throne disputes, which were not an unusual phenomenon within the Sāsānian monarchy, as the result of Roman imperial action, eventually portraying the emperors as victors without having waged a war. 144 And yet, the pressure on the emperors for a confrontation with Persia and for ‘closure’ with the open wound caused by Valerian continued to be strong. In 293, in the inscription of Paikuli (NPi), Narseh emphasises the peaceful and friendly relations with the Romans at the beginning of his reign: ‘And Caesar and the Romans were in gratitude (?) and peace and friendship with Us.’145 In this context, the peaceful relationship with the Romans was probably very important for the Great King, and Josef Wiesehöfer has convincingly argued that Rome was building up massive pressure in the border region.146 Narseh tried to ward it off first of all with this display of a rhetoric of peace and friendship; afterwards, he likely felt compelled to launch a pre-emptive strike. SAME WORDS, DIFFERENT STORY: CONCLUSION After Galerius’ Persian victory, peace was to reign between the two empires for about 40 years. The foedus concluded in 298 was satisfactory, especially for the 140 For Roman-Persian relations at that time see: WIESEHÖFER 2007, 163. MOSIG-WALBURG 2009, 95. MARANESI 2018, 65, emphasises the imagery above all: Maximian as Herculius destroys the barbarians, depicted as a monstrum biforme. This goes back to coin images from Trier. This motif also finds literary expression in Pan. Lat. X (2) 4. 2–3, where Hercules destroys Hydra. 141 MARANESI 2018, 68. 142 MARANESI 2018, 69f. speaks of all the enemies of the Roman Empire being ‘barbarised’ by deforming their character and thus serving as a template for imperial Romanitas. 143 MARANESI 2018, 70. 144 For the relationship between the Great King and elites in the Sāsānian Empire, cf. BÖRM 2018, 23–42. 145 NPi mp. §43 = parth. §40: ‘Pn kysly W hlwm’/[dyk ?] PWN l’pyklyhy W ‘št/[yhy] W ‘lmy YK‘Y[M]WN[d] (mp.) bzw. W ‘štpy W šyrkmkpy / HQ’YMWnt (parth.). Humbach & Skærvø 1983, 70 read l’pyklyhy as lāb-garīh, meaning ‘in supplication’. 146 WIESEHÖFER 2007.

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Roman side, who gained the Transtigritanian provinces. And yet, the discourses elaborated in the years of the tetrarchy in relation to the Persian question remained available to be deployed time and again. In 387, Theodosius I found himself in a situation similar to that of the tetrarchs before Galerius’ victory. The orator Latinus Pacatus Drepanius describes thus the foedus between emperor Theodosius I and the Sāsānians, seemingly renewed in 387: Persia herself, once a rival to our State and notorious for the deaths of so many Roman leaders, makes amends by her obedience for whatever atrocities she has perpetrated upon our princes. Finally, her King himself, who once disdained to concede he was a man, now confesses his fear and worships you in those very temples in which he is worshipped. Then by sending an embassy, and offering gems and silks, and in addition by supplying triumphal animals for your chariots, although in name he is still your ally, in his veneration of you he is a tributary.147

The Romans and Persians agreed to divide the kingdom of Armenia – which had been disputed for centuries –, with the lion’s share going to the Sāsānians. Strategically, both sides benefited from this solution.148 Bound domestically by the usurpation of Maximus, Theodosius had to enter into negotiations with the Persians, although he had already been increasingly present in the east since 383.149 However, the foedus came without a war and therefore posed a problem for Theodosius I, as it stood in contrast to the ideal and self-portrayal of a militarily active and successful ruler.150 The diplomatic solution of a foedus without prior conflict, which appeared to be the most pragmatic due to the political circumstances, was portrayed by Pacatus as the Great King’s compliant submission. This representation is rooted in the same processes of justification that we have seen in the panegyrics of 289 and 291.151 Although there had been a peace treaty since 363, this should not obscure the fact that Emperor Jovian had no choice but to accept it after Julian’s disastrous Persian campaign. Valens had planned to make up for the disgrace of 363 with a major Persian war, but had been forced to abandon the fighting in 377 and turn his attention to the Danube region, where he met his death the following year. Thus, from the Roman point of view, the ‘Persian question’ had remained open. Theodosius thus had to display an offensive and unyielding approach towards the 147 Pan. Lat. II (12) 22.4–5: Persis ipsa rei publicae nostrae retro aemula et multis Romanorum ducum famosa funeribus, quidquid umquam in principes nostros inclementius fecit, excusat obsequio. Denique ipse ille rex eius dedignatus antea confiteri hominem iam fatetur timorem et in his te colit templis in quibus colitur; turn legatione mittenda, gemmis sericoque praebendo, ad hoc triumphalibus beluis in tua esseda suggerendis, etsi adhuc nomine foederatus, iam tarnen tuis cultibus tributarius est (transl. Nixon & Rodgers). What is striking here is the parallel to the description of triumphal gifts in the case of the triumph mentioned. 148 See in detail BLOCKLEY 1987. 149 LEPPIN 2003, 94. 150 MAIER 2019, 42: ‘Verhandlungen waren die effizienteste Art, Invasionen in römisches Gebiet zu verhindern oder bereits existierende Kriege zu beenden. Allerdings ließ sich dieses Vorgehen nur sehr mühsam, in vielen Fällen gar nicht mit dem Konzept des basileus polemikos in Einklang bringen.’ 151 In his or. 16 (212d–213a) the rhetor Themistios addresses the fact that no agreement has yet been reached with the Persians.

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Sāsānians, even when he actually was not in the position to start a war against them.152 The ‘dyarchic panegyrics’ provided an established language to give a response that played to the needs of all parties and could be considered legitimate. A victory over the Sāsānians was like no other. Due to the numerous defeats suffered by Rome, and especially the capture of Valerian, the conflicts with the Sāsānian Empire had acquired for the Romans a special ideological connotation. At the end of the 3rd century, the legitimacy crisis of the Roman emperors and the lingering shadow of Valerian generated a pressure on the dyarchy, and afterwards on the tetrarchy, for an active approach to the ‘Persian question’. In the absence of a conflict or successful campaign, the panegyrists of 289 and 291 developed a discursive strategy that displayed such pressure, and represented the expectations and hopes of the imperial interest groups and elites, while at the same time ‘justifying’ the emperors for their current inactivity – or rather presenting it as a victory in itself. After 298 and Galerius’ victory over Narseh, a new communication strategy could be developed that, not least through visual references to Sāsānian monuments, clearly aimed to argue that the vulnus of 260 had been healed – and that Galerius was the new conqueror of the Orient, as Dionysus and Alexander. In this process, nonetheless, a discourse had been shaped, that allowed to create, perform and celebrate victoriousness even without victories, and that will be deployed again through the following generations of Roman rulers.

152 A similar suspicion is also expressed by LEPPIN 2003, 94–96.

FUNERALS, FUNERAL RITES, AND TOMBS OF THE TETRARCHY Javier Arce MAUSOLEUM, SEPULCHRUM, MONIMENTUM As is well known, between the time of Augustus and that of Septimius Severus, there were three impressive dynastic tombs in Rome: the one known as the Mausoleum of Augustus (died 14 A.D.), at the northern end of the Campus Martius; the Mausoleum of Hadrian, on the far bank of the Tiber, located almost opposite that of Augustus, and the Temple of the Gens Flavia on the Quirinal Hill. Until the early 3rd century, nearly all Roman emperors and some members of their families were buried in them: the Julio-Claudian emperors in the Mausoleum of Augustus1, the Flavians in the Templum Gentis Flaviae2 and the Antonines and those who adopted their name, in the Mausoleum of Hadrian.3 Two of these buildings had a common architectural characteristic, namely their circular shape with superimposed concentric walls around a cella and chambers inside them to contain the urns. On each storey they were adorned externally with trees and plants that decorated the monument. The tomb of Augustus was surmounted with a statue of the emperor,4 and that of Hadrian with a triumphal quadriga. The Templum Gentis Flaviae, built over the residence of Vespasian and Domitian on the Quirinal Hill, was covered with a dome. Remains found in the octagonal hall of the Baths of Diocletian have revealed the previous existence of a large building with a central square podium, each side of which was some 47 m in length, which supported the central-plan building.5 The terminology used by ancient authors to designate the emperor’s tombs is diverse and at times ambiguous. Strictly speaking, the word to refer to a tomb is 1

2 3 4 5

I would like to thank Dr Philip Banks for the translation of my text. For the emperors buried in the Mausoleum of Augustus see ARCE 1988, 59–72, esp. 61. For the cases of Tiberius, Gaius, Claudius and Nero cf. 72–78 and, in addition, the detailed analysis in VON HESBERG & PANCIERA 1994, 66–180. Additionally, cf. HIRSCHFELD 1886, 1149–1168 and WAURICK 1973, 107–148. On the Templum Gentis Flaviae see ARCE 1988, 78–82 and now COARELLI 2014, 194–207. See also DAVIES 2000. JOHNSON 2009, 22–26 Hadrian’s tomb: ARCE 1988, 89–95. DAVIES 2000, 34–42. JOHNSON 2009, 30–40. BOATWRIGHT 1987, 161–181. Strab. 5.3.8. On the statue, see now PARISI PERSICCE 2013, 118–129 (who considers that the statue that crowned the Mausoleum was the one known as the Augustus of Prima Porta). The specific bibliography on each of these monuments is extensive and, generally speaking, it is mentioned in the works cited above. To them should be added the corresponding entries in the Lexicon Topographicum Urbis Romae.

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monimentum.6 The Tomb of Augustus in the Campus Martius is often called the tumulus Iuliorum, the tumulus Caesarum or the tumulus Augusti.7 The text of the Tabula Hebana, which refers to Germanicus’ funerary honours, enables us to state that Augustus’ tomb was known simply as the tumulus without further specification – the tumulus par excellence.8 The word designates and suggests a circular construction arising from the piling up of soil. Strabo says that this tumulus is also called the ‘Mausoleum’9, a term that obviously stems from the eponymous structure in Halicarnassus, and he was not the only one to do so. Suetonius also called it the ‘Mausoleum’ on several occasions, as do the Fasti Cuprenses.10 A final name for Augustus’ tomb is that of sepulchrum, which is also found for example, in Suetonius.11 From the time of Augustus, mausoleum became a synonym for an imperial tomb, but in a very generic way, since in the subsequent history of imperial tombs and in descriptions of them, the term is not used to refer to them.12 Sepulchrum is the word used to refer to many imperial tombs, and it is the specific word for Hadrian’s tomb: Sepulchrum Antoninorum or, in Greek, Antonineion. It is never called a Mausoleum: the term is reserved to that of Augustus. The tomb of the Flavians is called the Templum Gentis Flaviae, which might lead us to think that it implied a particular architectural form. This need not have been the case, if it is considered that templum refers to the consecrated space. In fact, it seems to have contained a temple, a temenos and a circular tomb with a dome. All these imperial tombs had a single common denominator: they were dynastic tombs, even though, with the passing of time, other emperors who did not belong to the original family were buried in them. Nerva was buried in the Mausoleum of Augustus, and Septimius Severus and members of his family in that of the Antonines (Julia Domna, Caracalla, perhaps Geta).13 Nevertheless, they were intended to be the tombs of the gens. Traditionally, the great Roman families were buried in accordance with the law and the norms as regards tombs that accepted members of the same gens.14 Extremely illustrious individuals, or families, were buried (but

6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Festus 139,115 (Lindsay, 123): Monimentum est quod et mortui causa aedificatum est. Monimentum is derived from monere: ‘to inform’, ‘to warn’, ‘to announce’). Tumulus Iuliorum: Tac. ann. 16.6.2. Tumulus Caesarum: Tac. ann. 3.9.2. Tumulus Augusti: Tac. ann. 3.4.1. DE VISSCHER, DELLA CORTE, GATTI & LEVI 1950, 106. Strab. 5.3.8, naturally using the Greek word. Suet. Aug. 100.8; 101, 6. Fasti: CIL I 5290. On this question see RICHARD 1970, 370–388. Suet. Aug. 101.5. RICHARD 1970, 383 quoting Suet. Oth. 10.6 and, above all, Florus 2.21.10: in mausoleum se (sepulchra regum sic vocant) recipit (referring to Cleopatra’s suicide; this passage seems to demonstrate that the Mausoleum was used in Egypt for the tombs of monarchs. See SYME 1971, 78–88. Cf. MOMMSEN 1952, 441. 1907, 198. WAURICK 1973, 108–109.

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always exceptionally) inside the pomerium or the legally established sacred limit of the city.15 The exceptions in our cases, in Rome, were Trajan and Domitian.16 One aspect that should be emphasised is the central role played by the urbs, Rome, as the place for imperial burials, almost without exception, in the first and second centuries CE. Although several emperors died outside Rome, starting with Augustus, who died in Nola, their bodies were transferred to Rome for burial in the corresponding tumulus. Septimius Severus died in Eburacum (York) and his ashes were transferred to Rome to be deposited in the Sepulchrum Antoninorum.17 IN VILLA BURIALS Some those emperors who died outside Rome were buried, in the first instance, in a tomb on their estates, in their villa. Hadrian died in Baiae (in Campania) in 138, and was initially buried there, on land that had belonged to Cicero (in villa ciceroniana Puteoli).18 It was only the pietas of his successor, Antoninus, that made possible not only the completion of the Sepulchrum in Rome, but also the transfer of the ashes to the tomb that Hadrian had envisaged.19 Neither did Antoninus Pius himself die in Rome, but rather at a villa that he owned in Lorium, close to the via Aurelia, very near the city.20 From there, his remains were transferred to the tomb in Rome.21 Galba was also buried in hortis suis although in this case the location is unknown.22 The case of Domitian is similar: in the first instance, he was buried at a villa on the via Latina, but its remains were subsequently transferred to the Templum Gentis Flaviae.23 Although this list is not exhaustive, we might mention the case of Nerva who, after being buried in the horti Sallustiani, was ultimately transferred to the Mausoleum of Augustus.24

15 FRISCHER 1983, 51–86. 16 Because of their particular concept of power, Trajan, optimus princeps, considered himself, or was considered, the new ktistes (founder) of the city, and Domitian called himself Dominus et Deus. On this point see ARCE 1988, 83–89. 17 Hdn. 3.15.7–8; 41.4. Cassius Dio 76.15.4. Aur. Vict. 20.30. The Historia Augusta, in an apocryphal variant, claims that they were interred in a special family tomb on the Via Appia, where the remains of his son Geta were also said lo lie: HA Get. 7: inlatum est (sc. Geta) maiorum sepulchro, hoc est Severi, quod est in via Appia euntibus ad portam dextram, specie Septizonii extructum. However, see ASHBY 1929, 486. BERNARIO 1961, 281–290. 18 HA Hadr. 25.6. Pii 5.1 19 For his death in Baiae and burial at Cicero’s villa: HA Hadr. 25.7. Eutr. 8.7.3 only states that obiit in Campania and Aur. Vict. 14.12: Apud Baias tabe interiit. HA Pii 8.2 (completion of the sepulchrum Hadriani); 5.1: transfer and burial in the gardens of Domitia (in hortis Domitiae), which were the land where the sepulchrum antoninorum was built. 20 Eutr. 8.4 Aur. Vict. De Caes. 16.3. Epit. de Caes. 15.7. 21 CIL VI 986; statue in the ‘Antonineion’: COARELLI 1974, 323. 22 Suet. Galb. 20.2; 27.1. 23 On this subjet see ARCE 1988, 78–80. 24 Epit. de Caes. 12.12.

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In addition to the central role of Rome as a final burial place it should therefore be pointed out that in villa burials were frequent: indeed, this may have been, at least in many cases, the primary intentions of those responsible for burying the emperors. The same phenomenon will be encountered again in the tetrachic period.25 RADICAL CHANGE WITH DIOCLETIAN After the Severan dynasty (235–284 CE), there was a period in which emperors succeeded one another at a rapid rate, being proclaimed as a result of the violent death of their predecessors, which rarely took place in Rome. The very violence of their deaths sometimes prevented funerary rites being carried out in the normal way and their remains receiving suitable burial. In the period that followed the reigns of the Severan emperors, two fundamental developments occurred. Firstly, the city of Rome almost ceased to be place of residence of the emperors who found themselves obliged to travel to and live in several different parts of the Empire (Gordian III died in the East, Aurelian in the Balkans, Probus in Sirmium, etc). In itself, this situation would not have been an obstacle for the burial of these emperors in Rome, since in many cases before 235 the ashes of emperors who had died far from the city were subsequently transferred there (e.g., Augustus, Trajan, Hadrian, Septimius Severus). Nevertheless, the fact is that, with few exceptions, there was no demand or concerted effort for the ashes or bodies to be brought back and buried in Rome. In my opinion, the reason lies in the second fundamental change: the dynastic system disappeared in the 3rd century, and there was no longer any reason for burying an emperor in the tomb of his family or gens. The situation was similar to the one that will be encountered in the tetrarchic period begun by Diocletian. The reforms inaugurated by this emperor means that he had not any intention to restore the dynastic system.26 When the dynastic system was restored under Constantine, his tomb in Constantinople once again became first a dynastic tomb, then the tomb set aside for emperors, whether or not they had a family connection with Constantine. The ruler’s tomb was associated with his residence, the centre of power. It was a place of veneration, of pilgrimage, and occupied a clearly visible and well-known point in the townscape of the city. This was the case of the Mausoleum of Augustus, of the Templum Gentis Flaviae and of the Sepulchrum Antoninorum. Under Diocletian, this state of affairs was to change radically, although there were antecedents under other emperors of the 3rd century due to particular circumstances not depending of the political program of a specific ruler. The reforms introduced by Diocletian increased the number of residences of the senior emperors and the Caesares.27 At no stage was Rome initially the residence of an emperor or of a Caesar. The appointment of the Caesares did not imply family links. The Caesares were 25 BODEL 1997, 5–35. WAURICK 1973. 26 This contention is at odds with the general thrust of the chapters included in the present collection. For a counterpoint, see CARLÀ-UHINK, this volume. 27 SESTON 1946. KOLB 1987a. KUHOFF 2001a.

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apparitores of the Augusti, as is expressly stated by the historian Ammianus Marcellinus.28 The tetrarchs’ sons were not automatically called upon to take part in the government of the empire as successors. However, this situation was short-lived. As will be seen, under Maxentius, the tradition of the tomb of the gens returned to favour (perhaps because he was resident in Rome and had appointed his son, Romulus, to be his successor?). Moreover, tombs were not built in the cities where the emperors resided. Antioch and, especially, Nicomedia, were Diocletian’s usual places of residence, where the emperor might have been expected to build his ‘mausoleum’ or tomb. After all, the Christian author Lactantius says that he endeavoured ‘to equal Nicomedia with the city of Rome’.29 However, Diocletian never considered or planned that his tomb should be located or built in either of them. On the contrary, he thought that he should be buried in his ‘villa’, in his private property, in Spalato in Dalmatia, maybe his birthplace, although that is uncertain. The case of Galerius is also illustrative. He was buried in Romuliana (Gamzigrad), in modern Serbia, and neither Thessaloniki, his supposed place of residence nor Sirmium, where he resided for a long time, were chosen to house his tomb.30 Constantius I ‘Chlorus’ (292–306) was probably buried in Eburacum (York), where he died.31 At no time was the possibility of transferring the remains to Rome, as had occurred in the case of Septimius Severus, who had died in the same city, contemplated.32 Constantius ‘Chlorus’, like his other co-rulers, had almost no relationship with Rome and he only (perhaps) visited the city together with his co-rulers for the celebration of Diocletian’s and Maximian’s vicennalia (and his own and Galerius’ decennalia) in the year 303.33 The places of residence of the emperors and Caesares were random, even though they lived in some of them for longer periods than in others. Maximian Herculius (285–305, died 310) met his death in Massalia (Marseille), but a detail in one of Ambrose letters leads us to suspect that he was buried in a sarcophagus in Milan (Mediolanum).34 This is uncertain, however.35 Maximnus Daza, who had been appointed emperor of the eastern regions (308/9–313), fled from Licinius, reached Tarsus in Cilicia and died there, perhaps of natural causes (morte fortuita), or may have committed suicide. He was buried on the outskirts of the city, very close to where the tomb of the emperor Julian was to be located, provisionally, at a later date.36 Theoretically, Maximinus’ capital was Nicomedia, but he was buried in Tarsus, not because of the special significance of the locality, but 28 I.e. ‘subordinates’; cf. Amm. 14.11.10 on Gallus Caesar: ut apparitores Caesares non resides sed ultro citroque discurrentes, obtemperabant. At least, this is the case for the Caesares of Constantius II. 29 Lact. DMP 7.10: Nicomediam studens urbi Romae coequare 30 On Galerius’ tomb see below. 31 See below for the various proposals as regards his place of burial. 32 Some scholars consider that he was buried in Rome in the sarcophagus of Helena. 33 See the chapter by Fabio Guidetti for an analysis of the celebration in Rome. 34 Eutr. 10.3.2. 35 See JOHNSON 2009, 215. 36 Amm. 23.2.5.

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because his death was unexpected. Some archaeologists consider that his mother, whose name has not come to us, was buried in Sarkamen, in Serbia, not far from Galerius’ tomb. Did Maximinus intend to be buried there himself as well? Both points are unprovable hypotheses.37 Furthermore, nothing is known of the architectural form of Maximinus’ tomb in Tarsus. Each of these tombs can now by analysed, case by case, highlighting the main problems that they give rise to. TOMBS OF THE ‘TETRARCHS’ The case of Diocletian himself (r. 284–305, died 313) may well be the best known of all. Upon his abdication, he became senior Augustus on 1 May 305 and moved to his villa on the coast of Dalmatia, in Split (modern day Croatia).38 His villa, which was not exactly a palatium, was begun in about the year 293 and was intended for use in his retirement for his otium. As was traditional in a villa, it also included his tomb/mausoleum, which stood on a podium of octagonal shape. The mausoleum was intended to contain the emperor’s sarcophagus and possibly that of his wife Prisca as well.39 The existence of the sarcophagus is significant. In fact, fragments of a porphyry sarcophagus were found near the north wall of the temenos.40 To this archaeological evidence should be added the testimony of Ammianus Marcellinus. When narrating different calumnies and attempts at the usurpation of imperial power, the historian explains how Rufinus, princeps officii of the Praetorian Prefect of Illyricum in 355356 (that is to say, under Constantius II) had induced a woman to declare that her husband, Danus, a slave, had stolen the purple cloth (velamen purpureum) from

37 JOHNSON 2009, 85–86 which contains a number of inaccuracies. Neither do I consider that Julian was buried there because he was a great admirer of Maximinus Daza. 38 Eutr. 9.28: privatus in villa, quae haud procul a Salona est. See also Zos. 2.7.2. Lact. DMP 19.6. Eus. HE 8.11. 39 There is a large number of works published on Diocletian’s villa and his mausoleum, which is perhaps one of the best preserved of the 4th century emperors. See HÉBRAD 1911. A summary of previous theories and an innovative perspective is offered by DUVAL 1963, 76–117. In this article, the discussion partly centres upon the fact that ‘Diocletian's place of retirement is not strictly “a palace”, a palatium, but rather a villa, although one that admittedly possesses a number of peculiar features’ (among them being its plan in the form a fortified roman camp). Reception halls and cubicula (or chambers) are not indicative of a palatium, they are normally also found in the big villae of late antiquity. An excellent, detailed description can be found in JOHNSON 2009, 59–70. Cf. also WILKES 1993. 40 JOHNSON 2009, 68. KÄHLER 1974, 809–820. MARIN 2006, 499–526.

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Diocletian’s tomb,41 which lead us to think that it covered the sarcophagus.42 This sarcophagus was placed in the crypt of the mausoleum, which is what makes Ammianus’ account less likely, because it is unlikely that Ammianus ever visited the tomb. The empty upper part would have been devoted to the commemorative and religious ceremonies of the imperial cult,43 as there was insufficient space for them in the crypt. Finally, a figured frieze is the only decorative feature of the mausoleum. In it there are two figures or busts framed in a laurel wreath as an imago clipeata. One of them is easily identifiable as a portrait of Diocletian while the other – which depicts a woman – has been identified as a portrait of Prisca or as the Tyche of the place.44 I would be inclined to think that it was the Tyche. The possible identification with Prisca has led some researchers to believe that Prisca was also buried in the mausoleum, alongside her husband. However, this is impossible as it is known from Lactantius that Prisca was murdered by Licinius in Thessaloniki and thrown into the sea (314 CE).45 This excludes her burial in Spalato, but perhaps it is not incompatible with the presence of her portrait in the mausoleum. INHUMATION OR CREMATION? The sarcophagus fragments found in Diocletian’s mausoleum may had formed part of the emperor’s sarcophagus, although it is by no means certain. However, this find leads to a problem that must be discussed, namely whether the presence of a sarcophagus implies that Diocletian was inhumed. In the first place, there can be no doubt that Diocletian was declared a divus, that is: he was deified.46 This divinisation required crematio, the burning of the corpse on the rogus. In his Quaestiones Romanae, Plutarch expressly states that this was the case: ‘When it can be seen that cremation has been effective, we declare that the deceassed is a divus’.47 John Scheid categorically states that ‘for an emperor to be a divus, his body, or at least a simulation of it, must have been burnt’.48 A long tradition also confirms this detail, and it continued even down to the time of Galerius at least, as will be seen below. The presence of the pyre is a constant feature in 41 In ARCE 1988, 104, I interpret velamen as ‘purple mantle’ (i.e. paludamentum), the highest imperial insignia; my interpretation, however, is perhaps incorrect. I now consider that it was a ‘curtain’ of purple colour, which prevented the sarcophagus from being seen directly. But see, infra, the description of Eusebius of Constantine’s sarcophagus. 42 Amm. 16.8.4: et fingere quod velamen purpureum a Diocletiani sepulchro furatus. In this respect a text by Ambrose (Ep. 57.4 = PL 16.1166), which refers to the exuviae that decorated the porphyreticum labrum of Valentinian II in his mausoleum in Milan, should be remembered. 43 JOHNSON 2009, 68. 44 JOHNSON 2009, 69. 45 Lact. DMP 51.1.2. Cf. JOHNSON 2009, 215. 46 Eutr. 9.28. Hieron. Chron. a. 316. 47 Plut. QR 14.1. GRADEL 2002, 289 n.45, considers that Plutarch’s text is irrelevant for the divi. However, I am of the opinion that it can be applied to deified emperors. 48 SCHEID 1984, 121 n.15.

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historians’ references and contemporary iconography (e.g. on coins), and in Rome itself the archaeological remains of the ustrina, in the Campus Martius, have been traced.49 Cremation, a prerequisite for the deification of Roman Emperors, had no bearing on the gradual introduction of the costume of inhumation in Rome in general, from the second half of the second century CE, because emperors formed an exceptional separate case.50 When discussing this question, Simon Price points out that ‘the emperor was buried in a way in which he was increasingly differentiated from the elite and the rest of his subjects’.51 This same scholar insists on the fact that the emperors continued to be cremated throughout the 2nd and 3rd centuries and continued to be extremely traditional as regards the use of cremation both of the body and the imago.52 One example of this continuity is the discovery of Galerius’ ustrinum on Magura hill, in Gamzigrad (Romuliana, Serbia). Following this tradition, it is surprising that Diocletian should have been inhumed. If the remains of the porphyry sarcophagus found in the mausoleum at Spilt belonged to that of the emperor, it must be considered that the urn containing his ashes was placed in it, and that the sarcophagus was no more than a luxuriously decorated container to hold the emperor remains. It is not a unique case as will be seen. Another important aspect to consider is the place of burial, the location that was chosen. Diocletian’s mausoleum is at the very centre of the emperor’s villa. This villa is not a civitas, but neither is it a palatium. The ancient references to it in the sources are always villa, never palatium. Therefore, all the speculations that have been made as regards a tomb associated with a palatium should be considered incorrect. The palatium/tomb equation is not valid in this case. Neither should it be accepted in the case of Constantinople, where Constantine’s mausoleum is at some considerable distance from both the palatium and the hippodrome. Furthermore, as we will see, the association does not work in Thessaloniki, because the ‘Rotunda’, which is associated with the palatium and the hippodrome, is not Galerius’ tomb.53 The only place where the three architectural features are recorded together is in Maxentius’ villa on the Via Appia in Rome. Nevertheless, in this case, as in that of Diocletian, it is also a matter of a (suburban) villa. Moreover, on this occasion, the situation is far from being a novelty as we have seen above. There was a long 49 Ustrina: KAMPMANN 1985, 67–78. BUZETTI 1984, 27–28. ARCE 1988, 142–147. COARELLI 1997, 189; 598–599. BOATWRIGHT 1987, 225. 50 Cf. MORRIS 1992, 56 who considers that inhumation started to be used for emperors as early as the year 138, but, as he subsequently says, ‘or cremation may still have been normal in 238’. The arguments put forward by this writer are confused to say the least, as he concludes: ‘by 161 inhumation was normal, except in unusual circumstances. Admittedly, “unsusal circumstances” arose rather frequently’. An important detail to take into account, is the fact that, in the first instance, Hadrian was buried in Baiae (see supra n.19) and not directly in the Antonineion. Was the burial at the villa an inhumation or a cremation? 51 PRICE 1987, 97. 52 PRICE 1987, 96–97. In this case, I am of the opinion that Price confused the crematio in effigie and the crematio of the wax effigy of the emperor that was placed on the pyre. On this, see ARCE 2010, 309–323. 53 FRAZER 1966, 385.

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tradition of mausoleums in villae in the case of the emperors, as also in the case of the wealth landowning elites.54 Diocletian decided to be buried at his villa in Split, just as his predecessors had done. By doing so, he was doing no more than following a tradition. The only different aspect is, perhaps, the building of a temenos that included a small temple, most probably dedicated to Jupiter, facing the mausoleum. This was where the sacrifices to the emperor assimilated to Jupiter (Diocletian was Iovius) would be performed. Nothing is known of the ceremonies associated with his funeral, or of the crematio. What can be confirmed is that Diocletian, following tradition, stipulated the place where he wishes to be buried in his mandata de funere a number of years before his death. Diocletian’s co-emperor, Maximian Herculius (285–305, died 310) met a violent death. It remains unknown whether he committed suicide or died as the victim of a plot in Marseille.55 A fanciful entry in the Chronicon Novaliciense relates that his sarcopahgus was found in Marseille in 1054 and that the bishop of Arles ordered it to be thrown into the sea.56 However, this story is false. Greater credibility should be given to a text by Ambrose, bishop of Milan, in which he describes the tomb of Valentinian II (375–382) in Mediolanum, indicating that Maximian was buried in a sarcophagus in the same city (et ibi porphyreticum labrum pulcherrimum...nam et Maximianus Diocletiani socius ita inhumatus), in the mausoleum whose remains can still be found in the church of S. Vittore al Corpo.57 Neither it is possible to know where Constantius Chlorus (296–306) was buried or what his tomb or mausoleum was like in appearance. As we have said above, he died at Eburacum (York).58 The presence of his son Constantine at the time of his death leads us to assume that the latter would have seen to the the appropriate ceremonies.59 Some scholars have expressed the idea that he was buried in Trier,60 whereas others believe that he was buried in Rome in what is known as the sarcophagus of Helena, preserved in the Vatican Museum. In fact, neither the Trier option nor the Roman one seems likely, and they do not rest on secure foundations.61

54 BODEL 1997, 5–35. WAURICK 1973, 107–146. 55 Eutr. 10.3.2. Lact. DMP 30.4–6. Epit. 40.5. Zos. 2.11.1, who states that he died of illness in Tarsus, is clearly a confusion with the death of Maximinus Daza: cf. Paschoud Zosime, I–II, 198–199 and J. Moreau, Lactance DMP 375–378. 56 Ch. Novaliciense (MGHScript. VII, 126 et seq.). Cf. PASQUALINI 1979. DUPRAT 1945–1946, 76. HUSS 1978, 719. 57 Ambr. ep. 53.4. Detailed description in JOHNSON 2009, 70–74 with the most important publications on the subject. 58 Eutr. 10.1.3. Anon. Val. 2.4. Eus. VC 1.22.1 59 Philos. HE 5. At funerals, the successor almost always assumed the tasks of witnessing and managing them in order to confirm his legitimacy as the successor. Cf. ARCE 1988, 53 with examples. 60 MOMMSEN 1893, 39. SEECK 1900, 1043. SCHWINDEN 2007. 61 JOHNSON 2009, 207.

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GALERIUS’ MAUSOLEUM IN GAMZIGRAD RATHER THAN THESSALONIKI The case of Galerius, Diocletian’s Caesar and later Augustus (299–311), is the latest development of our research. For many years (and still today, by some) the famous ‘Rotunda’ of Thessaloniki has been interpreted as Galerius’ mausoleum.62 However, the discovery at Gamzigrad was not the first argument to cast doubt on the funerary interpretation of the Rotunda. Some scholars had previously considered it a temple, inspired by the Pantheon in Rome, a dodekatheon or even a mausoleum prepared for Constantine.63 Ejnar Dyggve was the first to propose this attribution as the tomb of Galerius as long ago as 1940 in two works: one was a short report on his excavations in Thessaloniki written for the Oversigt over selskabets virksomhed of the Royal Danish Academy of Sciences and Letters; the second was the French version of the same article in the Rivista di archeologia cristiana. By proposing such a hypothesis, he was not taking the late 4th century text, the Epitome de Caesaribus, seriously. In this, the author is clear and explicit: Ortus (Galerius) Dacia Ripensi ubique sepultus est, quem locum Romulianum ex vocabulo Romulae matris appelaverat.64 That is to say, Galerius was buried in Romuliana, his mother’s birthplace. More recently, however, Bill Leadbetter has suggested that Galerius, feeling ill and close to death in Thessaloniki, rejected the idea of being buried in the mausoleum built there for him and instead ordered that he should be taken to Romuliana to die and be buried there.65 Licinius was present, accompanying him and, according to Leadbetter, it was at this point that he put the fate of his family (his son and his wife) in the latter’s hands.66 Leadbetter himself considers that it was Licinius who was responsible for Galerius’ funeral and burial in the mausoleum of Gamzigrad.67 This account, however, is completely hypothetical and without foundation in the sources, especially as Galerius could have entrusted Licinius with the custody of his family (in manum is the expression used by Lactancius) at any other moment. In addition, there is no evidence that Galerius was going to be buried in Thessaloniki. Leadbetter tries to save, at the very least, the identification of the ‘Rotunda’ as the mausoleum prepared for Galerius that historiography has traditionally attributed to this emperor. The discoveries and excavations of Serbian archaeologists at the site of Gamzigrad have corroborated the validity of the text of the Epitome, and there can no 62 In my book Funus imperatorum (ARCE 1988, 105–106), I personally still considered this to be the case, but I can say that when I wrote it (1985–1987) the reports of the discovery of the remains at Gamzigrad in Serbia were still not widely known, although in the caption to figure 35 I echoed an article by Srejović published in 1985, in which he cast doubt on the interpretation of the ‘Rotunda’ as Galerius’ Mausoleum. It was Prof. Duval who alerted me, in a conversation in Paris, about the discovery. 63 CURCIC 2000. 64 Epit. de Caes. 40.16 (Pichlmayr). 65 LEADBETTER 2009, 242. 66 Lact. DMP 35.3. LEADBETTER 2009, 251 n.168. 67 LEADBETTER 2009, 242.

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longer be any doubt that Galerius was cremated and buried there, rather than in Thessaloniki. The mausoleum was discovered in the excavations at Gamzigrad carried out between 1989 and 1993.68 It did not stand inside the fortified enclosure (villa or palatium, or city), but rather about 1000 m to the east of the main gate, on a low hill called Magura. Remains of two mausoleums were found there, one of which has been identified as that of Galerius. Twelve-sided, it has a crypt in which, according to Johnson, there is sufficient space for a sarcophagus. A short distance away, there are the remains of two tumuli, which are derived from the pyre on which Galerius’ body is likely to have been cremated. It is thought that his mother Romula, was buried in the other mausoleum. No remains of sarcophagi seem to have been found. Although the space in the crypt could have contained a sarcophagus, it seems preferable to consider that a funerary urn would have been deposited there. Two temples of relatively small size have been identified within the enclosure; they have been interpreted by the excavators as two temples dedicated to the imperial cult of Galerius and his mother.69 The consequences of the discoveries made at Romuliana are significant for our understanding of the tombs and ceremonies that accompanied the funerals of the first tetrarchs. In the first place, they enable us to rule out any possibility of the Thessaloniki ‘Rotunda’ having been Galerius’ mausoleum. If this is the case, the proposal put forward by Frazer, associating the mausoleum with the palace and the circus in the imperial residences, must also be rejected.70 Another significant aspect that is demonstrated by the remains of Romuliana is the fact that Galerius can be shown to have been an imitator and follower of the decisions taken by his co-ruler Diocletian, in that he preferred to create his own mausoleum not in his place (or places) of residence, whether Thessaloniki, Sirmium or Serdica, but instead in a city containing all the features of a fortified military encampment, the interior of which included, furthermore, two temples dedicated to the imperial cult. The imitation of Diocletian’s villa at Split is immediately apparent. However, there is one difference: in Gamzigrad, the mausoleums are not inside the walls, but outside, as if they followed the ancient norm applicable to cities, that tombs should be located outside the pomerium. Moreover, Gamzigrad is a city (locus in the text of the Epitome) his birthplace, renamed with his mother's name, Romuliana. Thirdly, Gamzigrad demonstrates that there was continuity in the cremation ceremonies for emperors (or their family members) that were subsequently going to be deified. The rogus ceremony and the characteristic features of the funus imperatorum, such as the decursio or the throwing precious objects and weapons on the pyre71 were still

68 Detailed description in JOHNSON 2009, 77–82 whom I follow. For more information on Gamzigrad, see VON BÜLOW & ZABEHLICKY 2011. SREJOVIĆ 1994. VUJOVIĆ 2017, 239–250. 69 JOHNSON 2009, 82. 70 FRAZER 1966. 71 ARCE 1988, 53–55.

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practiced during imperial funerals under the tetrarchy.72 A further aspect is the continuity in the architectural form of burials, to which I shall return below. The fortune of Maximinus Daza (306–313) was not particularly outstanding. Freeing from Licinius, he reached Tarsus in Cilicia (modern day Turkey). Eusebius and Lactantius describe the death of this persecutor as having been both gruesome and degrading.73 He might have committed suicide or died of natural causes (morte fortuita). Whatever the reason for Maximinus Daza’s death in Tarsus, the fact is that he is known to have been buried outside the city’s pomerium. Nothing is known of his mausoleum, though at a later date, Julian was also buried in Tarsus.74 Maximinus Daza’s intentions with respect to his tomb remain unknown. We do not know whether he had planned to be buried elsewhere, a wish that could not be carried out due to his death. However, Serbian archaeologists have proposed that the mausoleum and pyre found at Sarkamen (some 35 km from Gamzigrad) could have been the tomb of his mother, Galerius’ daughter, prepared by his son. The reason that they put forward is the great similarity with the mausoleums at Gamzigrad. Nevertheless, there is no evidence that this was the case, even though in the mausoleum of Sarkamen gold objects, necklaces and earrings, which might be expected in a woman tomb, were found. If this hypothesis could be confirmed, it might be considered possible that Maximinus could have intended to be buried alongside his mother in Sarkamen, but, in practice, there no archaeological or literary reason to lead us to think so. In the course of the turbulent and complex period in which Diocletian’s successors ruled, two more emperors appeared, about whose forms of burial very little is known. The first was Severus (Flavius Valerius Severus Augustus), emperor between 306 and 307. His death occured during the war against Maxentius, who had proclaimed himself Augustus. According to Zosimus, Maxentius easily defeated the troops of Severus, who was forced to retreat and take refuge in Ravenna. Maximian Herculius, Maxentius’ father, came to the assistance of his son, and he endeavoured to make Severus leave Ravenna by means of promises and oblige him to go to Rome. On his way to the city, at a point called Tres Tabernae, he was ambushed, taken prisoner by Maxentius, and subsequently hanged.75 As regards his place of burial, only the Epitome de Caesaribus and the Anonymus Valesianus specify where it was: they both state that, once he had been killed, his body was taken to the eighth milestone (from Rome) and buried in Gallienus’ tomb, quod ex urbe abest per

72 Coins, weapons and other objects were found in the rogus of Gamzigrad; see JOHNSON 2009, 80. It should be noted that such ceremonies still continued at the funeral for Constantius II described by Ammianus; cf. ARCE 1988, 54–55. 73 Lact. DMP 48.1–3. Eus. HE 9.10.14. Eus. VC 1.58. I cannot fully understand why JOHNSON 2009, 86 claims that Licinius assassinated Maximinus Daza before he had time to complete the mausoleum intended for his mother in Sarkamen (Serbia). 74 Amm. 23.2.5: in suburbanum sepultus est. 75 Zos. 2.10.1–2. Tres Tabernae was in the south of Rome, on the Via Appia. The historians’ accounts of events differ; cf. HANSON 1974, 49–69, who is inclined to place his death in Ravenna in 306.

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Appiam milibus novem.76 This tomb has not been identified with any degree of certainty in archaeological terms, although a circular structure on the Via Appia has been proposed.77 It is by no means certain that Gallienus’ tomb (and later that of Severus) formed an integral part of a suburban villa located in the Appia. Be that as it may, the fact that Severus was buried in this tomb indicates two points: firstly, respect for an emperor that, even though he was Maxentius’ enemy, deserved the honour of a dignified tomb associated with another emperor and secondly, the fact that he was buried in a circular mausoleum, which clearly follows a symbolic imperial tradition. Nothing is known as regards Licinius’ tomb. He died in 325 and the only detail that has come down to use is that he was assassinated in Thessaloniki.78 A RETURN TO THE DYNASTIC MAUSOLEUM: MAXENTIUS AND CONSTANTINE Before the famous Battle of the Milvian Bridge, which pitched Constantine’s troops against those of Maxentius in 312, the latter had planned a large residential complex just a few miles from Rome, which included a villa, a circus and a mausoleum. It was started in 308 and an effort was made to speed up its completion in 309 after the death of his son Romulus, whom Maxentius hastened to deify.79 As has been seen, building a mausoleum at a villa was an imperial tradition dating back to the first century. In the case of Maxentius, the novelty lies in the fact that the mausoleum was destined to be a dynastic tomb for his son and, in the due curse of time, for himself. In this way, Maxentius broke with the tradition of the tetrarchy and established a link with the emperors of the first and second centuries. Another important aspect is that Rome became the centre once again or, at least, that was Maxentius’ project. His short reign (306–312) was characterised by, among other features, intense building activity within the city, including both reconstruction and the inauguration of new monuments: the Basilica that bears his name in the Forum (Velia), the rebuilding of the Temple of Venus and Rome, also in the Velia, that of the Meta Sudans, and others. On his coin issues, Maxentius proclaimed himself Conservator Urbis Suae80, and in this way separated himself completely from the other tetrarchs. However, Maxentius could not be buried in his mausoleum because, after having been defeated by Constantine’s forces, his body was cast into the Tiber during the heat of battle. His corpse was found on the following day. Once it had been recovered, his head was cut off and exhibited in Rome prior to being sent to Africa at a later date. In such circumstances, and as he was considered to have been 76 77 78 79 80

Epit. de Caes. 40.3 and Anom. Val. 4.10: conditusque in Gallieni monumento. TOLOTTI 1986, 471–516. ARCE 1988, 110. On the Mausoleum, see the study of RASCH 1984. On this subject, see, in addition to FRAZER 1966, PISANI SARTORIO-CALZA 1976. On building policies see CULLHED 1994.

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a tyrannus (a usurper), it was impossible for him to receive a dignified burial. Nevertheless, it had been Maxentius’ intention to recovered the central position of Rome. This was, in his early reign, also the intention of Constantine, who planned a dynastic tomb in Rome (the Mausoleum of Helena/Mausoleum of Constantia) and only later decided not to be buried there, after 326. Only the foundation of Constantinople was to interrupt this process, with Constantine’s construction of his mausoleum giving the city the ultimate rank and centrality of power, in addition to transforming into a dynastic mausoleum. This mausoleum was situated inside the city’s perimeter, within the pomerium that Constantine himself had defined. The reason behind this was not because he was a Christian and sought to ignore the former pagan tradition. The tomb within the city was reserved to its founders or those that were considered founders (kitstes) of the city. There are many examples in the cities of Asia Minor, and in Rome, and Trajan has been mentioned as an example. The tomb was circular81 and this respect if followed a tradition that dated back to Augustus and, as has been seen, to the tombs of many of the rulers of the tetrarchy. The Church of the Holy Apostles would be added to it later, in the time of Constantius II.82 The ceremonies that accompanied Constantine’s funeral were a mixture of pagan and Christian elements.83 As described by Eusebius of Caesarea, they involved obviously traditional features such as the proclamation of the iustitium (the baths and markets were closed and all spectacles were cancelled); statues were erected in his honour; his body lay in state for several days; the people and high-ranking dignitaries kissed and ‘adored’ the corpse as it lay. The pompa funebris thus did not differ from any previous such ceremony at all. Later, the sons issued coins on which the legend Divus or Divo appeared, which indicates that, at least in Rome, there was a decree of consecratio for Constantine.84 There may have been Christian ceremonies in the mausoleum (Constantius II, his son, is known not to have been allowed to attend them since he was a catechumen). Perhaps there was a Christian consolatio rather than the traditional laudatio funebris. However, nothing definite is known about these details.85 Eusebius specifically states that Constantine’s body was interred in a sarcophagus covered with the purple paludamentum. In this case, there can be no doubt that cremation did not take place, but there could have been a crematio in effigie in Rome, which led to the decree of consecratio.

81 Eus. VC 4.58–60. Cf. DAGRON 1974, 401–402. GRIERSON 1962, 3–60. DOWNEY 1951, 51–80. 82 For a history of the Holy Apostles, see the papers collected in MULLETT & OUSTERHOUT 2020. 83 The detailed text of Eusebius of Caesarea is of fundamental significance for Constantine’s funeral ceremonies: VC 4.68–73. Among the many published works on the subject, I shall refer only to FRANCHI DI CAVALLIERI 1917, 205. KANIUTH 1941. MacCormack 1981. DAGRON 1996, 148–154. ARCE 1988, 160–163. 84 On the consecratio coins of Constantine see BRUUN 1954, 19–31. 85 Eusebius, Life of Constantine (ed. A. Cameron-Stuart G. Hall), Oxford, 1999, 347–350.

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CONCLUSION Death is unforeseeable. Before it befell them, the emperors of the tetrarchy made provisions for their tombs, their architectural form, and their location, which are not decisions to be taken lightly. In some cases, it proved possible to bury emperors in accordance with their wishes and plan. In others, given the circumstances of his death, it was not possible. It seems that Diocletian’s decision to build a mausoleum in his villa/residence defined a model that was followed by Galerius. It is not known whether Maximian had decided to be buried in his villa (in Italy). The emperors’ cities of residence were not considered when it came to choosing their place of burial. It was Maxentius who returned to the idea of considering Rome as a place of burial, while Constantine was buried in the city he has founded. There was a reason and meaning for the circular shape and dome that characterised the mausoleums and tombs of 4th century emperors. From a very early date, since the pre-Hellenic and classical world, the circular tholos had been the architectural form for heroes’ tombs. This was not exclusive to the Greek world. Hellenistic influence can be observed in other regions subject to its influence, such as could be the case of Numidia. The ultimate significance of the circular form as the eternal dwelling place and home for the deceased, with its connotations of celestial meaning, is an established fact in the history of ideas and mentalities. With their invariably circular iconography and rotunda form, surmounted with a dome in Christian times. Roman emperors’ tombs can be explained by this tradition. In addition, there is another underlying idea: that of the triumphal monument, which in its earliest stages was an accumulated pile of weapons, a tumulus that meant victory and triumph.

FRACTURING THE COLLECTIVE POLITICAL DISGRACE AND TETRARCHIC COMMEMORATION Rebecca Usherwood At the same time statues of the elder Maximian were being torn down on the orders of Constantine, and any imago in which he had been portrayed was being removed. And because the two old men had usually been depicted together, this meant that the imagines of both were being taken down at the same time. Diocletian thus saw happening to him in his own lifetime what had never happened to an emperor before; and afflicted with this double grief, he took the decision that he should die ... Thus this emperor, who for twenty years had been most fortunate, was cast down by God to a life of humiliation, smitten with injuries which led him to hate life itself, and was finally extinguished by hunger and anguish.1

For the Christian rhetorician Lactantius, the commemorative practices of the tetrarchy presented an opportunity. According to the story he tells in his pamphlet, On the Deaths of the Persecutors, the emperor Diocletian met his end after witnessing his own imagines (portraits) being taken down. Diocletian was not even the target of this act of iconoclasm. His former co-Augustus Maximian, who had been quick to renege on his abdication in 305 and had spent several years attempting to reassert himself as an active emperor, had finally been killed in 310 in a failed bid to overthrow his son-in-law Constantine. As co-rulers, sharing imperial power for over twenty years, Diocletian and Maximian had customarily been depicted as a pair; as a consequence, they were subjected to disgrace as a collective. Thus, Diocletian became collateral damage in the downfall of his colleague, an experience that drove him into depression, starvation and death. This chapter examines the role that disgrace could play in the reception and afterlife of tetrarchic commemoration. By ‘disgrace’ I mean the myriad of actions encompassed in the modern catch-all phrase damnatio memoriae.2 In a material sense, the most common expressions of this were the destruction, vandalism, 1

2

Lact. DMP 42.1–3 (transl. after Creed): Eodemque tempore senis Maximiani statuae Constantini iussu revellebantur et imagines ubicumque pictus esset, detrahebantur. Et quia senes ambo simul plerumque picti erant et imagines simul deponebantur amborum. Itaque Diocletianus cum videret vivus quod nulli um quam imperatorum acciderat, duplici aegritudine adfectus moriendum sibi esse decrevit… Ita viginti annorum felicissimus imperator ad humilem vitam deiectus a deo et proculcatus iniuriis atque in odium vitae deductus postremo fame atque angore confectus est. Like Harriet Flower, I avoid this phrase, since by using it ‘we have tended to suggest a more formal and static way of behaving that was actually the case in ancient Rome’ (FLOWER 2006, xix). This is even more applicable in the later empire, since it assumes that these processes and actions were not only standardised but that they continued unchanged amidst structural and cultural changes.

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removal or reworking of various forms of honorific representation, including the erasure of an individual’s names from dedicatory inscriptions. However, such practices represent only the most literal and physical manifestations of an evolving discourse surrounding the relationship between memorialization and power: who was remembered, how they were remembered, and the individuals or groups of people who were in a position to dictate this behavior. These ideas and practices also embodied an intentional paradox, one where defacements could draw additional attention to the image or name that had been attacked, and where rhetorical claims about forgetting perpetuated the memories of those who were supposedly forgotten. Rather than being removed from the commemorative landscape, the individual’s honored status was reversed, their identity living on in a new, dishonored form.3 Recent scholarship has also emphasized that such processes were never fixed or monolithic but rather highly inventive and adaptive, able to shift in response to changes in political circumstances and commemorative culture. From this perspective, the ideological framework of the tetrarchy represented the ideal conditions for such disgrace-inducing practices to be articulated. It was a world in which new forms of commemoration evolved in tandem with collegiate government, with dedications set up to two, four, even six emperors at once. It was also a period of relative prosperity after the fractures of the mid-3rd century, leading to a sharp rise in the output of various forms of imperial iconography, as well as the imperative to use these media to forge and reinforce the link between this state of prosperity and the unity embodied in the imperial college. However, the chaos that was unleashed as this political unit disintegrated from 306 onwards could have consequences for the afterlife of these monuments and the reputations of the emperors they honored. This combination of high material output and political fracture means that the tetrarchic period represents an apex in attacks on imperial memory. There is evidence, material or literary (or both), for almost every member of the first, second and third tetrarchies suffering from some form of iconoclasm, either real or imagined.4 Ancient concepts of disgrace and iconoclasm existed in both of these dimensions: real and imagined.5 On the one hand, there was the material and tangible: actions that we might actually be able to trace in an archaeological sense. On the other hand, there was imagination and narrative construction: how people envisaged these practices at play in their contemporary and past worlds, and used them to fulfil 3 4

5

There has been substantial work on Roman attitudes to dishonor and forgetting in the past twenty years. See HEDRICK 2000. VARNER 2004. FLOWER 2006. BENOIST & DAGUET-GAGEY 2007. OMISSI 2016. USHERWOOD 2022a. Diocletian: Lact. DMP 42.1–3 and epigraphic erasures; Maximian: DMP 42.1–2, Eus. HE 8.13.15 (later recycled with a few changes in VC 1.47.1), epigraphic and iconographic erasures; Galerius: epigraphic erasures; Severus: epigraphic erasures; Maximinus Daza: Eus. HE 9.11 and epigraphic erasures; Severus: epigraphic erasures; Licinius: epigraphic erasures and iconographic attacks; Constantine: Pan. Lat. IV (10) 12.1–4 (image attacks inflicted by Maxentius), Origo 5.15 (iconoclasm inflicted by Licinius); Maxentius: epigraphic erasures and iconographical/architectural reuse. See STEWART 1999 for a discussion of literary tropes associated with iconoclasm in Late Antiquity.

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their own ideological and literary aims. This chapter will consider both, and both present particular opportunities and challenges. As we will see in the examples I discuss, surviving material evidence can be frustratingly fragmentary, decontextualized, or has even been lost in modern times. These remains can be difficult to interpret in a meaningful way. An erased name or image is a physical remnant of an action whose agent, in almost all cases, remains anonymous. Beyond clues that might be deduced from these material traces – for example, the method of attack, and the context and significance of the monument – we look to literary evidence to understand the reasons why an individual might have been targeted, as well as the cultural beliefs that lay behind such actions. Yet literary sources rarely correspond with the surviving material evidence, nor should we expect them to. These accounts tend to present these processes in generalized terms, giving the impression of actions that were orchestrated centrally, and were both immediate and highly effective in their implementation. However, the physical remains that have survived the passage of time reflect behavior that was erratic, inconsistent and minimal. In this chapter I will explore two aspects of disgrace and iconoclasm in the tetrarchic period, both of which are raised by Lactantius’ story. Firstly, how the commemorative environment of this era, particularly the presentation of the imperial college as an indivisible unit, could alter the meaning and even amplify the impact of disgrace-inducing attacks. To this end I will begin by establishing the commemorative practices of the tetrarchy, before analyzing three specific examples spanning a range of contexts which demonstrate how this ideology created the conditions for name-erasure and iconoclasm to take on particular significance. The second aspect, which I will discuss more briefly by way of a conclusion, is the role of Christian thought in our understanding of these processes. Why are disgrace and iconoclasm so pervasive in Christian accounts of the tetrarchic age? How and why do these narratives deviate from surviving material evidence, and what conclusions might we draw from both? THE TETRARCHY AS COLLECTIVE Collegiate government – multiple emperors ruling in cooperation, either as nominal equals or as juniors and superiors – was not a tetrarchic invention, but drew upon strategies of sharing leadership responsibilities and securing dynastic power that can be traced back to the earliest years of the Principate.6 However, the novelty of the set-up that emerged by 293 is that the college of four were all mature adults, none of which were directly related by blood. This was a system that marginalized both women and biological male heirs and, in doing so, represented a deviation from the concept of the emperor accompanied by a family group, the domus divina, that had been the cornerstone of public interaction with, and commemoration of,

6

See REES 2004, 6. BARDILL 2012, 63. CORCORAN 2012b, 40.

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Roman monarchical rule since its conception. This shift called for the creative adaptation of established commemorative forms and language.7 The most famous example of this is the San Marco Tetrarchs (Pl. 5), the porphyry statue group taken from Constantinople to Venice in the early thirteenth century, though originally set up in another eastern city (most likely Nicomedia, Diocletian’s normal residence). This group of virtually indistinguishable armored emperors, rendered schematically and arranged in two embracing pairs glaring out at the viewer, compares to a smaller example now in the Vatican. Together they have been taken as the visual embodiment of Diocletian’s new government and the values that underlined it: an imperial collective wherein the identities and ambitions of individual members were suppressed, prioritizing the cohesiveness of the ensemble and the territory they governed together.8 Eye-catching as they may be, the San Marco Tetrarchs represent only the tip of this era’s commemorative iceberg. The unyielding nature of porphyry was a central factor in the abstract rendering of the group, and other materials made for more naturalistic and individualistic forms.9 However, even in cases where it is possible to identify specific emperors, unity often remained the overriding theme. Take, for example, the spectacular polychromic reliefs from Nicomedia, dated to prior to the elevation of the Caesares in 293, which have recently been published. Here the two emperors are differentiated both by height and color, with Diocletian standing slightly taller and with grey-brown hair to the red of his younger colleague, Maximian (Pl. 8). Nonetheless, the overall image speaks of bonds of affection that transcend – even surpass – familial ties. Wearing imperial tunics and cloaks rather than armor, the emperors rush from their chariots into a close embrace, and face one another rather than the viewer, eyes meeting and noses almost touching in an expression of intimacy that borders on romantic.10 The motifs of the embracing emperors and the four emperors as an assembled group take on additional significance when considered in light of the practical realities of the period. The college was devised to spread imperial presence across the vast distances of the empire, avoiding the regional fragmentation that had characterized the earlier 3rd century, and allowing mobile emperors to tackle internal and border threats swiftly. As a consequence, the gathering of two – let alone four – emperors in one place was a rare, even inconceivable, event. Though some pieces, such as the Nicomedia Tetrarchs, may have been intended to memorialize the pomp of a specific ceremonial meeting of Diocletian and Maximian (such as that which took place in Milan in 291), the scene remained highly allegorical since there is no evidence that Maximian ever set foot in the eastern empire where the relief was

7

See F. KOLB 2001, 32–37. HEKSTER 2015, 279–80. HUNNELL CHEN 2018, and CARLÀ-UHINK, this volume. 8 REES 1993, 181. SMITH 1997, 183. F. KOLB 2001, 146–49. BARDILL 2012, 68–71. HEKSTER 2015, 280–81. 9 SMITH 1997, 180–83. 10 ŞARE AĞTÜRK 2018. See REES 2002, 79, for the panegyric of 291’s description of Diocletian and Maximian’s meeting in Milan as a ‘lovers’ tryst’.

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displayed.11 Hence commemorative culture not only accentuated the imperial collective, it created it in the first place: it existed and was experienced in representative forms more than in reality. Beyond the porphyry statue groups and Nicomedia reliefs, more fragmentary survivals point to the inventive use of paired or four-emperor monuments, from statue groups with traditional bases to the innovation of four-columned arrangements with a statue of an emperor mounted on each.12 The latter could be organized in a line, such as the decennalia monument in the forum in Rome, or more commonly as a square tetrastyle, found in numerous examples in Syria and Israel, and two – one commemorating the original tetrarchy, the second the adapted second tetrarchy of 308-09 – set up in Luxor Temple in Egypt, which underwent substantial redevelopment at this time.13 The erection of such monuments could be disruptive: in Gerasa houses had to be demolished to clear a circular space in the town, and statues were then set on ten-meter-high porphyry columns on three-meter-high podia.14 In other cases we find more seamless integration into existing urban features. In Ephesus, the four columns of the façade of the Temple of Hadrian, built in the aftermath of the emperor’s visit to the city, provided the ideal setting for a tetrarchic monument 170 years later, with a statue to an emperor placed before each column, facing outwards onto the Kuretenstrasse, the most important street in the city.15 In both of these examples (as with most others), though the statues are no longer extant, surviving inscriptions record the agency of the provincial governor, which, along with the materials used, indicates the significance that central government placed on these monuments.16 As with the Nicomedia reliefs, group dedications could articulate a sense of relative hierarchy within the imperial group: the elevation of the two Augusti above the Caesares, and the general superiority of Diocletian. Linear arrangements often displayed the senior emperors in a central position, flanked by their juniors, and might distinguish Diocletian from Maximian. Foursided arrangements, by contrast, not only dissolved the boundaries between junior and senior but also between the western-based ‘Herculian’ emperors (Maximian and Constantius) and eastern ‘Iovians’ (Diocletian and Galerius), the columnar monuments serving as an architectural expression of the indivisibility of the empire’s geographical space and the leadership governing it. These are the most monumentalized aspects of tetrarchic commemorative culture, but imperial authority and its supporting ideology infiltrated Roman life in

11 12 13 14 15 16

ŞARE AĞTÜRK 2018, 423. See THIEL 2002. 2006. REES 1993, 193. THIEL 2002, 318–19. THIEL 2002, 301–10. HEKSTER 2015, 283–84. ROUECHÉ 2009. LSA-718; 719; 720. HEKSTER 2015, 283. The nature of such monuments as representations of the Roman state is also suggested by the use of Latin inscriptions even in Greek-speaking regions: see QUATEMBER 2017, 84–85, for the case of Ephesus, and VAN DAM 2007, 185–93, for the increased use of Latin as the language of authority and the state during the tetrarchic period. For an emphasis on the agency on governors in creating such monuments, see HELLSTRÖM, this volume.

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ways which are easy to overlook and difficult to trace.17 Imperial images were ubiquitous, and often featured in media that no longer survive; for example, Lactantius describes the removal of not only statues but painted images of Diocletian and Maximian in the example with which I began this chapter. Many of these media went hand-in-hand with the major structural changes of this period. The currency and mint reforms created the perfect opportunity to unite ideology with pragmatic purpose. Reverse designs of coin issues often celebrated the harmony of the collective, with depictions of the group performing a joint sacrifice in front of a military camp, often with legends that emphasized the victorious nature of the army (see Pl. 3.b). In lower denominations identical reverses were struck for all the emperors and reciprocal minting practiced, with coins issued in the name and image of all members of the college, irrespective of whichever emperor was physically closest to the mint. This climate of political harmony and administrative integration was also echoed in imperial edicts and announcements. These were disseminated across the empire in the names of all of the emperors, even assigning victory titles won by a single ruler to all members of the group, thus propagating a sense of collective action and success.18 The most prevalent forms of tetrarchic commemoration that survive today – and the ones by which the effects of disgrace can be most effectively traced – are inscriptions which served a wide range of honorific functions, from statue bases and building dedications to milestones, more of which date from the late 3rd to early 4th century than any other era.19 In the hundreds of examples that survive in Greek and Latin, the college is almost always recorded in the same order, identical to that of imperial edicts: first Diocletian and then Maximian as Augusti, followed by Constantius and Galerius as Caesares. The effect of unity was further underscored by the fact that, though we differentiate between them in modern times to avoid confusion, both Maximian and Galerius were called ‘Maximianus’ in antiquity. To summarize, the political ideology of this period was centered around the creation of a group identity in a variety of different media and rituals. Large monuments were the most ostentatious expression of this, but they represent only the most obvious manifestations of wider climate generated at the nexus between central intention and a range of interpreters and audiences across the empire (e.g. governors, officials, city councils, soldiers, panegyrists). As a consequence, politicallymotivated acts of erasure and iconoclasm drew special significance from this wider commemorative environment.

17 For the dissemination and local experience of imperial ideology see in particular ANDO 2000, esp. 131–275, and NOREÑA 2011, esp. 14–21; 300–320. 18 REES 1993, 188–89. 2004, 73. HEKSTER 2015, 284–285. 19 A. KOLB 2001, 139.

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THE OUT-OF-TUNE TETRACHORD The concept of the emperors as an ideological collective, each subsumed into an imperial whole where their identities overlapped, was a central legacy of the tetrarchic period. The emperor Julian, looking back with sixty years of hindsight, used theatrical and musical metaphors to articulate this. In his satire The Caesars, he imagined the emperors as a dramatic chorus, walking along hand-in-hand. Though the use of the term ‘tetrarchy’ in this context is a modern invention,20 he comes close, describing the emperors as a ‘tetrachord’ (τετράχορδον). In Greek harmonic theory this denotes four notes spanning a perfect fourth, and was used as the fundamental unit from which all larger musical systems and tunings derived.21 Thus the college was envisaged as an imperial barbershop quartet, singing in perfect harmony, or a four-stringed instrument wherein each emperor represented a differently-tuned string which, played together, created perfect music. In Julian’s imagined banquet the gods admired the emperors for their suppression of personal ambition and equal sharing of honors: their perfect ὁμόνοια (‘unanimity’; ‘harmony’). Yet Julian was well aware of the discord and civil war that came to pass when this idealized system began to break down just over a year after the joint abdications of Diocletian and Maximian in May 305. He characterizes this as the guilty emperors – in this case the ‘two Maximians’ – ruining the ‘system’ (σύστημα: another word used for musical, but also political, structures) by introducing harshness into the ‘harmonious tetrachord’.22 One of the Maximians in particular (though he does not specify, he must mean the elder), was banished from the banquet by Dike for his licentiousness, his meddling nature, his untrustworthiness, and – worst of all – for ‘not singing in harmony with the rest of the tetrachord’ (315C: οὐ τὰ πάντα τῷ τετραχόρδῳ συνῳδῶν). Julian’s description of the impact that individual political ambition, failure and disgrace could have on the tetrarchic collective is an excellent analogy for how it could play out in the material world. As I have established, the ideology of this period centered around the creation of a homogenous group identity, one that was synonymous with – and a guarantee of – the harmony and prosperity of the empire as a whole. But an erasure or attack meant identifying and picking out a specific ruler from this collective that had purported to be indivisible, and where this indivisibility symbolized the political integration of the Roman state. It drew attention to the fact that each emperor was an individual with their own agency and ambitions, one capable of acting independently and even against the wider group. Thus an erasure physically split the collective, and transformed a monument from one that had commemorated harmony into one that advertised fracture. Following 20 See VOLLMER 1991. 21 LANDELS 1999, 87–88. CREESE 2010, 18. In the earliest surviving panegyric of the tetrarchic period, the speaker includes a comparable discussion about cosmic and systemic balance embodied in the number four (e.g., elements and seasons): Pan. Lat. VIII (4) 4.1–2; see REES 2004, 75. My thanks to my colleague Martine Cuypers for her insights on the Julian passage. 22 Julian Caesars 315C: τούτῳ δὲ τῷ παναρμονίῳ τετραχόρδῳ παραφύεται δεινὸν καὶ τραχὺ καὶ ταραχῶδες σύστημα. Liddell & Scott § F. 1508.

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Julian, from now on the audience’s eye would be drawn to the single note of the tetrachord playing out of tune. My first case-study is a statue base from Thessaloniki. Its current whereabouts are unknown, but at the end of the nineteenth century it was recorded in Top Hané, the city’s Ottoman fortress.23 Unusually, the simple Latin inscription refers to the tetrarchic emperors not by their names but by their signa, ‘Iovius’ and ‘Herculius’, the epithets adopted by Diocletian and Maximian during their diarchy and then used by their respective Caesars from 293. On the base, the use of signa instead of personal names serves to fuse the college even more closely together. They also further accentuate the chiastic structure (A, B, B, A) of the standard tetrarchic epigraphic formula, which always listed the emperors in order of seniority – Diocletian (Augustus ‘Iovius’) and Maximian (Augustus ‘Herculius’), followed by Constantius (Caesar ‘Herculius’) and Galerius (Caesar ‘Iovius’) – blending the boundaries between east and west and making a powerful statement of ideological togetherness.24 It is likely that the context and function of the base were why the signa were considered appropriate, since it held a votive dedication to Hercules ‘Augustus’, whose name appears in the dative, set up on behalf of the entire imperial college, whose signa are in the nominative. HERCVLI AVGVSTO IOVIVS [[ET HERCVLIVS]] AVGG {V} ET HERCVLIVS ET IOVIVS NOBB CAESS The original context of the base is unknown: no temple or sanctuary devoted to Hercules has been discovered in Thessaloniki, but votive and funerary inscriptions attest to the cult and a connected religious association being active in the second and 3rd century.25 Another possibility is that the statue was part of the decorative program of the new imperial palace in the city; this is suggested by a more elusive record of another now-lost base dedicated by the tetrarchic college using only their signa, but dedicated instead to the god Jupiter Optimus Maximus.26 Both dedications can be contextualized within the final years of the 3rd and early years of the 4th century, when the city served as Galerius’ administrative center, and when the famous arch, celebrating the Caesar’s resounding victory over the Sāsānian king Narses in 298, was built. Maximian’s signum is recorded as erased; though the loss of the base makes it impossible to comment on the precise method used, both the CIL and ILS indicate that both the word ‘Herculius’ and the conjunction et connecting it to Diocletian’s signum were removed so thoroughly as to render both words illegible.27 However, 23 24 25 26 27

CIL III (suppl. 2) 12310. ILS 634. LSA 377 (U. Gehn). As observed by U. Gehn (LSA 377). See TZANAVARI 2003, 277. IG X 2,1, 39. See HUNNELL CHEN, this volume. Both the CIL and Dessau reference the base and the erasure second-hand from the same source. Maximian’s signum is also recorded as erased on the Jupiter base, and (curiously) the signa of

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the form and context of the inscription ensure the identity of the erased individual remained known. Moreover, this mark of disgrace was further emphasized by the function and layout of the base. The honorand was a deity that was obviously assimilated with the western Herculian emperors, and the erasure meant that the god’s name now sat directly above the lacuna where Maximian’s signum had been. Though not certain, it is likely that the base’s statue also represented Hercules.28 The development and use of the signa are debated, but they have been associated with informal or de-centralized expressions of military loyalty and the imperial cult (the fact that this inscription is Latin in a predominantly Greek-speaking region also suggests an administrative or military audience).29 Hercules’ epithet ‘Augustus’ indicates that the dedication was connected to the god’s role as imperial protector. As a consequence, whatever the original context of the statue base in Thessaloniki, its erasure was a particularly potent attack on Maximian’s imperial identity, one that drew its meaning from the wider commemorative environment of the tetrarchic era. The Thessaloniki base also illustrates a phenomenon that occurs when one or more individuals are excised from a group dedication: the names of the still-honored emperors were not touched, so remain juxtaposed against the lacuna that held the name of the dishonored individual. Not only did this augment the disgrace of the attacked emperor, it served as a commentary on the nature of his transgressions: here Maximian was not just shamed, but shamed in relation to his comrade Diocletian and his Caesar Constantius. This compares to Julian’s assertion that, above all his undesirable qualities and disloyal actions, Maximian’s most heinous crime had been the destruction of the homonoia of the imperial collective. Here this plays out in visual form, and a monument that once commemorated the harmony and religious observance of the united college was now tainted by the erasure at its center. My second case-study is probably the most significant tetrarchic erasure to survive from antiquity. From a modern perspective, this is because it is a painted image, and therefore opens a small window onto a form of imperial commemoration that almost never survives. But this also relates to our ability to place it within a context that made such an action exceptionally loaded. Luxor Temple underwent substantial modifications during the tetrarchic period, including the fortification of its walls, the creation of new colonnaded streets spanned by two tetrastyles holding imperial statues (discussed above), and the adaptation of a central ritual chamber into a place of imperial cult by building a new niche into the south wall and plastering over the ancient reliefs, creating new frescos in their place. These both Galerius and Constantius I were also noted as erased. However, it is a challenge to say more given the sparser record of this base. 28 See, for example, a base in Troy for a votive statue of Zeus, set up in honor of the goddess Athena Illias by the members of the first tetrarchy. However, the base’s Greek inscription specifies this: IG IV 214. 29 The signa were rarely attested in centralized media such as edicts, titulature or coinage, but found in some inscriptions, as well as medallions distributed to key military and administrative officers. It has been suggested that they operated as nicknames, with “a cachet suited only to particular levels of social discourse”: REES 2005, 225. See also REES 2005, BARDILL 2012, 63– 66, and particularly HUNNELL CHEN, this volume for a thorough analysis of tetrarchic signa.

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developments transformed the temple complex into a military base, and were connected with Diocletian’s presence in Egypt suppressing internal unrest on two occasions, at the very end of the 3rd century and the start of the 4th century.30 The frescos were badly damaged since their discovery 160 years ago, leaving modern commentators reliant on earlier drawings to reconstruct the scenes depicted. Despite their fragmentary state, they have been recognized as a paradigm of tetrarchic imperial imagery, and a crucial moment in the development of late antique visual culture.31 This derives from their mixing of representational forms and visual perspectives, with a crowd of dignitaries and soldiers taking part in a procession and watching an imperial adventus. The apse is the focal point, not only because it is centrally positioned, under a monumental pediment, on a curved plane, and with gazes in the other scenes directed towards it, but because it depicts a different dimensional context. Within it stand the four tetrarchs, oriented frontally, heads encircled by halos, a collective of four elevated above the busy scenes surrounding them (Pl. 15). As has been observed, this image transforms the emperors into painted cult statues, embodiments of their numina within the context of an imperial cult room.32 The recent restoration and publication of the frescos has greatly enhanced our ability to comment on them. It has confirmed what was originally suspected: that though the plaster faces of all the Tetrarchs were chipped off, most likely a later Christian attack, the entire central right figure was carefully rubbed away, leaving a ghostly shape at the center of the group. As McFadden has observed, such a method was ‘less violent and more time-consuming’ than chipping off the plaster, a testament to care and attention; moreover, given its context such an action must have taken place with the approval of the base’s military and administrative authorities.33 Since they are now unlabeled, the identities of the emperors have been disputed, though the most convincing dating is the first tetrarchy, with Maximian as the erased senior emperor.34 The ambiguity of the college represented raises questions as to why such an erasure was carried out at all. Since these are images rather than inscribed names, why not re-imagine the group as one of the tetrarchy’s later incarnations, rather than rubbing out an emperor in this way? Such an action left a permanent stain on the central focus of the camp’s central room, the focal point of the entire complex. Clearly the statement made by the figure’s erasure was considered more valuable than preserving the chamber’s iconographic programmed untouched.

30 KALAVREZOU-MAXEINER 1975, 241–243. MCFADDEN 2015a, 27–28. 31 KALAVREZOU-MAXEINER 1975, 231–239; 244–248. ELSNER 1995, 173–176. F. KOLB 2001, 175–186. REES 1993, 183–186. 2004, 46–47. MOORMANN 2011, 146–147. MCFADDEN 2015b. 32 ELSNER 1995, 175. MOORMANN 2011, 147. 33 MCFADDEN 2015a, 29–31. 34 As KALAVREZOU-MAXEINER 1975, 244, observes, since the figures are positioned well above the lowest point in the niche, it is possible that identifying inscriptions were placed beneath them. Though F. KOLB 2001, 184–185, suggests other groupings such as the abdicated Augusti with the new Augusti, MCFADDEN 2015a, 25–31, makes a convincing case for the first tetrarchy.

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The context of the erasure affects how it might be interpreted. As with the Thessaloniki base, the removal of Maximian from a monument that honored the tetrarchic collective created a statement articulating his dishonored status relative to this group, implying that his disgrace was due to his transgressions against the group. We might, therefore, imagine this erasure taking place after 306, when Maximian betrayed his frater Diocletian and the rest of the college by reneging on his abdication and participating in the separatist regime of his son in Italy. However, measures taken against Maximian are generally connected with the passage of Lactantius with which I began this chapter, particularly the statement that Maximian’s iconoclasm was carried out Constantini iussu (‘by decree of Constantine’) after the emperor was killed in a failed usurpation against his son-in-law in 310.35 However, given that Egypt fell outside of Constantine’s jurisdiction until after 324, it seems unlikely he was responsible for the Luxor erasure. Whether carried out after Maximian’s usurpation in late 306, his death in 310, or even later, it was certainly performed after the first tetrarchy had ended, but still in a political environment where power was shared, though with greater precariousness. As a consequence, the erasure represents a subversion of tetrarchic ideology in a particularly charged environment: a room whose entire purpose centered on ritual activity engaging with the nature of imperial authority. In the years that followed, as shared rule disintegrated, the ghosttetrarch remained as an advertisement of the shaky foundations on which collegiality could stand.36 My third and final case-study is a fragmentary marble plaque, now built into the pavement of the church of San Pietro, which occupies the acropolis of Tuscania, near modern Viterbo. Given its physical features and current location, it has been identified as the dedicatory plaque of either a public building or a monument such as an arch or statue, and thus reflecting wider administrative activities and interest in the region at this time.37 The transliteration below uses grey letters to indicate confirmed erasures:

35 BARNES 1973 and 2011, 4, has consistently argued that a ‘damnatio memoriae’ was pursued against Maximian from 311, and that this was reversed by when Constantine ‘rehabilitated’ his father-in-law from 316. However, the material evidence reflects far more complex and fluid reactions to Maximian’s disgrace, and the evidence for the emperor’s ‘deification’ under Constantine and his sons is limited: see USHERWOOD 2022a, esp. 94–106. 36 The continued importance of the complex after the end of the first tetrarchy is confirmed by the erection of a second tetrapylon for the (adapted) second tetrarchy of 308–09 (Galerius and Licinius as Augusti, Constantine and Maximinus Daza as Caesares: LSA 2621-24). Two statue bases dedicated to Constantine were also found in the complex, one of which was set up just outside the entrance of the imperial cult room (LSA 1180). 37 AE 1964 235. SORDI 1962. 2002, 79–81. PAPI 2000, 226–231. Sordi identifies the plaque as belonging to a public building, on the basis of a comparison with the dedicatory inscription of the baths of Diocletian in Rome. For the argument that it is more likely to have belonged to an arch or statue base, since Diocletian’s name appears in the dative, see HELLSTRÖM, this volume, 155–156.

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DOMINO NOSTRO DIOCLETIANO SENIORI AVG(usto) [[[MAXI]MIANVS]] SENIOR [AVG(ustus)] FRATER ET [CONS]TANTIVS ET [[[MAXI]MIANVS]] AVGG(ugusti) ET [[[SEVE]RVS]] ET [[MAXIMIANVS]] (remaining text lost ...) It is noteworthy in two respects. Firstly, because it records a dedication to Diocletian as a senior, ‘abdicated’ emperor, whose name appears in the dative, by both Maximian (also designated senior Augustus) and the full second tetrarchy: Constantius and Galerius as Augusti, with their new Caesares Severus and Maximinus Daza. Secondly, because of the unprecedented number of erasures the plaque holds: of this collective of six, a total of four names have been chiseled out. As Sordi observes, the original dedication captures the dynamics of the fourteen-month window within which the panel was set up.38 The transition of power after the joint abdications of Diocletian and Maximian in May 305 went smoothly, but arrangements unraveled after the death of Constantius in July 306, prompting the usurpations of Constantine and then Maxentius, followed by Maximian coming out of retirement in support of his son. It is comparable to the panels of the Baths of Diocletian in Rome, which were also dedicated by Maximian to the nomina of his frater Diocletian, naming a college of six: the two seniores Augusti as patres of the emperors of the new tetrarchic college.39 As with the Tuscania panel, the familial language pays testament to the strong bonds between the emperors and the security of the imperial succession, as well as reinforcing Diocletian’s position as founder and guarantor of the group’s authority. The erasures entirely subvert this message. They could be contextualized within the regimes of Maxentius, who seized this region from October 306, or Constantine, who won it from Maxentius after October 312; since the erasures appear to have been done by the same hand at the same time, Sordi expresses a preference for Constantine.40 The convention is to view such measures as posthumous, though this was not necessarily the case. If the eastern emperors Galerius and Maximinus Daza were indeed attacked before their deaths in May 311 and May 313, this represented a clear rejection of the representational principles of the tetrarchy, where the complete college was honored in both east and west, irrespective of whichever emperor 38 SORDI 2002, 82–83. 39 CIL VI 1130. 31242. ILS 646. 40 SORDI 2002, 84; also suggested by CARLÀ-UHINK 2019, 161. Maxentius had had a far from cordial relationship with Galerius and Severus, both of whom had tried to overthrow him by force (the latter dying in the process), and his father Maximian, who he expelled from his territories after a failed usurpation attempt in early 308. However, the erasure of Maximinus Daza, with whom (according to Lactantius) Maxentius formed an alliance, suggests a Constantinian context.

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was nearby. Whether executed under the aegis of Maxentius’ regime or Constantine’s, the attacks exposed the empire’s political fragmentation, and reflect both emperors’ claims to a legitimacy in the region which stood outside of the tetrarchic system (though dependent on personal connections with specific members of the original college, in this case the un-erased emperors, Diocletian and Constantius). Diocletian remains a contradictory figure here. The preservation of his name when so many others were erased was an assurance of his continued reverence as abdicated emperor and lynchpin of the tetrarchy. But the attack on his frater Maximian and the dismantling of the dynastic arrangement he had put in place represented a rejection of everything the emperor had stood for. Modified in a context where the tetrarchy no longer existed, the plaque on this building now advertised how collegiate concordia was no longer desirable or necessary: following Julian, this is an instrument of government with almost all its strings removed, a parody of the tetrachord that had once been. No piece of material evidence captures the dissolution of the tetrarchy – both its reality and its ideology – more aptly. CREATING DISGRACE, IMAGINING DISGRACE This chapter’s central focus has been the materiality and symbolism of measures associated with political disgrace. The three case-studies we have examined in depth have illustrated how the ideological and commemorative environment of the tetrarchic period allowed these actions to be imbued with particular connotations and potency. Moreover, we have also seen that these actions were essentially creative: they not only dishonored specific emperors but generated new meaning about the recent past, serving as an intentional or unintentional commentary on the nature and future of collegiate rule.41 I will now contextualize these examples within wider environments of disgrace, following the division between concepts both ‘real’ and ‘imagined’, as discussed in my introduction. The ‘real’ relates to where these specific instances of erasure stand within the larger body of material remains that survive from this period. The ‘imagined’ relates to the nature of the literary discourse on which we rely to gauge the meaning of such actions in their original contexts. It is important to acknowledge that the three examples I have discussed represent the exception rather than the rule. Though literary sources might say that such actions were executed universally and comprehensively, these claims should be viewed as rhetorical: the epigraphic evidence that survives indicates that these actions were not inflicted far more than they ever were.42 Obviously, this is dependent on the material that survives and can be traced, but even dedications fashioned from 41 See ÖSTENBERG 2019, 332–333 for a discussion of epigraphic erasures shaping new meanings for viewers. 42 See, for example, Lactantius’ claim that Maximian’s imagines were pulled down ‘wherever they might be’ (ubicumque: 42.1), and Eusebius’ assertion that Maximinus Daza’s portraits were destroyed ‘in every city’ (HE 9.11: πᾶσαν πόλιν). See USHERWOOD 2022a, esp. 35–36, for the rarity of epigraphic erasures.

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durable materials are complicated by the fragmentary nature of the evidence. Most of the remains of the tetrastyla, the most innovative monuments of the tetrarchic period, are incomplete; even when their dedicatory inscriptions appear to have been erased, it is difficult to assign a motivation with any confidence.43 It was once thought that the four tetrarchic statues erected in front of the Temple of Hadrian in Ephesus represented a textbook example of damnatio memoriae, since the base of Maximian has disappeared and a statue of Theodosius’ father, erected at least seventy years later, stands in its place. Charlotte Roueché speculated that there was ‘a period, probably of many decades, where there was an empty base – or perhaps a base with a headless statue – standing in this group’, a powerful reminder of the senior emperor’s disgrace in comparison to his former colleagues.44 However, it now seems likely that the reason for Maximian’s disappearance is more mundane: both the statue and the base were damaged by accident when the western side of the building’s pronaos had collapsed in an earthquake and crushed them, and, when restoration work was carried out in the Theodosian period, the empty space was filled with a dedication to an individual of more contemporary relevance.45 Some have used Lactantius’ story of the death of Diocletian to interpret surviving material, claiming there is plenty of epigraphic evidence to support the rhetorician’s claim that the abdicated emperor suffered a politically-motivated iconoclasm, promoted by Constantine, after Maximian had been executed in 310.46 However, this misses the essential point of Lactantius’ story: that Diocletian’s iconoclasm was all the more shameful because it was inadvertent rather than intentional, a testament to the once-great emperor’s impotence and irrelevance. The erasure of Diocletian’s names along with his colleague Maximian’s in inscriptions represents, by contrast, a deliberate action. Moreover, the majority of surviving examples – such as the three examined in this chapter – indicate that Diocletian was spared when Maximian was erased, and this could serve as a commentary on the senior Augustus’ continued veneration in a post-tetrarchic environment. There is some evidence for Diocletian and Maximian being targeted together in honorific inscriptions, but this material is concentrated in African provinces, where a substantial number survive with all the tetrarchic emperors except Constantius I erased. These have been identified as motivated by religious concerns, specifically the emperors’ responsibility for the persecution of Christians in the early years of the 4th century, and this body of evidence warrants a detailed study in its own right.47 The passage of Lactantius with which I began this chapter has proved a convenient lens for the interpretation of physical remains. However, we should be wary of relying on such a source to provide an accurate sense of the mechanics, agents, 43 For example, in cases where the names of both the honorand and the rewarding official have been erased, such as from both the earlier (e.g. LSA 2628) and later (LSA 2624) Tetrastyles in Luxor Temple. 44 ROUECHÉ 2009, 160. LSA 721 (A. Sokolicek). 45 QUATEMBER 2017, 85. 46 E.g. SORDI 2002, 84. 47 See, for example, LEPELLEY 1981, 74 n.6, 215 n.18 and 309. See USHERWOOD 2022b for a reconsideration of the erasure of tetrarchic inscriptions in Africa.

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motivations or ideologies that lay behind such actions. The primary goal of the De Mortibus Persecutorum was to demonstrate how God’s judgement had been made physically manifest in the world through the shameful, often gruesome, punishments inflicted on every emperor who had persecuted his Christian subjects.48 Along with bodily destruction, the destruction of honorific dedications was a particularly appropriate way of demonstrating this, since it represented an ironic reversal in power, agency and memorialization: in their attempts to use their imperial authority to eradicate Christianity, these rulers had brought about their own annihilation. It is no coincidence, therefore, that almost every account of tetrarchic iconoclasm derives from the Christian authors Lactantius and Eusebius. As survivors of the Diocletianic persecution, both of these individuals were understandably keen to imagine the complete eradication – body, image, name and honors – of every emperor who participated in these activities. This does not mean that this actually happened. Material remains tell a different story. Though attacks were carried out far more infrequently than is generally recognized, every example represents a piece of evidence with which we can trace an instance of how local actors, otherwise anonymous and unknown, responded to shifts in the political environment, subverting tetrarchic ideology in bold and creative ways.

48 Lact. DMP 1.7.

CONCLUDING REMARKS: IDEOLOGY MADE AND UNMADE Mark Humphries As the essays assembled in this impressive collection have shown, any understanding of the political achievement of the tetrarchy is impossible without considering its ideological elaboration, from which that political attainment was inseparable. Both involved considerable energy, creativity, and flexibility: that Diocletian should have been able not just to accept his elevation by the troops at Nicomedia on 20 November 284, but also to turn it into a reality that endured for more than two decades, attests to his agility in both the political and ideological spheres. The decades of political and military turmoil that preceded Diocletian’s elevation showed emphatically that pragmatic success was by itself insufficient to secure imperial stability. While the relative peace that obtained after the battle of the Margus in 285 (if we exclude continuing upheavals in distinct parts of the empire, notably Britain and Egypt) demonstrates that Diocletian and his fellow emperors certainly enjoyed such pragmatic success, their longer-term security on the throne was substantially assisted by the promulgation of ideological messaging, in which much of the empire’s population was prepared to acquiesce – or could be compelled to do so. Such compulsion could be achieved by combining ideological assertions with the threat of violence. We can see this combination most notoriously in various accounts of religious repression, such as Lactantius’ report of the arrest, torture, and burning alive (in accordance with legal principle) of the unnamed individual who tore down the first persecution edict against the Christians posted at Nicomedia in 303 and therefore could be regarded as having insulted the emperors. We see it too in the range of horrifying punishments threatened in the condemnation issued, perhaps the previous year, to Julianus, proconsul of Africa, of the Manichaeans, whose religious choices were treated as both morally-suspect and fundamentally anti-Roman in their adherence to a cult that originated among ‘the Persian people, our enemy’.1 To put it another way, tetrarchic success was achieved not purely through the blood, sweat, and toil of military action, but also through the intellectual efforts expended on ideology. The latter, it has been argued in the chapters in this volume, was not merely window dressing for the former. On the contrary, this assemblage of ideological assertions in various media of tetrarchic legitimacy was central to maintaining the regime through the compliance of its subjects. The ideological trappings of the tetrarchy have long attracted negative comment, not least because they have been perceived as a symptom of wider Roman 1

Edict in 303: Lact. DMP 13.3 (statimque perductus non modo extortus, sed etiam legitime coctus). Manichaeans: Coll. leg. Rom. et Mos. 15.3.4 (de Persica adversaria nobis gente) and 7–8 (punishments). For the power of anti-Persian prejudice, see also TIPOLD, this volume.

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decline. In this, as in so much else, the verdict of Edward Gibbon is representative of wider suspicions. In chapter thirteen of the first volume of his History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire he offers a reflection on tetrarchic ideological expressions that exemplifies this tendency towards disapproval. For Gibbon, Diocletian’s reign represented the pollution of (traditional) Roman habits with (innovative) foreign – and specifically Persian – excess, and that this in itself signified a debasement of Roman character: From the time of Augustus to that of Diocletian, the Roman princes, conversing in a familiar manner among their fellow-citizens, were saluted only with the same respect that was usually paid to senators and magistrates. Their principal distinction was the Imperial or military robe of purple; whilst the senatorial garment was marked by a broad, and the equestrian by a narrow, band or stripe of the same honourable colour. 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, and the use of which had been considered as the most desperate act of the madness of Caligula. It was no more than a broad white fillet set with pearls, which encircled the emperor's head. The sumptuous robes of Diocletian and his successors were of silk and gold; and it is remarked with indignation that even their shoes were studded with the most precious gems. The access to their 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 intrusted to the jealous vigilance of the eunuchs; the increase of whose numbers and influence was the most infallible symptom of the progress of despotism. When a subject was at length admitted to the Imperial presence, he was obliged, whatever might be his rank, to fall prostrate on the ground, and to adore, according to the eastern fashion, the divinity of his lord and master. Diocletian was a man of sense, who, in the course of private as well as public life, had formed a just estimate both of himself and of mankind: nor is it easy to conceive that in substituting the manners of Persia to those of Rome he was seriously actuated by so mean a principle as that of vanity. He flattered himself that an ostentation of splendour and luxury would subdue the imagination of the multitude; that the monarch would be less exposed to the rude licence of the people and the soldiers, as his person was secluded from the public view; 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; but it must be confessed that, of the two comedies, the former was of a much more liberal and manly character than the latter. 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.2

Gibbon’s disdain partly reflects the perspectives of his sources (Aurelius Victor and Eutropius) and literary influences (notably Tacitus),3 although his particular emphasis (here and elsewhere) on ‘oriental’ despotism resonates with prejudices about relationships between East and West that have long characterised Eurocentric historiography.4

2 3 4

GIBBON 1776, 387–88. Aur. Vict. 39.2–8. Eutrop. 9.26. For Gibbon’s ‘Tacitism’, see CARTLEDGE 2009. Gibbon used the term ‘oriental despotism’ to decry the regime of Elagabalus (1776, 148) and to characterise the innovations of Diocletian and Constantine on which Julian turned his back (1781, 348). For the notion in Eurocentric historiography, see GOODY 2006: 25, 99–122; a recent appraisal of Gibbon’s attitudes to Islam notes that while he took a more ‘global’ view of

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By contrast, in modern scholarship, as Anne Hunnell Chen argues in her chapter in this volume, such interactions and cross-fertilisations between the Roman and Persian worlds are indicative not of ‘decline’ but rather of the dynamism of imperial interactions with its wider global context.5 At the same time, modern scholarship eschews another of Gibbon’s essential points, which is to present the tetrarchic epoch as representing a straightforward caesura in Roman history (often found, for example, in periodisations of imperial history): there were certainly innovations, but they need to be understood against a backdrop of significant continuities. As Christian Rollinger puts it in his analysis of tetrarchic ceremonial, ‘individual elements, such as the adoratio or the emphasis on material splendour in dress and adornment, may not have been completely novel, but the ceremonial framework into which they were woven – or, indeed, in which they were assembled – was.’6 Here too the contributors to this volume offer a challenge, not least by moving the parameters of debate away from a focus on whether or not the evolution of the tetrarchy represents the realisation of a radically new ‘system’ that Diocletian had in mind from early in his reign, and which was imposed from above. One of the innovative features of this collection has been to argue that the deployment of tetrarchic ideology should not be seen ‘merely as a premodern and abstract form of propaganda’. On the contrary, bottom-up considerations are as significant as topdown projections and manipulations. Overall, tetrarchic ideology emerges as flexible and dynamic, as ‘an assemblage of symbols, a system of communication, a language, which, through constant redeploying in new fashions and new functionalisations of the same elements that were available to their predecessors, reformed and reshaped imperial political communication and (self-)representation.’7 Another central plank of the arguments advanced here is to consider the widest possible range of evidence on equal terms, rather than allowing literary texts to construct a framework into which everything else is fitted.8 Our understanding of the tetrarchic period is considerably enriched by some particularly striking visual sources: some, such as the Vatican and Venice Tetrarchs or the surviving parts of the Arch of Galerius at Thessaloniki, have long been central to debates on imperial ideology in this period; the picture has been considerably enriched, however, by discoveries in recent decades such as the painted reliefs showing imperial adventus

5 6 7

8

history than is often assumed by his modern critics, he nonetheless saw the wider sweep of Islamic history as conforming to patterns of ‘Eastern despotism’: FOWDEN 2016, 291–2. See HUNNELL CHEN, this volume, 72–74. On the ideological interface between the Roman empire and Sāsānid Persia, see CANEPA 2009. ROLLINGER, this volume, 116. CARLÀ-UHINK & ROLLINGER, this volume, 20. In similar terms, a reconsideration of imperial ceremonial in 5th century Christian Constantinople has argued that ‘ceremonies were not merely well-staged exercises for the display of imperial and ecclesiastical virtue, they could be occasions for challenge and competition, entailing the possibility of gain and the risk of defeat’ (Van NUFFELEN 2012, 199). HUNNELL CHEN, this volume, 66.

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from Nicomedia, or the terracotta mould from Olbia in Sardinia, as well as the restoration of the tetrarchic cult room at Luxor in Egypt.9 The articulation of this tetrarchic ideology was characterised by considerable agility, as it developed in response to different circumstances across the more than two decades of Diocletian’s reign (and into the period of his successors) and over a wide geographical expanse. The circumstances confronting Diocletian changed frequently, and sometimes rapidly, meaning that tetrarchic ideology had to be similarly flexible. Conventional pictures of Diocletian’s reign as representing the end of the subtleties of the principate and its replacement by a more rigid dominate (like that offered by Gibbon) obscure how fluid the expression of tetrarchic ideology could be. As Filippo Carlà-Uhink shows in his careful unpicking of how membership of the tetrarchy was expressed through family relationships, ‘[t]he tetrarchy was a language, not a system.’10 Such flexibility needs also to pay attention to particular contexts in which ideological assertions were made. Byron Waldron demonstrates that the language of imperial fraternity to express relationships between members of the imperial college not only stressed a fictive, familial link; it also neatly echoed notions of brotherhood found amongst the soldiery from whom the members of the tetrarchy sprang. It therefore enabled Diocletian and his fellow rulers to present themselves as brothers-in-arms.11 This ideological prop therefore performed two functions simultaneously. Anne Hunnell Chen similarly stresses the importance of contexts, showing that the use of the theophoric signa of Jovius and Herculius could be expressed in different ways, and have different resonances, in different parts of the empire. She urges historians to rethink tetrarchic ideology in ways that reject temptations to see it as rigid and uniform.12 There are, perhaps, few places where the elaboration of tetrarchic ideology seems more ephemeral than in ritual performance. The very pervasiveness of performativity in late Roman society can perhaps blind us to its significance,13 and it hardly helps matters that some of our most celebrated accounts of late-Roman ceremonial either present them in a way that emphasises their apparent absurdity, as in Ammianus’ account of Constantius II’s Roman adventus in 357, or occur in sources (chiefly panegyrics) that have traditionally been regarded as representing late antiquity’s worst excesses of servility and flattery.14 But it is abundantly clear from the expectations of what rituals needed to be performed when and where, that such rituals were never ‘mere’ performances; on the contrary, they were important events, that belonged to a wider repertoire of spectacular performances that punctuated life in ancient cities, followed a recognisable script, and which were integral

9 10 11 12 13 14

E.g., WALDRON, this volume, 62–63. ROLLINGER, this volume, 94–97. GUIDETTI, this volume, 128–129; 132–134. CARLÀ-UHINK, this volume, 46. WALDRON, this volume, 58–60. HUNNELL CHEN, this volume, 89. On this pervasiveness: HUMPHRIES 2019b, 64–73. Constantius: Amm. 16.10; recent treatments in FLOWER 2015; HUMPHRIES 2019a. For the surprisingly recent scholarly suspicion of epideictic oratory, see OMISSI & ROSS 2020, 7–8.

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to the articulation of relationships between ruler and ruled.15 Part of the challenge facing historians is to assemble the fleeting traces of such performances and make of them something more solid, a task which, while imaginative, is aided considerably by the recognition that the public spaces of cities in the Roman world were essentially stages for such performative acts.16 As Monica Hellström shows in her chapter, it is possible to extrapolate from the logistical challenges of raising the colossal rose granite column of Diocletian at the Serapeum in Alexandria a set of spectacular actions which will have advertised the imperial power in the streets of the city.17 Much of the evidence we have for such performances seems, on the face of it, to represent the interests of the main actors – the emperors themselves, of course, and the elites represented by voices like those of the panegyrists – rather than the perspectives of the audience. But we need to qualify that observation, again in line with the arguments for ideological flexibility and agility stressed in this volume. Panegyrical orations, a central component of the interactions between rulers and ruled when an emperor visited a city, have been regarded disdainfully as reflecting a drift towards toadying submissiveness;18 but it is clear that praise could also be tempered with advice, meaning that such speeches never represented simple encomium, but a two-way process of communication.19 Fabio Guidetti’s contribution offers a rich consideration of a diverse range of iconographic and textual sources for such performances, focusing on three particular instances (the imperial adventus to Milan in 290/291, Diocletian’s public dealings with Galerius in Syria in 297, and the joint visit of Diocletian and Maximian to Rome in 303). In particular, he is able to offer evidence for the consumption of the Roman visit by a wide audience, through consideration of a terracotta mould for the mass production of souvenirs of the visit that depicted the two Augusti in their carriage drawn by four elephants.20 Imperial ideology, then, was expressed in ways that were not unidirectional, but which instead involved a multiplicity of relationships engaging different levels of society. Monica Hellström’s chapter demonstrates this feature rather well, showing that imperial monuments erected by governors did more than assert the legitimacy of the imperial regime; they were also important signifiers of the relationships between imperial officials and local elites. Ideological statements could also emphasise and reflect relationships important to the imperial college. Mark Hebblewhite argues – chiefly on the basis of coinage, but supported by epigraphy – that the tetrarchic period saw a shift in the way that the emperors’ relationship with the army was understood and advertised. At first, 15 The bibliography on this topic is vast. For some exemplary studies: MACCORMACK 1981. DUFRAIGNE 1994. BENOIST 2005. ÖSTENBERG 2009. LATHAM 2016. ROLLINGER 2021. 16 See the detailed inventory in LAVAN 2020. 17 HELLSTRÖM, this volume, 148–149. 18 Gibbon provides a characteristically pungent formulation in a footnote to the passage quoted above at p. 318: ‘It appears by the Panegyrists, that the Romans were soon reconciled to the name and ceremony of adoration’ (GIBBON 1776, lvi n. 102). 19 For the basic principles: BRAUND 1998. REES 2002, 6–9. 20 GUIDETTI, this volume, 133–135.

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and like many of their 3rd century predecessors, the tetrarchs broadcast an ‘aspirational’ message, presenting themselves as potential victors; but as the regime stabilised and endured, this aspirational mode shifted to a more demonstrative one, advertising actual victories. Not dissimilar relationships (which also bear comparison with Monica Hellström’s study of provincial governors) are traced in Nikolas Hächler’s analysis of senatorial office holding under the tetrarchy: he disputes the traditional image of Diocletian as the ‘hammer of the aristocracy’, showing from the career trajectories of some 86 senatorial office holders that the Roman elite was far from irrelevant in the tetrarchic empire, even if they were now emphatically excluded from military commands. Of course, many of their roles were confined to Rome and Italy as urban prefects and governors of the newly created Italian provinces; but an Italian focus for Rome’s senators was hardly anything new, just as the tetrarchs’ absence from Rome (except for the visit of 303) reflected a trend established by emperors throughout most of the 3rd century (and later in the 4th) to base themselves outside of Rome and closer to the frontiers.21 Even so, senators did not completely disappear from the wider empire, and continue to be found as proconsular governors of provinces like Africa and Asia, which, although they were admittedly now much reduced in terms of territory, had long been part of the senatorial cursus. This sense of significant continuities is underscored in Nicola Barbagli’s study of tetrarchic and other late imperial stelae from Hermonthis in the Thebaid. Here the representation of the imperial college in hieroglyphic inscriptions followed time-honoured patterns of rendering emperors as pharaohs. Even so, it is possible to detect the scribes and craftsmen drafting the Egyptian text struggling with some of the innovations of the tetrarchic period as they sought to reflect the hierarchical ranking of the emperors by listing them with different regnal years.22 Here we are presented with a striking instance of how local communities were challenged to respond to the developing ideological configurations of imperial power. Just as Mark Hebblewhite’s chapter draws attention to the ideological significance of the military successes of the tetrarchs for imperial stability, so the contributions by Adrastos Omissi and Marc Tipold examine the implications of these successes for the depiction of the regime’s enemies. For centuries the Romans had regarded themselves as preserving civilisation against barbarism, and keeping the barbarians in check, by war or diplomacy, had been a central concern of imperial government.23 This continued to be expressed in the ideology of the tetrarchy, as can be seen in assertions in the preamble to the Edict on Maximum Prices that the emperors had stemmed the tides of barbarian invasions, in Eumenius’ description of a world map dominated by Roman power in the panegyric of 297/298, and in the relief on the Arch of Galerius showing the tetrarchs enthroned amid cosmic deities.24 But the upheavals of the 3rd century had revealed a painful symbiosis between 21 For this feature in the fourth century, see WARD-PERKINS 2014. 22 BARBAGLI, this volume, 225–229. See further BAGNALL & WORP 2004, 43–44, and esp. 224– 242 for the complexities of multiple regnal dates being used together. 23 Plin. NH 3.5.39. Appian Praef. 7. 24 HUMPHRIES 2009, 21–22.

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barbarian invasion and civil war, and the threat did not diminish under the tetrarchs, as the revolts of Carausius and Allectus in Britain, Domitius Domitianus and Aurelius Achilleus in Egypt, and Eugenius at Seleucia near Antioch show. Omissi demonstrates that these civil war threats, and even the danger posed by the revolt of the bacaudae in Gaul, were subsumed into that rhetoric of a world poised between Roman order and barbarian chaos.25 In the East, the tetrarchs faced another enemy that had emerged, and enjoyed considerable success, amid the upheavals of the 3rd century, namely Sāsānid Persia. The capture of the Roman emperor Valerian in 260 cast a long shadow over Romano-Persian interactions: for his part, Šābuhr I was keen to advertise his success, depicting it in reliefs at Bishapur and Naqsh-e Rostam, and in his trilingual inscription recording his achievements at the latter location. As Tipold argues in his chapter, horror at this event lingered long in Roman memories, and subsequent campaigns against the Persians were seen as offering opportunities for revenge. Galerius’ success in 298 was celebrated, not least on the arch at Thessaloniki, precisely because it seemed to offer unmistakable signs of that vengeance having been achieved, as the emperor took possession of the Persian king Narseh’s harem and was able to lord it over the king’s ambassadors.26 Eventually the tetrarchy came to an end in a way quite unlike any earlier imperial regime, with Diocletian and Maximian retreating from public life and handing their executive political and military functions to Galerius and Constantius, but nevertheless retaining the titles of seniores Augusti. The ideological props developed over the course of two decades needed to take account of such changes. One was to transfer the structures and their rhetorical elaboration to the new imperial college. Another was to make plans for what to do with senior members of the college when in time, they would die. It is interesting to note, as Javier Arce does in his chapter on imperial funerals, that so much is uncertain in this regard beyond the observable reality that Rome’s pre-eminent position as the location of imperial burials from the Julio-Claudians to the Severans was almost fully eclipsed, as it had been for much of the 3rd century. Both Diocletian and Galerius were buried in their suburban villas, at Split and Gamzigrad respectively: a striking parallel. Constantius I’s place of burial is simply unknown (Arce posits York), while the evidence for Maximian’s burial at Milan is late and insecure. The only hint at Rome resuming its importance as a place of burial for emperors comes, fleetingly, in the funerary complex constructed by Maxentius on the Via Appia. Rome’s importance as a site for burials of rulers would only once more be reasserted in the 5th century, when, significantly, the city once more became a favoured residence of emperors.27 The final chapter, by Rebecca Usherwood, and building on her work on memory sanctions under the 25 Note similarly how the panegyrist of 291 presented civil war as an affliction more appropriate to the barbarians: Pan. Lat. XI (3) 16, 2: Sancte Iuppiter et Hercules bone, tandem bella civilia ad gentes illa vesania dignas transtulistis, omnemque illam rabiem extra terminos huius imperii in terras hostium distulistis; cf. 18, 3. See further OMISSI, this volume, 281. 26 TIPOLD, this volume, 272–275. 27 GILLETT 2001. This is not to say that Rome was not the site of any imperial burials, since a number of important Constantinian women were interred there: HILLNER 2022, 250–256; 291– 298.

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Constantinian dynasty, examines another example of responses to imperial ideology, in examining the erasures of tetrarchic images and names, the process usually, but misleadingly, called damnatio memoriae. Usherwood’s examples show that the surviving evidence defies easy categorisation, not least because it is unclear when certain erasures took place. But it also demonstrates the sensitivity of audiences accustomed to the meaning of the ideological messages promoted by the tetrarchs: the careful erasure of Maximian’s divine signum from a statue base in Thessaloniki, and the labour-intensive effort to erase the figure, likely also Maximian, in the imperial chapel at Luxor, amply demonstrate that whoever undertook these erasures knew what they were doing. What is less clear, however, is who exactly it was undertook these acts of iconoclasm, and when. Usherwood’s chapter takes its starting point from Lactantius’ memorable account of how Diocletian lived to see his achievements undone and his own images torn down together with those of Maximian ‘because both old men had often been painted together’.28 This summing up returns to Lactantius once more, as an author who, in spite of his evident lack of sympathy for Diocletian and his colleagues (with the exception of Constantius I), nevertheless allows us to glimpse how such tetrarchic ideology was received and interpreted even by a hostile audience. Resentful though he certainly was at the tetrarchs’ brutal treatment of the Christians, Lactantius nevertheless manages to echo the ideological language of the tetrarchs. His striking account of how Diocletian turned the whole world upside down, with its description of the destructive effects of a whole range of tetrarchic policies from provincial reorganisation to economic reform, shares in the hyperbolic expression found in, for instance, the Edictum de Pretiis, but twists it into a wholly negative experience.29 The reference to the destruction of images of Diocletian and Maximian is not the only reference to imperial iconography in Lactantius. The humiliation meted out to Valerian is expressly contrasted with Roman depictions of victory; Maximinus’ eclipse as senior emperor by Constantine is mentioned alongside the seizure of his statues and images by his rival; while in an earlier passage, Lactantius similarly refers to the removal of portraits and the erasure of inscriptions following the murder of Domitian in 96.30 Lactantius, then, was sensitive to the messages of such ideological expressions – and indeed his work closes with a description of how the divine signa, such an essential ideological prop to the tetrarchy, had been overturned: Where now are those magniloquent titles, known throughout the world, of Jovius and Herculius, first adopted with such arrogance by Diocles and Maximian and then passed on to their successors for a further flourish? The Lord has surely destroyed them and erased them from existence.31

28 29 30 31

Lact. DMP 42.1, transl. Bowen & Nicholson. Cf. Eus. HE 8.13.15. Lact. DMP 7.2–3. Lact. DMP 5.3 (Valerian), 44.10 (Maximinus’ statues and icons); 3.3 (Domitian). Lact. DMP 52.3: Ubi sunt modo magnifica illa et clara per gentes Ioviorum et Herculiorum cognomina. Quae primum a Dioclete ac Maximiano insolenter adsumpta ac postmodum ad

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In place of these tetrarchic ideological claims, Christianity had won out, with the ‘triumph of God’ and ‘the victory of the Lord’.32 Given how sensitive Lactantius was to the language of imperial pronouncements, we should pay special attention to his verdict on tetrarchic eclipse. The overthrow of the tetrarchic order is described in terms of physical obliteration, and the new Christian ascendancy is presented as laying claim to the imperial language of triumph and victory. In other words, Christianity’s triumph was achieved not only in terms of political destruction, but also in terms of a rewriting of the ideological script, carefully stripping from the tetrarchs the claims that had been central to their grip on power for more than twenty years.33

successores eorum translata vigerunt? Nempe delevit ea dominus et erasit de terra (trans. Bowen and Nicholson). 32 Lact. DMP 52.4: Celebremus igitur triumphum dei cum ex ultatione, victoriam domini cum laudibus frequentemus… 33 I am grateful to Filippo CARLÀ-UHINK and Christian ROLLINGER for their invitation to contribute to, and reflect upon, this excellent collection; to the individual contributors for their incisive and stimulating chapters; to Julia HILLNER for granting me access to her forthcoming monograph on Helena Augusta; and to Oliver NICHOLSON for permission to use the new translation of Lactantius’s complete works he is preparing with Anthony Bowen for Translated Texts for Historians.

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Constantinian folles/Bronze AE3 with bust of Fausta, ca. 318/319 CE (RIC VII, p. 504, n. 49, Thessalonica) (© Staatliche Münzsammlung München, Inventarnummer 19-00281, CC BY 4.0 DE) Constantinian double solidus with bust of Fausta, ca. 324 CE (RIC VII, p. 203, n. 443, Treveri) (© Kunsthistorisches Museum Wien, Inv. RÖ 35276) Gold multiplum celebrating Constantius I’s accession as Augustus, ca. 305–307 CE (RIC VI VI, p. 472, n. 148, Siscia) (© Münzkabinett der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin, Nr. 18200805. Photo credit: Lutz-Jürgen Lübke [Lübke und Wiedemann]) Gold multiplum celebrating the joint consulate of Diocletian and Maximian in 287 CE (GNECCHI 1912, vol. 1, 12, no. 2) (© Münzkabinett der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin, Nr. 18200802. Photo credit: Lutz-Jürgen Lübke [Lübke und Wiedemann]) Tetrarchic aureus, ca. 295–305 CE (RIC VI, p. 164, n. 90, Treveri) (© Dr. Busso Peus Nachf., Auktion 417, 2016, Nr. 688) Argenteus of Diocletian, 295 CE (RIC VI, p. 530, n. 6, Heraclea) (ANS 1974.26.90. Image courtesy of the American Numismatic Society) So-called ‘Matrix of Olbia’, terracotta mould (⌀ 19.4 cm) showing the adventus of Diocletian and Maximian into Rome (Olbia, Museo Archeologico Nazionale, inv. no. 69510, © Ministero della Cultura – Soprintendenza Archeologia, belle arti e paesaggio per le province di Sassari e Nuoro) Portrait of the four tetrarchs, Venice (© Rebecca Usherwood) Tetrarchic Decennalia Base, northern frieze, courtesy of the photo library of the DAI Rome (D-DAI-ROM-35.734_000300146752.03) Tetrarchic Decennalia Base, western frieze, courtesy of the photo library of the DAI Rome (D-DAI-ROM-35.358_000300146751.04) Tetrarchic Decennalia Base, eastern frieze, courtesy of the photo library of the DAI Rome (D-DAI-ROM-35.357_000300146750.02) Tetrarchic Decennalia Base, southern frieze, courtesy of the photo library of the DAI Rome (D-DAI-ROM-35.357_000300146749.05) Monumental relief of the embracing emperors from the Nicomedia frieze (© Çukurbağ Archaeological Project [TÜBİTAK 115K242]/Kocaeli Archaeology Museum) Arch from the palatial complex of Galerius (“The Small Arch of Galerius”): The rights to the depicted monument (Inv. No. ΜΘ 2466) belong to the Greek State and the Ministry of Culture & Sports (Law 4858/2021). The monument is under the jurisdiction of the Archaeological Museum of Thessaloniki (© Archaeological Museum of Thessaloniki, Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports – Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development; photo credit: O. Kourakis) Arch of Galerius: Tetrarchs Enthroned (B II 21), Thessaloniki (© David Hendrix/The Byzantine Legacy)

358

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10.a: Arch of Galerius: Adventus detail (B II 19), Thessaloniki (© David Hendrix/The Byzantine Legacy) 10.b: Arch of Galerius: Adventus (A II 7), Thessaloniki (© David Hendrix/The Byzantine Legacy) 11.a: Arch of Galerius: Cavalry Battle (B II 20), Thessaloniki (© David Hendrix/The Byzantine Legacy) 11.b: ‘Paris Cameo’ with Valerian and Šāpur I, ca. 260 CE (© Département des Monnaies, Médailles et Antiques, inv. 1893, BnF, Paris) 12: The column of Alexandria (© Monica Hellström) with accompanying inscription (CIG 3.4681 pars XXIX) 13: Axiometric reconstruction of the Serapeum in c. 300 by Sheila Gibson, from MCKENZIE, GIBSON & REYES 2004, pl. 1 (© Andreas Reyes) 14: Southeastern section of the tetrarchic fresco in the imperial cult chamber at Luxor (© Tobeytravels; available under the following URL: https://www.flickr.com/photos/tobeyfootsteps/47486450151) 15: Central apse of the imperial cult chamber at Luxor. Reproduced by permission of the American Research Center in Egypt, Inc. (ARCE). This project was funded by the United States Agency for International Development (USAID). (© ARCE. Photo credit: Arnaldo and Alessandro Vescovo) 16: Imperial cult chamber at Luxor, hypothetical reconstruction (© Dmitry Karelin, Moscow) 17: The funerary stela of Buchis dated to the tetrarchic period. London, British Museum EA1696 (© Trustees of the British Museum) 18: Transcription of the hieroglyphic texts carved on the tetrarchic stela by W.H. Fairman, after MOND & MYERS 1934, III, pl. XLVIA, no. 19 (Courtesy of The Egypt Exploration Society) 19: The cartouches of the tetrarchic dating formula (Image © Giulietta Guerini 2019. Taken courtesy of the Trustees of the British Museum) 20.a: Comparison between tetrarchic cartouches (Image © Giulietta Guerini 2019. Taken courtesy of the Trustees of the British Museum) 20.b: One of the two blocks found by V. Golénischeff at Tahta, now in Cairo, Egyptian Museum (CAPART 1940, 46 fig. 1) 20.c: Transcription of the titulary as seen by U. Bouriant at Tahta (© Nicola Barbagli) 21.a: The Constantinian funerary stela of a Mother of Buchis (CAPART 1940, 38 fig. 2) 21.b: Facsimile of the inscription of the Constantinian funerary stela of a Mother of Buchis (GRENIER 2002, 249; © Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale, reproduced by permission) 22: The latest funerary stela of a Buchis bull and its facsimile (GRENIER 1983, 199 and pl. XLI; © Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale, reproduced by permission) 23: Pilaster from Felix Romuliana depicting the Senior Augusti, Augusti, and Caesares, National Museum Zaječar (© National Museum Zaječar, Serbia) 24: Pedestal depicting a Dioscurus, possibly a fragment of the arcus novus Diocletiani, Giardino di Boboli, Florence (courtesy of the Gallerie degli Uffizi – Firenze)

359 PLATE 1

1.a: Constantinian folles/Bronze AE3 with bust of Fausta, ca. 318/319 CE (RIC VII, p. 504, n. 49, Thessalonica). Obv: bust of Fausta, with legend FAVS-TA N F, rev: eight-pointed star inside laurel wreath

1.b: Constantinian double solidus with bust of Fausta, ca. 324 CE (RIC VII, p. 203, n. 443, Treveri). Obv: bust of Fausta, with legend FLAVIA MAXIMA FAVSTA AVGVSTA, rev: empress enthroned on tribunal, breastfeeding child; flanked by Felicitas (l.), Pietas (r.) and laurel-bearing genii (below), with legend PIE-TAS AVGVSTAE, mint mark in exergue: PTR

360

PLATE 2

2.a: Gold multiplum celebrating Constantius I’s accession as Augustus, ca. 305–307 CE (RIC VI, p. 472, n. 148, Siscia). Obv: bust of Constantius Chlorus, laureate, in consular trabea, holding scipio eburneus, with legend CONSTANT-IVS P F AVG; rev: two facing figures, an Augustus (l., larger) and Caesar (r., smaller), both laureate and togate, holding scepter and supporting globe between them; on ground between them, XX within laurel wreath, with legend CONCORD-IA AVGG ET CAESS, mint mark in exergue: SIS

2.b: Gold multiplum celebrating the joint consulate of Diocletian and Maximian in 287 CE (GNECCHI 1912, vol. 1, 12, no. 2). Obv: facing busts of Diocletian and Maximian in consular garb, bearing laurel wreaths and scepters, with legend IMPP DIOCLETIANO ET MAXIMIANO AVGG, rev: both consuls in elephant quadriga, surmounted by Victoria bearing laurel wreaths, flanked by four soldiers each, with legend I-MPP DIOCLETIANO III ET MAXIMIANO CCSS

361 PLATE 3

3.a: Tetrarchic aureus, ca. 295–305 CE (RIC VI, p. 164, n. 90, Treveri). Obv: bust of Galerius, laureate, right, with legend MAXIMIA-NVS NOB C, rev: Galerius, mounted, cuirassed, holding lance in right hand, with legend VIRTVS IOVI – CAESARIS

3.b: Argenteus of Diocletian, 295 CE (RIC VI, p. 530, n. 6, Heraclea). Obv: bust of Diocletian, laureate, with legend D N DIOCLETIANVS AVG, rev: four Tetrarchs, draped, sacrificing over tripod in front of a fortified archway, with legend VICTORIA SARMAT

362 PLATE 4

So-called ‘Matrix of Olbia’ (Rome, 303 CE). Terracotta mould (⌀ 19.4 cm) showing the adventus of Diocletian and Maximian in Rome (Museo Archeologico di Olbia, inv. 69510)

363 PLATE 5

Portrait of the Four Tetrarchs, Venice

364 PLATE 6

6.a: Decennalia Base on the Forum Romanum: two Victoriae holding shield

6.b: Decennalia Base on the Forum Romanum: suovetaurilia procession

365 PLATE 7

7.a: Decennalia Base on the Forum Romanum: senatorial procession with tetrarchic banners

7.b: Decennalia Base on the Forum Romanum: imperial sacrifice for Mars

366 PLATE 8

Monumental relief of the embracing emperors from the Nicomedia frieze

367 PLATE 9

9.a: Arch from the palatial complex of Galerius (“The Small Arch of Galerius”), Inv. No. ΜΘ 2466, Archaeological Museum of Thessaloniki, 4th c. AD, Thessaloniki (© ΑΜΘ, ΥΠΠΟΑ – ΟΔΑΠ / © Archaeological Museum of Thessaloniki, Hellenic Ministry of Culture & Sports – Hellenic Organization of Cultural Resources Development; photo credit: O. Kourakis)

9.b: Arch of Galerius: Tetrarchs Enthroned (B II 21), Thessaloniki

368 PLATE 10

10.a: Arch of Galerius: Adventus detail (B II 19), Thessaloniki

10.b: Arch of Galerius: Adventus (A II 7), Thessaloniki

369 PLATE 11

11.a: Arch of Galerius: Cavalry Battle (B II 20), Thessaloniki

11.b: ‘Paris Cameo’ with Valerian and Šāpur I, ca. 260 CE

370 PLATE 12

The column of Alexandria with accompanying inscription (CIG 3.4681 pars XXIX)

371 PLATE 13

Axiometric reconstruction of the Serapeum in c. 300 by Sheila Gibson (MCKENZIE, GIBSON & REYES 2004, pl. 1)

372 PLATE 14

Southeastern section of the tetrarchic fresco in the imperial cult chamber at Luxor

373 PLATE 15

Central apse of the imperial cult chamber at Luxor

374 PLATE 16

Imperial cult chamber at Luxor, hypothetical reconstruction by Dmitry Karelin

375 PLATE 17

The funerary stela of the Buchis dated to the tetrarchic period

376 PLATE 18

Transcription of the hieroglyphic texts carved on the tetrarchic stela by W.H. Fairman, after MOND & MYERS 1934, III, pl. XLVIa, no. 19

377 PLATE 19

The cartouches of the tetrarchic dating formula, from top to bottom: a: Diocletian, b: Maximianus, c: Constantius, d: Galerius

378 PLATE 20

20.a: Comparison between the sign occurring in the third tetrarchic cartouche (a-b: two different levels of detail and light) and the sign from the other three cartouches (c-e)

20.b: One of the two blocks found by V. Golénischeff at Tahta, now in the Egyptian Museum, Cairo (CAPART 1940, 46 fig. 1)

20.c: Transcription of the titulary as seen by U. Bouriant at Tahta

379 PLATE 21

21.a: The Constantinian funerary stela of a Mother of Buchis and the facsimile of the inscription (CAPART 1940, 38 fig. 2)

21.b: Facsimile of the inscription of the Constantinian funerary stela of a Mother of Buchis, (GRENIER 2002, 249)

380 PLATE 22

The latest funerary stela of a Buchis bull and its facsimile (GRENIER 1983, 199, pl. XLI)

381 PLATE 23

Pilaster from Felix Romuliana depicting the Seniores Augusti, Augusti and Caesares

382 PLATE 24

Pedestal depicting a Dioscurus, possibly a fragment of the arcus novus Diocletiani Giardino di Boboli, Florence

The ‘Tetrarchy’, the modern name assigned to the phase of Roman imperial government that started with the emperor Diocletian and ended with Constantine I, has been a muchstudied and much-debated aspect of the Roman Empire. Debate, however, has focused primarily on whether it was a true ‘system’ of government, or rather a collection of ad-hoc measures undertaken to stabilise the empire after the troubled period of the 3rd century CE. The papers collected in this volume aim to go beyond this question

ISBN 978-3-515-13400-2

9 783515 134002

and to present an innovative approach to a fascinating period of Roman history by understanding the Tetrarchy not as a system of government, but primarily as a political language. Their focus thus lies on the ideology and language of the imperial college and court, on the performance of power in imperial ceremonies, the representation of the emperors and their enemies in the provinces of the Roman world, as well as on the afterlife of Tetrarchic power in the Constantinian period.

www.steiner-verlag.de Franz Steiner Verlag