Texas Tech University, Cait Mongrain, May 2015
INTRODUCTION
Woven through narratives of arena spectacle is an ever-present concern for
novelty. The allure of the new, the strange, the macabre, and the coincidental drew in
Roman audiences by thousands for centuries and impacted literature, law, foreign
policy, art, and countless other aspects of daily life in the Roman world. The
development of public spectacles is marked by an increase in the importance of
originality. From the early innovations of Julius Caesar to the wild orgies attributed to
Nero, spectacular performance appears to be set on a trajectory to greater and greater
excess and splendor. The transformation of these exhibitions occurs among
presentations of man and beast, in the arena and outside it, among the lowliest classes
and in the imperial palaces. Some of the foremost scholarship on the historical arena
reflects this notion:
“Romans of different stations found something redeeming or entertaining about the
games: the allure of the violence, the exotic and erotic sights, the skill and courage of
participants, or the ability to interact with the emperor” (Kyle 2007, 300-301).
“The warrior had his moment in the spotlight, on center stage, and could fight in
splendid single combat, with splendid armor, removed temporarily from the tawdry
toiling and moiling of political life” (Barton 1989, 14).
“The spectators expected and applauded a close-fought, exciting battle, which
demonstrated warlike spirit and courage, for bravery was the foremost virtue of the
Romans… Gladiatorial combat in the arena focused public attention on the ultimate
expression of bravery” (Köhne, Ewigleben, and Jackson 2000, 7).
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It is well-known that novelty is the driving force behind spectator enjoyment. Or is it?
In the literary sphere, treatments of the arena reflect this emphasis on the
“new” by their preference for discussing exceptional events, but is this an accurate
reflection of the realities of a day at the arena? In this analysis, I will examine
primarily the narratives of the arena found in the works of the historians Tacitus and
Dio Cassius, supplemented with the satirical presentations of Roman spectacle found
in Martial and Juvenal, to problematize this widely accepted notion. In the narratives
described in this study, the writers’ biases must be taken into account in analyzing
these texts. Tacitus’ unreliability as a historical narrator is thoroughly explored in a
1999 article by John Marincola. Cassius Dio, having served as a senator under the
notoriously volatile emperor Commodus and subsequently found favor in the court of
the “good emperor” Alexander Severus, is certainly suspect. Juvenal and Martial, as
writers of satire, necessarily have an agenda of social criticism woven throughout their
texts. Further complicating the reliability of the sources is the controversial nature of
spectacular performance and the ease with which it lends itself to sensationalism. Yet
these sources have traditionally been treated as evidence for the actual practices
employed in Roman spectacle. For events so ephemeral as a feast on a lake or a
threatening act in the arena, it is likely that the “true” narrative could be lost amidst a
tide of rumor within a few years. How much more problematic Cassius Dio’s
presentation of the life of Nero may be, then, when over a century separates the author
from the events.
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I am, therefore, not seeking to present these narratives as representations of
what actually occurred within the Roman arena. If, however, these representations are
deliberately inaccurate, what, then, is their purpose? I will argue that the presentation
of spectacular novelty is a calculated literary move by these authors. My first chapter
will ground this notion in the Latin literary tradition, examining the multivalent
resonances of the idea of the “new”—both positive and negative. Following this, I will
examine the ways in which these multiple meanings of “new” operate within arena
narratives, building up a spectacular “language” in which these authors engage.
Finally, I will analyze the standard presentation of novelty in the arena, looking at it as
an artistic rather than historical property of these narratives.
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CHAPTER I
Literary Novelty: The Duality of the “New” in Latin Literature
The idea of “newness” or uniqueness in Latin literature has a complicated
range of meanings. When Catullus describes his poetic work as a novum libellum, he
is referencing a wholly different chain of associations than Sallust describing events as
res novae. The unknown, unexpected, or unprecedented could garner praise or
condemnation; the author’s perspective or presentation here is key. This chapter will
examine several instances in which Roman authors depict a work or circumstance as
“novel” in some way, in order to establish a firm groundwork for understanding
“novelty” in Latin literature. This chapter will be foundational for understanding
literary depictions of “novelty” concerned with displays in the Roman arena, which
will be the primary focus of the next chapter. This chapter will begin with instances of
novelty or primacy as an artistic asset, a positive understanding of “newness.” This
will be followed by an examination of several negative counter-examples, elucidating
the Roman anxiety with political change and upheaval. Finally, I will look at
appearances of these usages in the authors on whose work my subsequent chapters
will focus.
Novelty as Artistry
For many authors, presenting their work as “new” or different is a critical
element in validating the worth of the text and enhancing their own creative prestige.
Claiming primacy for one’s endeavor is one way in which these aims are achieved.
Consider Propertius 3.1:
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Callimachi Manes et Coi sacra Philitae,
in vestrum, quaeso, me sinite ire nemus.
primus ego ingredior puro de fonte sacerdos
Itala per Graios orgia ferre choros.
Shade of Callimachus and shrines of Coan Philitas,
Into your grove, I pray, permit me to go.
I, the first, enter as a priest to the pure spring
To relate the Italian rites through Greek choruses.1
Here, the poet chooses to align his work with that of Callimachus and Philitas, two of
the foremost figures of the Hellenistic poetic tradition by invoking them in a manner
reminiscent of traditional pleas to the Muses for inspiration. This one-sided entreaty
leaves the reader/listener to assume that the poet does indeed receive the permission he
seeks and, by implication, that these illustrious figures deem the poet a worthy heir to
their work. Baker 1968 focuses on these lines, arguing that the poet’s plea (quaeso, me
sinite ire) of his Hellenistic predecessors is not a request to write similar poetry (he
had done much the same in the first two books) but rather an expression of hope for
equal fame. By following this with the boldly self-confident phrase primus ego, the
poet underscores the significance of this admission into a highly exclusive circle by
stating that he is the first poet to be granted this sort of access, further heightened by
his pre-eminent status as sacerdos.
Separation from and distinction among other writers is a recurring motif. In the
opening to the Fasti, Ovid expresses his originality by stating that while others take up
the subject of warfare, he himself will write about the religious calendar: Caesaris
1
The Latin text here is taken from the Loeb volume by Gould. The translation is my own.
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arma canant alii: nos Caesaris aras (1.13)2. A very similar statement occurs in
Tibullus’ opening poem. Here, the contrast highlighted by the poet lies between
seeking riches and seeking a quiet life:
Divitias alius fulvo sibi congerat auro
Et teneat culti iugera multa soli,
Quem labor adsiduus vicino terreat hoste,
Martia cui somnos classica pulsa fugent:
Me mea paupertas vita traducat inerti,
Dum meus adsiduo luceat igne focus.
Let another man accrue riches for himself from shining gold,
And possess many acres of well-tended soil,
Whom ceaseless labor frightens, with an enemy at hand,
From whom the pounding trumpet-blare of Mars drives away sleep:
My poverty provides me an idle life,
While my hearth glows with an undying fire.3
In this case, the poet sets himself up as unique through the alius/ego division, also
seen in Ovid, alongside the programmatic difference (wealth/modest means;
warfare/religious rites). Vergil provides another, even more vivid example of this
practice in the opening of the third book of the Georgics:
Te quoque, magna Pales, et te memorande canemus
pastor ab Amphryso, uos, siluae amnesque Lycaei.
cetera, quae uacuas tenuissent carmine mentes,
omnia iam uulgata: quis aut Eurysthea durum
aut inlaudati nescit Busiridis aras?
cui non dictus Hylas puer et Latonia Delos
Hippodameque umeroque Pelops insignis eburno,
acer equis? temptanda uia est, qua me quoque possim
tollere humo uictorque uirum uolitare per ora.
primus ego in patriam mecum, modo uita supersit,
Aonio rediens deducam uertice Musas;
primus Idumaeas referam tibi, Mantua, palmas,
2
3
The Latin text here is taken from the Loeb volume by Frazer.
The Latin text is taken from the Loeb volume. The translation is my own.
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et uiridi in campo templum de marmore ponam
propter aquam, tardis ingens ubi flexibus errat
Mincius et tenera praetexit harundine ripas.
in medio mihi Caesar erit templumque tenebit:
illi uictor ego et Tyrio conspectus in ostro
centum quadriiugos agitabo ad flumina currus.
I’ll sing of you, great Pales, also, and you Apollo, famed shepherd
of Amphrysus, and of you, woods and rivers of Mount Lycaeus.
Now all the other themes are too well known,
that might have charmed an idle mind with song.
Who hasn’t heard of cruel Eurystheus,
or the altars of wicked Busiris?
Who has not told of the boy, Hylas, and Latona’s Delos,
and Hippodame, and Pelops, known for his ivory shoulder,
fearless with horses? I must try a path, by which I too
can rise from the earth and fly, victorious, from men’s lips.
If life lasts, I’ll be the first to return to my country,
bringing the Muses with me from the Aonian peak:
I’ll be the first, Mantua, to bring you Idumaean palms,
and I’ll set up a temple of marble by the water, on that green plain,
where great Mincius wanders in slow curves,
and clothes his banks with tender reeds.
Caesar will be in the middle, and own the temple.
I, the victor, conspicuous in Tyrian purple, will drive
a hundred four-horse chariots by the river, in his honour.
The poet’s concern for his own reputation here is paramount. The works of other
writers are dismissed as hackneyed, while Vergil’s own theme is celebrated for its
originality and ability to convey fama for the poet. In all these works, the novelty of
the authors’ purpose is key to establishing their importance and validity.
Catullus takes a slightly different approach, singling out his poetry collection
for the skill utilized in crafting it:
Cui dono lepidum novum libellum
arido modo pumice expolitum?
Corneli, tibi; namque tu solebas
meas esse aliquid putare nugas,
iam tum cum ausus es unus Italorum
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omne aevum tribus explicare chartis,
doctis, Iuppiter, et laboriosis!
quare habe tibi quidquid hoc libelli
qualecumque, quod, o patrona virgo,
plus uno maneat perenne saeclo.
To whom do I dedicate this charming, new little book,
just now polished with dry pumice stone?
For you Cornellius, for you were accustomed to think
that my scribblings were something.
When already at the same time, you alone
dared to unfold the whole age of Italians in three scrolls,
learned, by Jupiter, and carefully worked-over!
For that reason have for yourself whatever this little book is,
and whatever you like, oh patron maiden,
let it last a long time, for more than one generation!
The expolitum and lepidum libellum is juxtaposed with the work of Cornelius Nepos,
which is described as doctis and laboriosis. The mention of Nepos has been variously
interpreted. While commonly read as praise for an educated friend of the poet, Gibson
1995 reads it as a competitive move (573):
Catullus’ principal weapon is the use of irony; Catullus expects a dismissive
reaction to his work, and accordingly praises Nepos’ own writings. The end of
the poem enacts Catullus’ claim to literary fame; the novum libellum becomes
perenne. The process of revaluation applies to Nepos’ work as well, inviting us
to probe more deeply the seemingly innocuous praise offered by Catullus.
Nepos may have included omne aevum in his Chronica, but there is no hint
that the work will survive anything like so long.
The text, and the poet by implication, is elevated for its elegance and for the skill with
which it had been crafted, and his mention of Nepos and his writings, whether
competitive or associative, emphasizes this “polish.”
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Finally, let us consider an early passage from the Bellum Catilinae (4.2-5).
Sallust describes his subject matter as worthy of recording specifically for its novelty,
novitate:
sed, a quo incepto studioque me ambitio mala detinuerat, eodem regressus
statui res gestas populi Romani carptim, ut quaeque memoria digna videbantur,
perscribere, eo magis, quod mihi a spe, metu, partibus rei publicae animus liber
erat. Igitur de Catilinae coniuratione, quam verissume potero, paucis absolvam;
nam id facinus in primis ego memorabile existumo sceleris atque periculi
novitate.
On the contrary, I resolved to return to a cherished purpose from which illstarred ambition had diverted me, and write a history of the Roman people,
selecting such portions as seemed to me worthy of record; and I was confirmed
in this resolution by the fact that my mind was free from hope, and fear, and
partisanship. I shall therefore write briefly and as truthfully as possible of the
conspiracy of Catiline; for I regard that event as worthy of special notice
because of the extraordinary nature of the crime and of the danger arising
from it.4
By implication, the author becomes equally distinguished for recording an event so
unique.
Destructive Novelty: res novae
In contrast to the enthusiasm that often greeted new and unforeseen
occurrences in spectacular displays or the creative originality of the poets, discussed
above, such novelty was a source of tremendous anxiety when encountered in matters
of the State. Fear of revolution, social unrest, and, more broadly, any significant
change in government pervades social histories of the Roman state. In discussing the
4
The Latin text and translation are taken from the Loeb volume.
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problematic Roman reception of Hellenistic poetry, Susanna Morton Braund writes the
following:
Roman culture, after all, generally valued the traditional and familiar over the
new, as we can see from the Latin expression for “revolution”: “new things”
(res novae).5
This chapter will take up this uncertainty, not in regard to poetic innovation, as in
Braund’s analysis, but in matters of state. As an illustration, let us examine an excerpt
from Livy’s preface to his History of Rome:
et legentium plerisque haud dubito quin primae origines proximaque
originibus minus praebitura voluptatis sint, festinantibus ad haec nova quibus
iam pridem praevalentis populi vires se ipsae conficiunt
I have very little doubt, too, that for the majority of my readers the earliest
times and those immediately succeeding, will possess little attraction; they will
hurry on to these modern days in which the might of a long paramount nation
is wasting by internal decay.6
Here, nova is associated with the decay, set in contrast with a presumably superior
past, recalling the familiar trope of the golden age.
Sallust offers several examples of the negative understanding of novelty. I will
present two such instances as case studies. In Bellum Catilinae (28.4), the historian
writes:
Interea Manlius in Etruria plebem sollicitare egestate simul ac dolore iniuriae
novarum rerum cupidam, quod Sullae dominatione agros bonaque omnis
amiserat, praeterea latrones cuiusque generis, quorum in ea regione magna
copia erat, nonnullos ex Sullanis coloniis, quibus lubido atque luxuria ex
magnis rapinis nihil reliqui fecerat.
Meanwhile Manlius in Etruria was working upon the populace, who were
already ripe for revolution because of penury and resentment at their
wrongs; for during Sulla's supremacy they had lost their lands and all their
property. He also approached brigands of various nationalities, who were
5
6
See Braund 2002, 252.
The Latin text and translation are taken from the Loeb volume.
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numerous in that part of the country, and some members of Sulla's colonies
who had been stripped by prodigal and luxurious living of the last of their
great booty.7
Revolution (rerum novarum) is associated with societal ills: egestate, dolore iniuriae,
latrones, lubido, luxuria. The implication is clear. The chain of negative associations
is even more blatant in chapter 37 of the same text (1-5):
Neque solum illis aliena mens erat, qui conscii coniurationis fuerant, sed
omnino cuncta plebes novarum rerum studio Catilinae incepta probabat. Id
adeo more suo videbatur facere. Nam semper in civitate, quibus opes nullae
sunt, bonis invident, malos extollunt, vetera odere, nova exoptant, odio
suarum rerum mutari omnia student, turba atque seditionibus sine cura
aluntur, quoniam egestas facile habetur sine damno. Sed urbana plebes, ea
vero praeceps erat de multis causis. Primum omnium, qui ubique probro atque
petulantia maxume praestabant, item alii per dedecora patrimoniis amissis,
postremo omnes, quos flagitium aut facinus domo expulerat, ii Romam sicut
in sentinam confluxerant.
This insanity was not confined to those who were implicated in the plot, but
the whole body of the commons through desire for change favoured the
designs of Catiline. In this very particular they seemed to act as the populace
usually does; for in every community those who have no means envy the
good, exalt the base, hate what is old and established, long for something
new, and from disgust with their own lot desire a general upheaval. Amid
turmoil and rebellion they maintain themselves without difficulty, since
poverty is easily provided for and can suffer no loss. But the city populace in
particular acted with desperation for many reasons. To begin with, all who
were especially conspicuous for their shamelessness and impudence, those
too who had squandered their patrimony in riotous living, finally all whom
disgrace or crime had forced to leave home, had all flowed into Rome as into a
cesspool.
Closely aligned to this fear of instability is an interest in omens and augury—
interpretations of unusual or “novel” occurrences in the natural world. Evidence of
augury, haruspicy, the words of the Sybils, and other means of prophecy are
7
The Latin text and translation are taken from the Loeb volume.
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ubiquitous in both the literary and material record.8 Roman historical and political
narratives are laden with references to portents in the natural world, often in
connection with impending violence or disaster. In Livy’s account of the foundation of
Rome, it is a dispute over proper interpretation of bird signs that precipitates fratricide
(1.7.1-2):
priori Remo augurium venisse fertur, sex vultures, iamque nuntiato augurio
cum duplex numerus Romulo se ostendisset, utrumque regem sua multitudo
consalutaverat: tempore illi praecepto, at hi numero avium regnum trahebant.
inde cum altercatione congressi certamine irarum ad caedem vertuntur; ibi in
turba ictus Remus cecidit.
It is said that the earlier augury came to Remus, six vultures, and, when the
sign had been announced, twice that number appeared to Romulus, and each
man was greeted as ‘king’ by his own band. The one group tried to seize rule
on the basis of primacy in time, the other, citing the number of birds.
Stemming from this, during an altercation, those gathered turned from an angry
struggle to a slaughter; there, in the mob, Remus was struck and fell.9
The episodes surrounding the deaths of prominent individuals invite a great deal of
scrutiny by Roman historians. Coincidental, unexpected events are often given causal
correlations in these narratives. Consider, for example, Suetonius’ account of the
events which preceded the death of Julius Caesar (Iul. 81):
Sed Caesari futura caedes evidentibus prodigiis denuntiata est. Paucos ante
menses, cum in colonia Capua deducti lege Iulia coloni ad exstruendas villas
vetustissima sepulcra disicerent idque eo studiosius facerent, quod aliquantum
vasculorum operis antiqui scrutantes reperiebant, tabula aenea in monimento,
in quo dicebatur Capys conditor Capuae sepultus, inventa est conscripta litteris
verbisque Graecis hac sententia: quandoque ossa Capyis detecta essent, fore ut
illo prognatus manu consanguineorum necaretur magnisque mox Italiae
cladibus vindicaretur. ... Et immolantem haruspex Spurinna monuit, caveret
periculum, quod non ultra Martias Idus proferretur. Pridie autem easdem Idus
8
For a comprehensive discussion of Roman interest in prophecy and its role in Roman politics and
religion, as well as a survey of appearances of Roman prophetic practices in a wide variety of ancient
sources, see David Potter’s 1994 work, Prophets and Emperors.
9
Translation is my own. The Latin text is taken from the Loeb volume.
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avem regaliolum cum laureo ramulo Pompeianae curiae se inferentem volucres
varii generis ex proximo nemore persecutae ibidem discerpserunt. Ea vero
nocte, cui inluxit dies caedis, et ipse sibi visus est per quietem interdum supra
nubes volitare, alias cum Iove dextram iungere; et Calpurnia uxor imaginata
est conlabi fastigium domus maritumque in gremio suo confodi; ac subito
cubiculi fores sponte patuerunt.
Now Caesar's approaching murder was foretold to him by unmistakable signs.
A few months before, when the settlers assigned to the colony at Capua by the
Julian Law were demolishing some tombs of great antiquity, to build country
houses, and plied their work with the greater vigour because as they rummaged
about they found a quantity of vases of ancient workmanship, there was
discovered in a tomb, which was said to be that of Capys, the founder of
Capua, a bronze tablet, inscribed with Greek words and characters to this
purport: "Whenever the bones of Capys shall be moved, it will come to pass
that a son of Ilium shall be slain at the hands of his kindred, and presently
avenged at heavy cost to Italy." ... Again, when he was offering sacrifice, the
soothsayer Spurinna warned him to beware of danger, which would come not
later than the Ides of March; 3 and on the day before the Ides of that month a
little bird called the king-bird flew into the Hall of Pompey with a sprig of
laurel, pursued by others of various kinds from the grove hard by, which tore it
to pieces in the hall. In fact the very night before his murder he dreamt now
that he was flying above the clouds, and now that he was clasping the hand of
Jupiter; and his wife Calpurnia thought that the pediment of their house fell,
and that her husband was stabbed in her arms; and on a sudden the door of the
room flew open of its own accord.10
Other narratives of the assassination give more emphasis to the dream of Calpurnia11
or include different elements within their stories, but the presence of negative omens
persists. A similar conjunction of events presages the death of Caligula in Suetonius’
account (Cal. 57). Before detailing what occurred, as in the Caesar narrative,
Suetonius robs the circumstances of any mere coincidental interpretation by describing
them as prodigia (“portents”) in a passage even more littered with loaded terms:
Futurae caedis multa prodigia exstiterunt. Olympiae simulacrum Iovis, quod
dissolvi transferrique Romam placuerat, tantum cachinnum repente edidit, ut
machinis labefactis opifices diffugerint; supervenitque ilico quidam Cassius
10
11
Both the Latin text and the translation of this passage are taken from J.C. Rolfe’s Loeb edition.
Cf. Kragelund 2001 for a more detailed discussion of this aspect of the assassination narrative.
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nomine, iussum se somnio affirmans immolare taurum Iovi. Capitolium
Capuae Id. Mart. de caelo tactum est, item Romae cella Palatini atriensis. Nec
defuerunt qui coniectarent altero ostento periculum a custodibus domino
portendi, altero caedem rursus insignem, qualis eodem die facta quondam
fuisset. Consulenti quoque de genitura sua Sulla mathematicus certissimam
necem appropinquare affirmavit. Monuerunt et Fortunae Antiatinae, ut a
Cassio caveret; qua causa ille Cassium Longinum Asiae tum proconsulem
occidendum delegaverat, inmemor Chaeream Cassium nominari. Pridie quam
periret, somniavit consistere se in caelo iuxta solium Iovis impulsumque ab eo
dextri pedis pollice et in terras praecipitatum. Prodigiorum loco habita sunt
etiam, quae forte illo ipso die paulo prius acciderant.
His approaching murder was foretold by many prodigies. The statue of Jupiter
at Olympia, which he had ordered to be taken to pieces and moved to Rome,
suddenly uttered such a peal of laughter that the scaffoldings collapsed and the
workmen took to their heels; and at once a man called Cassius turned up, who
declared that he had been bidden in a dream to sacrifice a bull to Jupiter. The
Capitol at Capua was struck by lightning on the Ides of March, and also the
room of the doorkeeper of the Palace at Rome. Some inferred from the latter
omen that danger was threatened to the owner at the hands of his guards; and
from the former, the murder of a second distinguished personage, such as had
taken place long before on that same day. The soothsayer Sulla too, when
Gaius consulted him about his horoscope, declared that inevitable death was
close at hand. The lots of Fortune at Antium warned him to beware of
Cassius, and he accordingly ordered the death of Cassius Longinus, who was at
the time proconsul of Asia, forgetting that the family name of Chaerea was
Cassius. The day before he was killed he dreamt that he stood in heaven
beside the throne of Jupiter and that the god struck him with the toe of his right
foot and hurled him to earth. Some things which had happened on that very
day shortly before he was killed were also regarded as portents. 12
Significantly, in the Caligula tale, spectacle in a variety of forms is explicitly linked
with both prophecy and violence. Chapter 57 continues:
Sacrificans respersus est phoenicopteri sanguine; et pantomimus Mnester
tragoediam saltavit, quam olim Neoptolemus tragoedus ludis, quibus rex
Macedonum Philippus occisus est, egerat; et cum in Laureolo mimo, in quo
actor proripiens se ruina sanguinem vomit, plures secundarum certatim
experimentum artis darent, cruore scaena abundavit. Parabatur et in noctem
spectaculum, quo argumenta inferorum per Aegyptios et Aethiopas
explicarentur.
12
Both the Latin text and the translation of this passage are taken from J.C. Rolfe’s Loeb edition.
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As he was sacrificing, he was sprinkled with the blood of a flamingo, and the
pantomimic actor Mnester danced a tragedy which the tragedian
Neoptolemus had acted years before during the games at which Philip king
of the Macedonians was assassinated. In a farce called "Laureolus," in
which the chief actor falls as he is making his escape and vomits blood,
several understudies so vied with one another in giving evidence of their
proficiency that the stage swam in blood. A nocturnal performance besides
was rehearsing, in which scenes from the lower world were represented by
Egyptians and Aethiopians.
Here, performance (pantomimus, tragoedus, ludis, spectaculum) is insistently
associated with bloodshed (sacrificans, sanguine, occisus, cruore). This phenomenon
of juxtaposing spectacular performances with subsequent violence appears repeatedly
in imperial narratives.
Authors to be Considered Here
In the narratives to be considered in my subsequent chapters, the authors
follow many of the same conventions. At the opening of the Annals, Tacitus
characterizes his history as unique for addressing the dangerous and unpopular topic
of the post-Augustus empire.
sed veteris populi Romani prospera vel adversa claris scriptoribus memorata
sunt; temporibusque Augusti dicendis non defuere decora ingenia, donec
gliscente adulatione deterrerentur. Tiberii Gaique et Claudii ac Neronis res
florentibus ipsis ob metum falsae, postquam occiderant, recentibus odiis
compositae sunt. inde consilium mihi pauca de Augusto et extrema tradere,
mox Tiberii principatum et cetera, sine ira et studio, quorum causas procul
habeo.
But, while the glories and disasters of the old Roman commonwealth have
been chronicled by famous pens, and intellects of distinction were not lacking
to tell the tale of the Augustan age, until the rising tide of sycophancy deterred
them, the histories of Tiberius and Caligula, of Claudius and Nero, were
falsified through cowardice while they flourished, and composed, when they
fell, under the influence of still rankling hatreds. Hence my design, to treat a
small part (the concluding one) of Augustus' reign, then the principate of
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Tiberius and its sequel, without anger and without partiality, from the motives
of which I stand sufficiently removed.
The historian, like the poets, sets himself in contrast with other writers of the same
genre, their topic similarly presented as stale and overdone. This preface also partakes
of the other sense of “novel” in speaking of the change from relative libertas in the
Augustan age to the coerced adulatione of the subsequent imperial period.
Juvenal offers a similar criticism of the popular, overused literary modes of his
time in his programmatic first Satire. The satirist seems to be setting himself apart
from these unsatisfactory authors, but, as observed by Larmour (2016), the satirist
engages in the behaviors he criticizes. He also emphasizes the “novel” but
emphatically bad quality of the subject matter. Martial repeatedly presents his topic as
unique as well, based on the unprecedented nature of the spectacles described. The
presentation of these conceptions of novelty as they figure in accounts of the Roman
arena will be the focus of my next chapter. In the literary sphere of Rome, we can see
a multivalent conception of the numerous associations of the “new”. All these
manifold meanings are essential for a thorough understanding of the narratives of the
arena, a space presented as intrinsically “novel.”
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CHAPTER II
The Literary Arena: Understanding “Novelty” in Roman Spectacle
The arena offered to its crowds, ravenous for everything but food, a seemingly
endless array of new stimuli, playing on their desire for novelty and entertainment. At
least, this is the standard presentation of the Roman arena. A day at the arena
presented a threefold spectacle, building in intensity as the day progressed. The
morning ushered in the venationes, or beast shows. These could depict anything from
hunting scenes to man-on-animal combats to fights engineered between animal pairs.
These events, perhaps more than any other, showcased the breadth and influence of
the Roman empire. Creatures were imported from across the known world to create
pairings impossible in the wild, with the organizers' eyes ever alert to new and
exciting possibilities. This chapter will examine these displays, along with the
slaughters of the ludi meridiones, as they are presented in the ancient literary tradition.
In these performances, often far more brutal than the gladiatorial events they preceded,
Roman authors’ fascination with the “new” is pushed to the furthest limits of the
empire’s creativity and resources. In the literary realm, these events offer numerous
opportunities for presentation of novelty, in all the senses discussed in the previous
chapter. The arena spectacles represent an intersection of the positive and negatives
connotations of the “new,” and it is this aspect of the chosen spectacular narratives
that will be the focus of this chapter.
Venationes and Ludi Meridiones
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While the earliest gladiatorial performances in Rome (3rd cent. B.C.E.)13 were
securely rooted in funereal contexts, the entertainment possibilities of these combats
began to be exploited toward the end of the Republican era, thanks in large part to the
influence of one man. Julius Caesar was “innovative in scale, context, and content”
(Kyle 1998, 51). In 65 B.C., Julius Caesar manipulated the prescribed sepulchral
occasion for gladiatorial games by celebrating them in honor of his father, who had
died twenty years previously. At this performance, the gladiators on display were
accompanied by criminals, armed with weapons of silver, pitted against wild beasts.
He repeated this practice in 45 B.C. by commemorating the death of his daughter,
eight years dead. Suetonius emphasizes the originality of this latter exhibition,
describing it thus:
Munus populo epulumque pronuntiavit in filiae memoriam, quod ante eum
nemo.
He announced a munus and a feast for the people in memory of his daughter,
something which no one had done before him.14
Roman authors seized upon the narrative possibilities provided by Caesar’s displays.
His triumphal games (46 B.C.) are presented as surpassing previous displays in its
extravagance: gladiatorial combat, bullfighting, athletic competitions, 400 lions in the
beast fights, the first appearance of a giraffe in Europe (recorded in Pliny 8.27 as the
camelopardalis), even a mock battle featuring elephants.15 Here, the arena (or at this
13
The first gladiatorial combat recorded within the city of Rome took place in 264 B.C. these spectacles
were still only roughly regulated at this point: held in either the Forum or in temporary amphitheatres.
See Jacobelli 2003, 6; Kyle 2007, 270-273; Barton 1989, 2.
14
Translation and Latin text taken from J.C. Rolfe’s Loeb edition.
15
See Kyle 1998, 51.
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stage in the development of Roman spectacle, the circus) serves as a microcosm of the
transformation of the res publica. The shift from reserved, ritual performances to
elaborate displays staged for political benefit presages the collapse of the traditional
Republican government and the subsequent rise of single rule and its focus on gaining
political advantage. In the words of Catharine Edwards, “While the emperors risked
their popularity, gladiators risked their lives” (1997, 77).
The power of chance added perhaps the greatest layer of intrigue for the
reader. How would the animals—never wholly predictable performers—play their
role? Fagan (2011,126) writes:
The behavior of animals, whether they were slaughtered or not, was a matter of
general interest, and in itself constituted one lure of the hunt.... While the
animals were at a distinct disadvantage, there was a very real possibility (as in
bull-fighting today) that a huntsman could go down to some fast or unexpected
move of the part of a beast.
As an illustration, consider the episode related by Martial in his De Spectaculis, 12-14,
in which he describes a remarkable incident at the beast hunts, in which a pregnant
sow is pierced by a spear, causing her live young to spill out of her womb into the
arena:
XII
Inter Caesareae discrimina saeva Dianae
Fixisset gravidam cum levis hasta suem,
Exiluit partus miserae de vulnere matris.
O Lucina ferox, hoc peperisse fuit?
Pluribus illa mori voluisset saucia telis,
Omnibus ut natis triste pateret iter.
Quis negat esse satum materno funere Bacchum?
Sic genitum numen credite: nata fera est.
XIII
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Icta gravi telo confossaque vulnere mater
Sus pariter vitam perdidit atque dedit.
O quam certa fuit librato dextera ferro!
Hanc ego Lucinae credo fuisse manum.
Experta est numen moriens utriusque Dianae,
Quaque soluta parens quaque perempta fera est.
XIV
Sus fera iam gravior maturi pignore ventris
Emisit fetum, vulnere facta parens;
Nec iacuit partus, sed matre cadente cucurrit.
O quantum est subitis casibus ingenium!
This unanticipated turn of events prompts a series of compelling juxtapositions. The
sow is described as having “experienced the divine power of both forms of Diana (Sp.
13.6),” and the sudden, violent birth of her young is likened to the birth of Bacchus
(Sp. 12.7-8). Thus, from one planned hunt sprang a series of coincidental binarisms:
birth and death, divine and terrestrial, human and animal. Martial pithily caps off the
episode by saying, “O how great is the invention that comes from sudden chances!
(Sp. 14.4).” Surprise and novelty are essential to the spectacular epigrams of Martial.
In the opening epigram, the poet declares that the events of the arena will supplant all
others in reputation: unum pro cunctis Fama loquetur opus (Sp. 1.8). This declaration
bolsters the artistic pre-eminence of the poet himself—surely, only the greatest poet
could relate events of such renown. This interest in the unexpected is reflected in the
literary form itself, as Latin epigram features a “twist” at the end. Here, content and
form interact to create the arena spectacles in the most “novel” manner.
The desire for the “new” in Latin literature and the ingenuity necessary to meet
this demand led to blurring of previously distinct categories and the transgression of
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boundaries, alongside the juxtapositions mentioned above. Nor was this thirst for
originality restricted to tales of the animal performers. Human beings figured heavily
in the accounts of the venationes. During the reign of Domitian, dwarves and female
gladiators—striking human curiosities—are paired against one another in Cassius
Dio’s account (67.8.4):
πολλάκις δὲ καὶ τοὺς ἀγῶνας νύκτωρ ἐποίει, καὶ ἔστιν ὅτε καὶ νάνους καὶ
γυναῖκας συνέβαλλε.
Often he would conduct the games also at night, and sometimes he would pit
dwarfs and women against each other.16
The presence of dwarves in narratives of imperial excess appear as a trope, a sort of
metonymic stand-in for luxuria. The Historia Augusta, as an example, utilizes dwarfs,
eunuchs, and catamites as a point of contrast between the degraded figure of
Elagabalus and the much-revered Severus Alexander: whereas Elagabalus raises such
figures to prominence at the imperial court, Severus Alexander removed them from
the city or placed them in appropriately lowly situations (several women were ordered
to become prostitutes). The mention of dwarfs here serves to emphasize the decadent
nature of the performance and of its editor, the emperor.
The presence of female gladiators, while a much rarer sight than their male
counterparts, is nevertheless much more securely attested than that of dwarfs.17 The
16
The inclusion of dwarfs in this account has provoked much dispute among scholars as to whether or
not this passage represents a standard presentation of female gladiatorial matches. Duke 1955 asserts
that the evidence indicates that female gladiators fought only other female gladiators. Wiedemann
accepts the authority of Dio Cassius’ account and holds that female gladiators did participate in this sort
of spectacle. Brunet 2004 argues that there is no reason to believe that female gladiators ever fought
dwarves and that such a pairing would have been displeasing to a Roman audience. I am not concerned
with the historical accuracy of this depiction but its literary value.
17
Female gladiators or bestiariae appear in several literary references, in Roman legislation, and in
ancient art.
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gladiatrix constituted a prime novelty for her blatant transgression of long-established
boundaries. Roger Dunkle (2008, 118-119) comments on this phenomenon, saying:
Female gladiators represented the contradiction of one of Rome’s most
cherished traditional values, the association of women with the household and
various domestic tasks. When a woman fought in the arena, she was
abandoning her female role and invading an exclusively masculine area of
martial virtue and, when she fought as a professional gladiator, she, like a
freeborn man, incurred the dishonor of infamia by taking up a disgraced
profession.
In effect, the female gladiator becomes the anti-Lucretia, symbol of everything a good
Roman woman should not become. Like Lucretia, however, she becomes an object of
desire and fascination to the spectator nonetheless—perhaps even more so because of
her status as forbidden. In the gladiatrix, literary titillation and social instability
coalesce to offer a prime subject for textual novelty.
At the bottom of the heap, in terms of personal worth, were the criminals to be
executed. While the gladiator could and often did survive the combats in which he
fought and could even earn his retirement, the criminals’ performances, no matter how
lavishly carried out, all had the same ultimate result: death of the criminal. Execution
of prisoners became ever more elaborate, often blending the realms of myth and
reality. In attending or reading about these spectacles, the audience could be
transported from the mundane “real world” to the mythical plane. In her 1990 article
“Fatal Charades,” Kathleen Coleman describes the recreation of mythological scenes
as a means of execution. Scenes described in ancient accounts of these events include
the castration of Attis (Tertullian, Nat. 1.10.47) and the mating of Pasiphae with the
Cretan bull (Martial Lib. Spect. 5). The sexual humiliation of criminals as a form of
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capital punishment and as an entertainment for the masses speaks to the extreme limits
to which a desire for novelty could be pushed, on the sands but especially in written
presentations.
Transgression as Novelty
A common motif of transgression is interaction between the nobility and the
gladiatorial performers. Sexual desire for the gladiator figures strongly here. The
attraction to the gladiator, as evidenced by a passage in Juvenal’s Satire 6, is not based
on physical beauty but rather upon his brutality. In describing the gladiator whose
magnetism drew the noblewoman Eppia into disgrace, the satirist writes:
Qua tamen exarsit forma, qua capta iuventa
Eppia? quid vidit propter quod ludia dici
sustinuit? nam Sergiolus iam radere guttur
coeperat et secto requiem sperare lacerto;
praeterea multa in facie deformia, sulcus
attritus galea mediisque in naribus ingens
gibbus et acre malum semper stillantis ocelli.
sed gladiator erat...
....ferrum est quod amant.18
But what were the good looks and youthfulness that enthralled Eppia and set
her on fire? What did she see in him to make her put up with being called a
gladiator’s groupie? After all, her darling Sergius had already started shaving
his throat and with his gashed arm had hopes of retirement. Besides, his face
was really disfigured: there was a furrow chafed by his helmet, an enormous
lump right on his nose, and the nasty condition of a constantly weeping eye.
But he was a gladiator.... It’s the steel they’re in love with. 19
18
Latin text and translation taken from the Loeb text by Braund.
Evidence for female infatuation with the gladiator outside the realm of satire is scant and ambiguous.
[author] cites the discovery of a female skeleton preserved at a gladiator barracks as a possible example
of an actual ludia, but this remains only conjecture.
19
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The figure of Eppia provides ample ground for Juvenal to present a “novel” account,
always an important motif in satire. Sergius seemingly represents anything but an
appealing lover: disfigured, older, wounded, and inarguably lowly in social status. The
singularity of this account has given it lasting importance, and even now, this piece of
social criticism is used, rather problematically, to illustrate actual attitudes toward
gladiatorial fighters. Another instance of the nobility appearing in the arena also
appears in Juvenal. In his eighth satire, he mocks a member of the Gracchi family,
who humiliated himself and his family by voluntarily fighting as a gladiator without a
helmet. The central issue seized upon by Juvenal is the type of gladiator the nobleman
chose to become: a retiarius—the only type whose costume entailed no helmet. The
man’s shame is heightened by the certainty that he will be recognized (agnoscendus).
In these accounts, the surprise of the inappropriate blending of classes lends artistry
and originality to the texts.
Perilous Transgression
Attending the games became an ever riskier proposition under certain
emperors as the lines between the stands and the sand were breached again and again.
Spectators were compelled to fight against seasoned gladiators, gladiators were
accorded imperial favor and lavish gifts, and members of the nobility, even the
emperors themselves, might choose to participate in the events at the arena. While
disturbing to a Roman sense of propriety, such occurrences nevertheless succeeded in
keeping the experience of a day at the games fresh and exciting. In the words of Carlin
Barton, “The Romans increasingly enjoyed the blurring of conventional boundaries
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between the “real” and the “unreal,” the permeability of the barrier between the
spectators and the spectacle.” (Barton 1993, 63). This transgressive element of the
arena becomes a key feature in arena narratives, as more and more these episodes are
used to comment on the moral status of the editor, the res publica, or both. For an
example, Commodus was known for his immoderate enthusiasm for gladiatorial
spectacle, and frequently appeared in the arena as a slayer of wild animals. The
spectators, however, soon became targets as well. In 73.20-21, Dio records it thus:
τοῦ δὲ δὴ λοιποῦ δήμου πολλοὶ μὲν οὐδὲ ἐσῆλθον ἐς τὸ θέατρον, εἰσὶ δ᾽ οἳ
παρακύψαντες ἀπηλλάττοντο τὸ μέν τι αἰσχυνόμενοι τοῖς ποιουμένοις, τὸ δὲ
καὶ δεδιότες, ἐπειδὴ λόγος διῆλθεν ὅτι τοξεῦσαί τινας ἐθελήσει ὥσπερ ὁ
Ἡρακλῆς τὰς Στυμφαλίδας.
οὗτος μὲν ὁ φόβος πᾶσι κοινὸς καὶ ἡμῖν καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις ἦν: ἔπραξε δὲ καὶ
ἕτερόν τι τοιόνδε πρὸς ἡμᾶς τοὺς βουλευτάς, ἐξ οὗ οὐχ ἥκιστα ἀπολεῖσθαι
προσεδοκήσαμεν. στρουθὸν γὰρ ἀποκτείνας καὶ τὴν κεφαλὴν αὐτοῦ ἀποτεμὼν
προσῆλθεν ἔνθα ἐκαθήμεθα, τῇ τε ἀριστερᾷ χειρὶ ἐκείνην καὶ τῇ δεξιᾷ τὸ ξίφος
ᾑματωμένον ἀνατείνας, καὶ εἶπε μὲν οὐδέν, τὴν δὲ κεφαλὴν τὴν ἑαυτοῦ
σεσηρὼς ἐκίνησεν, ἐνδεικνύμενος ὅτι καὶ ἡμᾶς τὸ αὐτὸ τοῦτο δράσει.
But of the populace in general, many did not enter the amphitheatre at all, and
others departed after merely glancing inside, partly from shame at what was
going on, partly also from fear, inasmuch as a report spread abroad that he
would want to shoot a few of the spectators in imitation of Hercules and the
Stymphalian birds....
This fear was shared by all, by us senators as well as by the rest. And here is
another thing that he did to us senators which gave us every reason to look for
our death. Having killed an ostrich and cut off his head, he came up to where
we were sitting, holding the head in his left hand and in his right hand raising
aloft his bloody sword; and though he spoke not a word, yet he wagged his
head with a grin, indicating that he would treat us in the same way...20
The “novelty” here—the inappropriate and startling appearance of the emperor within
the arena—is presented in a heavily judgmental tone.
20
Translation and Latin text taken from the Loeb edition by Earnest Cary.
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Two incidents stand out in the historical record in which the arena becomes a
source of disaster: the slave revolt under Spartacus in 73 B.C.E. and the 59 C.E. riot at
the amphitheatre of Pompeii. Spartacus, appearing at a relatively early period in the
development of gladiatorial combat, left a profound psychological scar on the
consciousness of the Roman people.21 The figure of Spartacus inspired terror in part
for his transgressive nature. He shifted in his role from soldier to prisoner of war to
gladiator to armed rebel. Under his leadership, a relatively small band of slaves
(somewhere around 70, though the ancient accounts vary) grew to an army estimated
to have numbered as many as 120,000 men. This group was startling for more than
just its vast size and military success. Among the group were not merely gladiators but
native slaves and even, worse still, free Roman men. This mingling of classes and
peoples constitutes an earlier example of the same disturbing, if less salacious,
practice seen in the feast on the Lake of Agrippa. Nor was Spartacus’ personal
narrative free from the sort of omens that characterize the lives of the emperors. In his
life of Crassus, Plutarch includes this statement in his depiction of Spartacus (Crass.
8.3):
τούτῳ δὲ λέγουσιν, ὅτε πρῶτον εἰς Ῥώμην ὤνιος ἤχθη, δράκοντα κοιμωμένῳ
περιπεπλεγμένον φανῆναι περὶ τὸ πρόσωπον, ἡ γυνὴ δ᾽ ὁμόφυλος οὖσα τοῦ
Σπαρτάκου, μαντικὴ δὲ καὶ κάτοχος τοῖς περὶ τὸν Διόνυσον ὀργιασμοῖς,
ἔφραζε τὸ σημεῖον εἶναι μεγάλης καὶ φοβερᾶς περὶ αὐτὸν εἰς εὐτυχὲς τέλος
ἐσομένης δυνάμεως: ἣ καὶ τότε συνῆν αὐτῷ καὶ συνέφευγε.
It is said that when he was first brought to Rome to be sold, a serpent was seen
coiled about his face as he slept, and his wife, who was of the same tribe as
Spartacus, a prophetess, and subject to visitations of the Dionysiac frenzy,
declared it the sign of a great and formidable power which would attend him
21
For the persistence of the perception of gladiators as political weapons, see Köhne, Ewigleben, and
Jackson 2000, 130-131.
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to a fortunate issue. This woman shared in his escape and was then living with
him.22
Furthermore, the victories of the slave force represented an upsetting of proper order,
with arguably the embodiment of Roman virtus, the soldier, subjugated by the ultimate
outcast, the foreign slave.23 Compounding the disquieting effect of this two-year
ordeal was its unsatisfactory conclusion: while Spartacus is killed, his body is never
recovered (App. B. Civ. 1.120)—a final act of defiance. The lingering uneasiness
associated with gladiators is alluded to by Suetonius, who mentions that the Senate
took action to limit by law the number of gladiators Julius Caesar could exhibit,
viewing them as a definitive threat (Iul. 10.2).
The atmosphere created by the games was highly volatile. Tacitus records how
the tension in the stands built up to such an extent that a riot broke out at a gladiatorial
display at Pompeii (Ann. 14.17):
Sub idem tempus levi initio atrox caedes orta inter colonos Nucerinos
Pompeianosque gladiatorio spectaculo.... quippe oppidana lascivia in vicem
incessentes probra, dein saxa, postremo ferrum sumpsere, validiore
Pompeianorum plebe, apud quos spectaculum edebatur. ergo deportati sunt in
urbem multi e Nucerinis trunco per vulnera corpore, ac plerique liberorum aut
parentum mortis deflebant. ... prohibiti publice in decem annos eius modi coetu
Pompeiani collegiaque quae contra leges instituerant dissoluta; Livineius et qui
alii seditionem conciverant exilio multati sunt.
About the same date, a trivial incident led to a serious affray between the
inhabitants of the colonies of Nuceria and Pompeii, at a gladiatorial show...
22
Text and translation taken from the Loeb edition by Bernadotte Perrin.
Indeed, in Plutarch’s account, Spartacus’ forces recognize the superiority of the Roman army by
exchanging their own weapons for arms taken from defeated Roman soldiers: καὶ πρῶτον μὲν τούς ἐκ
Καπύης ἐλθόντας ὠσάμενοι Καὶ πολλῶν ὅπλων ἐπιλαβόμενοι πολεμιστηρίων ἄσμενοι ταῦτα
μετελάμβανον, ἀπορρίψαντες ὡς ἄτιμα Καὶ βάρβαρα τὰ τῶν μονομάχων; “To begin with, the gladiators
repulsed the soldiers who came against them from Capua, and getting hold of many arms of real
warfare, they gladly took these in exchange for their own, casting away their gladiatorial weapons as
dishonourable and barbarous (Crass. 9.1).”
23
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During an exchange of raillery, typical of the petulance of country towns, they
resorted to abuse, then to stones, and finally to steel; the superiority lying with
the populace of Pompeii, where the show was being exhibited. As a result,
many of the Nucerians were carried maimed and wounded to the capital, while
a very large number mourned the deaths of children or of parents. ...the
Pompeians as a community were debarred from holding any similar assembly
for ten years, and the associations which they had formed illegally were
dissolved. Livineius and the other fomenters of the outbreak were punished
with exile.24
While the revolt of Spartacus highlighted the physical peril inherent in gladiatorial
combat, the riot of Pompeii illuminated the volatile emotional climate surrounding the
spectacle. In this case, the spectators themselves, keyed up by the performance,
become an unprecedented threat to social stability when a trivial dispute escalates to
the point that numerous spectators are killed or maimed—clearly, a negative exercise
in originality. The population of Pompeii is punished for their seditio with a ten-year
ban on gladiatorial spectacle (Tac. Ann. 14.17). Here, spectacular violence served as a
catalyst for spectator violence.
In these narratives, the authors select elements from the arena, using them to
create stories that engage with the variety of meanings of novus. Whether creating
stories of mingling of classes, elaborately staged deaths, or historical accounts of the
arena, these authors engineer artistic mastery through the inclusion of literary
“novelty.” The further manipulation of “novelty” in spectacular narratives will be
taken up in the next chapter.
24
Translation taken from the Loeb volume by John Jackson.
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CHAPTER III
Novel Combinations: Arena Narratives Across Genres
We have seen authors carefully selecting exceptional events in the arena in
order to craft narratives that would be viewed as equally unique. This, however, was
by no means the only way in which narratives of spectacular events could be
manipulated in the service of artistic distinction. This chapter will examine instances
in which ancient authors render an arena narrative “novel” by changing its ordinary
chain of associations. By combining unexpected elements in their accounts, these
authors move the events of the arena out of the sands and into a new literary sphere,
connected to but independent from the “real” spectacles. These inventive
juxtapositions create “novelty” in their narratives.
This chapter draws on the work of Roman Jakobson, specifically his
conjectures on the operation of metaphor and metonymy in language. Metaphor is
substitution of one element for one from another sequence, and is ordinarily
considered the domain of poetry. It may be conceived as a vertical movement between
separate discourses: in this case, arena and mythology or arena and political history.
Metonymy, by contrast, is the use of one thing in a chain of associations for the whole,
which can be visualized as a horizontal movement within a single discourse. So,
metaphorically, the political and spectacular realms are separate chains of association;
metonymically, they become in the same chain in these narratives. Both these
linguistic connections are the result of two fundamental processes: selection (choice of
terms) and combination (joining of chosen terms). The arena, and the narratives
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thereof, can be understood to have its own “language” of a sort, a collection of
conceptions, images, characters, and terms that inhere to Roman spectacular
performance. The authors of arena narratives draw from this ideological reserve,
molding spectacular elements to suit their own purposes. When, for example,
Augustus speaks of the munus gladiatorum and venationes bestiarum Africanarum he
sponsored (Res Gestae 22), the associations that attend the mention of these games are
public approval, imperial munificence, and Roman prosperity. The context, however,
is wholly different in Suetonius’ account of a munus gladiatorum put on by the
grandfather of Nero, which was characterized by such saevitia that Augustus was
forced to curb his excesses with an edict (Nero, 4). Here, the mention of the games
serves to intensify the negative characterization of a man already described as
arrogans, profusus, and immitis. In both cases, this “language of spectacle,” the ideas
and images associated with this sort of performance, is critical to the effect desired by
the author.
In some texts, the author takes this “language” and crafts a narrative in which
these terms and images are interwoven with the “language” of a different genre. In so
doing, the author combines two distinct metonymic chains, merging them into a new
set of associations. Consider this episode, recounted in an epigram by Martial (Spect.
24[21])25:
Quidquid in Orpheo Rhodope spectasse theatro dicitur, exhibuit, Caesar,
harena tibi. repserunt scopuli mirandaque silva cucurrit, quale fuisse nemus
creditur Hesperidum. adfuit inmixtum pecori genus omne ferarum et supra
25
I follow here the numbering in Coleman 2006.
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vatem multa pependit avis, ipse sed ingrato iacuit laceratus ab urso: haec
tantum res est facta παρ' ἱστορίαν.26
Whatever Rhodope is said to have watched at the Orphic theatre, Caesar, the
sands have delivered to you. Cliffs crawled and a wondrous wood, of the sort
the grove of the Hesperides is believed to have been, ran. Every kind of wild
beast was present, mixed into the herd, and above the poet many birds
floated; but he lies dead, mangled by an ungrateful bear. This alone was done
contrary to the story.27
Here, the pastoral environment, linked with the figure of Orpheus, is transformed into
an execution chamber, with the no-longer peaceful beasts of the Orphic myth serving
as executioners.28 At the same time, Martial chooses to combine the rhetoric of the
arena with the imagery of the pastoral and mythological realms: Rhodope, scopuli,
silva, nemus, pecori, ferarum, avis, urso. Alongside these terms, the poet includes
standard arena vocabulary: spectasse, theatro, exhibuit, harena. A similar combination
of wilderness and violence may be found in Ovid’s depiction of the death of Orpheus
(Met. 10.20-28):
Ac primum attonitas etiamnum voce canentis
innumeras volucres anguesque agmenque ferarum
Maenades, Orphei titulum, rapuere, theatri.
Coleman makes particular note of the Greek text at this poem’s conclusion: “Martial appears to recall
AP 11.254 (Lucillius) in which an actor presented authentic versions of the stories of Niobe and
Capaneus (καθ' ἱστορίην), but altered the denouement of the story of Canace by failing to use the sword
with which he was equipped (παρ' ἱστορίην), a clever allusion by Lucillius to the tragic convention
regarding the portrayal of suicide on the stage” (2006, 175). And: “at the end of Martial’s epigram an
expression is required to convey the contrast between a conventional plot (καθ' ἱστορίην) and an
unexpected denouement (παρ' ἱστορίην)” (2006, 180). This inclusion of a stock phrase to indicate
something “unexpected” serves to heighten the “novel” effect of the epigram as a whole. Such an
“unexpected” ending is also characteristic of the epigrammatic genre in general.
27
The Latin text here is taken from Kathleen Coleman’s 2006 edition of Martial’s Liber Spectaculorum.
28
The humiliated figure of the criminal was strongly “othered” in Roman society, and it would likely
have disturbed few Romans to see such figures executed, even by such brutal methods. Coleman 1990,
47: “In Roman society the mockery of a condemned person was sometimes performed spontaneously
by parties other than the legal adjudicators, which emphasizes its function in dissociating and distancing
the onlooker from a person whose behaviour has been officially declared unacceptable by the state.”
This lowly status rendered the criminal an easy target for spectacular creativity, literary and actual.
26
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Inde cruentatis vertuntur in Orphea dextris
et coeunt ut aves, si quando luce vagantem
noctis avem cernunt. Structoque utrimque theatro
ceu matutina cervus periturus harena
praeda canum est, vatemque petunt et fronde virentes
coniciunt thyrsos non haec in munera factos.
First, countless birds, snakes, and an army of wild animals, stupefied by the
voice of the singer, the glory of Orpheus’ theatre, the Maenads seized. Then
they set their bloody hands on Orpheus, and gathered, like birds that spy the
owl, the bird of night, wandering in the daylight, or as in the amphitheatre, on
the morning of the staged events, on either side, a doomed stag, in the arena, is
prey to the hounds. They rushed at the poet, and hurled their green-leaved
thyrsi, made for a different use.29
Much of the same imagery seen in this passage is drawn upon in Martial’s epigram.
The progression of events, however, is manipulated by Martial for the spectacular
context: rather than death at the hands of the Maenads, this captive Orpheus is killed
by the very animals won over by the mythical Orpheus. The transformation of the
wildlife from fawning onlookers to violent antagonists constitutes an unexpected and
“novel” presentation of a two distinct but equally familiar themes: damnatio ad bestias
and the death of Orpheus. These separate metonymic chains (pastoral, mythological,
violent, spectacular) become fused into a new discourse.
We have already seen a similar example of unrelated events united into a
single chain of associations. The appearance of omens in imperial histories and
biographies, such as those forecasting the death of Julius Caesar in the Lives of
Suetonius, represents an intersection of the otherwise separate veins of political
history and natural phenomena. Literary treatments of the Great Fire of 64 C.E.,
29
Latin text and translation taken from the Loeb edition.
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specifically those of Tacitus and Dio Cassius, also demonstrate an interest in prophetic
precursors to the incident. Significantly, in this case, spectacular performances
themselves figure heavily in the narrative as portents of catastrophe. The arena
spectacle serves as a metaphor for the subsequent disaster on the metonymic plane,
which forms the centerpiece of each narrative. Each author manipulates a series of
coincidental events to suggest a causal relationship among them, where none had
necessarily existed. In this way, the historian presents coincidence as mere illusion
while intensifying the connection between the seemingly disparate spheres of ludi and
politics.
Perhaps one of the most notorious incidents in Roman history, the Great Fire
of Rome is discussed in great detail by Tacitus in book 15 of his Annals. In structuring
his narrative, however, Tacitus chooses to begin with a scandalous performance as a
kind of prolusio. Beginning at 15.33 he writes that Nero was driven by an urge to
perform publicly (acriore in dies cupidine adigebatur Nero promiscas scaenas
frequentandi30), unsatisfied with his already-controversial private performances. To
this end, he traveled to Neapolis, performing before a large, indiscriminately chosen
group, described as contractum oppidanorum vulgus (15.33). Already, the historian
has peppered his account with charged terms, setting the scene for the impending
disaster. Grammatically, the emperor appears at the opening of 15.33 as the passive
subject of the action, while desire takes the role of agent, suggesting weakness and a
lack of self-control on the part of the emperor. Further, the desire that drives him is a
30
Loeb text.
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desire to exhibit himself as a performer—a shameful wish for any elite citizen31—and
to do so on a stage that is described as promiscas (“indiscriminate” or “mixed
together”), with the performance taking place before a vulgus. Such mingling of
classes (imperial with plebeian) is antithetical to a Roman sense of order and would
likely have encouraged a sense of foreboding among Tacitus’ readership.
Following the performance, an incident occurs, which Nero (and only Nero)
takes as an auspicious event—the theatre, already vacated, in which he had performed,
collapses (15.34), foreshadowing the destruction of Rome, also a “stage” for Nero.
Hard upon the heels of this variously-interpreted destruction, Tacitus deems it
important to note the emperor’s presence during a gladiatorial show at Beneventum.
This particular show is remarkable for its editor, a man of lowly birth and ill repute
named Vatinius (15.34).32 The simultaneous (though unconnected) suicide of a Roman
nobleman, Torquatus Silanus, is mentioned in the following chapter (15.35). The
intersection of these three events in the narrative serves to heighten the anxiety of the
reader. Tacitus cleverly maintains the appearance of an impartial chronicler by
refraining from offering his own interpretation of the theatre’s collapse, yet his
31
It should be noted, however, that not all performance was viewed equally. While descriptions of elites
performing in the arena or in the theatre are almost universally negative in their tone (citing effeminacy
or immorality in the players; consider the highly judgmental depiction of the nobleman turned retiarius,
Gracchus, in Juvenal’s Satire 2), Pliny’s Epistles include positive mention of his own performance of
elegiac poetry. Oratory too offers an acceptable outlet for elite public performance. Cf. Habinek 2005,
213-214.
32
Vatinius’ “crookedness”, both in physical appearance and in character, are alluded to in Martial (cup
described as ‘Vatinian’) and in Juvenal, Satire 5: “To you will be given a cracked cup with four nozzles
that takes its name from a Beneventine cobbler.” See Larmour 2016 for a more thorough examination of
this figure.
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phrasing is suggestive: plerique ut arbitrabantur, triste, ut ipse, providum. The
emperor, already a suspect figure, is set in contrast with the authoritative “many,”
encouraging the reader to adopt the improvident explanation as well. With the mention
of the gladiatorial spectacle, Tacitus once more blends the imperial sphere with the
common. The description of Vatinius could hardly be put in more negative terms
(15.34):
Vatinius inter foedissima eius aulae ostenta fuit, sutrinae tabernae alumnus,
corpore detorto, facetiis scurrilibus; primo in contumelias adsumptus, dehinc
optimi cuiusque criminatione eo usque valuit ut gratia pecunia vi nocendi
etiam malos praemineret.
Vatinius was among the most repulsive beings on display at the imperial court,
brought up in a shoemaker's shop, having a distorted body and buffoonish wits.
First received as an insult, he subsequently became powerful by his
accusations against the best men, so that even among wicked men he stood out
in favor, wealth, and in inflicting harm.33
The decision to patronize such a figure by attending his gladiatorial munus taints the
emperor by association, though he is ascribed no direct role in any aspect of the event.
Similarly, when Torquatus Silanus, a potential rival for the throne based on his
lineage, is driven to commit suicide because of accusations that he was plotting a
coup, Nero is immediately portrayed as criminal. The transition to this incident makes
the historian’s judgment obvious: eius munus frequentanti Neroni ne inter voluptates
quidem a sceleribus cessabatur (15.35). Here, the death of Torquatus Silanus is
unambiguously grouped among the crimes (scelera) of Nero. The deliberate
juxtaposition of these events (the collapse of a theatre, a gladiatorial display, and the
33
Translation.
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suicide of a political figure) shifts the narrative focus to the criminality of the emperor.
Although these events are related only chronologically and Nero has no direct
involvement in the commission of them, the context established by the author leads
the reader to perceive the guilt of the emperor as manifested in all three events.
With the mention of Egypt in 15.36, Tacitus makes a thematic shift to the
aberrant behavior of the emperor. Having abandoned his plans to perform in Greece
(mentioned in 15.33), Nero’s ambitions turn toward Egypt (a region long associated
with debauched, bizarre, and generally un-Roman behavior).34 Perceived divine
disfavor, however, dissuades the emperor. In the temple of Vesta, Nero is said to have
been struck with a sudden trembling “either by fear of the deity or by the recollection
of his actions (seu numine exterrente, seu facinorum recordatione). This occurrence,
along with the people’s fear of food shortages in the emperor’s absence, prompts Nero
to stay in the city. At this point, Tacitus interjects a foreshadowing of the incidents to
come, saying: “Afterwards, as in natural amidst great fears, they believed that what
happened was worse (dehinc, quae natura magnis timoribus, deterius credebant quod
evenerat).” In the wake of the events previously described, belief in Nero’s guilt is
now presupposed on the part of the reader. Having chosen to remain instead in Rome,
the emperor rises to yet greater heights of depravity through his largess, illustrated by
34
This negative perception of Egypt is a familiar topos in the Roman context: Marc Antony described
as “corrupted” by his association with Egypt/Cleopatra; Juvenal’s Satire 6 relates the tale of Eppia, wife
of a senator, who abandons her family to go to Egypt with a bunch of gladiators. Note also Suetonius’
mention of Egyptian performers before the death of Caligula (quoted above), here recreating the
Underworld in a late-night production. The Roman attitude toward the Egyptians is discussed in terms
of “ancient apartheid” in Ritner’s 1998 article in the Cambridge History of Egypt (6).
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the sumptuous orgiastic feast upon the Lake of Agrippa, which climaxes in his
scandalous marriage to a common man (15.37):
ipse per licita atque inlicita foedatus nihil flagitii reliquerat quo corruptior
ageret, nisi paucos post dies uni ex illo contaminatorum grege (nomen
Pythagorae fuit) in modum sollemnium coniugiorum denupsisset.
He (Nero), defiled by lawful and unlawful means, had neglected nothing
shameful, which could drive him to greater corruption, save that, a few days
later, he wedded in solemn marriage rites one of the polluted herd, a man
named Pythagoras.
Here again, the inappropriate mixture of noble and common and the gravitation toward
spectacular display are emphasized. The “novelty” of the events is born from their
unprecedented and transgressive nature. Exotic creatures from land and sea are
brought in to entertain the crowd, inlustres feminae are placed among scorta, and no
expense is spared in the décor. In all details the marriage of Nero is built up as the
pinnacle of his debauchery. Nero chooses to marry a man, and not merely a man but
one ex illo contaminatorum grege—a nobody from the mob. By choosing to mention
his name, Tacitus draws attention to the fact that he is almost certainly of foreign
descent as well. To cap it off, Nero enters the marriage as the bride. The dire
implications of the emperor’s custom-shattering marriage are immediately apparent in
the stark transition to the story of the fire itself: sequitur clades, “disaster followed”
(15.38).
From the outset of 15.38, the possibility of Nero’s involvement is referenced,
while the historian still maintains a superficial tone of impartiality: “whether due to
chance or to the malice of the sovereign is uncertain” (forte an dolo principis
incertum). In context, however, Nero’s guilt reads as a foregone conclusion in the
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narrative trajectory. Whether or not the emperor made direct moves to start the blaze
(which is strongly implied), the fire is treated as the inevitable result of his offensive
actions. Although Tacitus makes clear that Nero was not present in the city at the time
of the fire’s outbreak and that he ordered a number of philanthropic works upon his
return, the historian once again deploys popular opinion to steer the reader’s
interpretation: “his measures, popular as their character might be, failed of their effect
(quae quamquam popularia in inritum cadebant).”
Examining the account as a whole, one can observe two narrative threads
operating alongside and in conjunction with one another: public spectacles and public
disasters, each escalating in intensity. The theme of spectacle is introduced through
Nero’s private performances and magnified through the increasingly outlandish
displays in which he takes part, culminating in his performance of the destruction of
Troy (15.39). Similarly, destruction attends these spectacles, from the theatre collapse
after Nero’s public performance to the Great Fire after his marriage ceremony. In
addition, the mingling of classes, particularly the imperial with the plebeian, depicted
as disturbingly unfamiliar and “new,” is designed to serve as a harbinger of disaster.
The role of the vulgus becomes more active and threatening as the narrative
progresses. Initially, they are introduced merely as passive spectators at a theatrical
performance; later, however, one of their number has so greatly upset the established
order of society that he takes the active, masculine role in a homoerotic relationship
with the emperor himself. So intimately connected are the spectacular displays in the
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narrative with the calamities that follow them that the one functions as a metaphor for
the other.
Writing during the late 2nd and early 3rd centuries, Dio Cassius paints an even
more lurid tale in his narrative of the Great Fire. The context established for the fire
leaves the reader in no doubt as to the negative character of Nero, as he uses a far
more blatant chain of associations. Here, increased sensationalism of the transgressive
elements of the earlier account is used to generate a “novel” presentation of a nowfamiliar story. Echoing a theme from the Tacitean account, Dio Cassius describes
Nero’s lack of adherence to class boundaries with a vivid example: the emperor
sharing the affections of a noble woman with a man who openly disrespected his
office, Marcus Salvius Otho. This negative impression is compounded by a brief
discourse on the emperor’s excessively close relationship with his mother, leading to
the account of Agrippina’s assassination. Here, the correlation between spectacle and
action is explicit. Nero witnesses at the amphitheatre a ship engineered to slip apart
and reseal itself, of which he ordered a replica to be built. This rigged ship was then
used in a failed attempt to kill Agrippina, resulting in her rapidly improvised death at
the hands of the sailors. The language used in this sequence underlines the
significance of the spectacular context. After establishing that the inspiration for the
plot came to Nero ἐν τῷ θεάτρῳ (62.12.2)35, the historian continues his narrative with
theatrical vocabulary. When Agrippina fails to drown, Dio Cassius poetically explains
that “the sea could not bear this tragedy happening upon it (ἀλλ᾽ οὐ γὰρ ἤνεγκεν ἡ
35
Loeb text.
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θάλασσα τὴν μέλλουσαν ἐπ᾽ αὐτῇ τραγῳδίαν ἔσεσθαι) (62.13.3).” Subsequently, the
historian includes mention of an inscription that equates Nero with Orestes
(62.16.2.2).
Continuing this narrative vein, Dio Cassius then relates the establishment of
the Juvenalia, at which the nobility were compelled to perform as actors or choral
singers and Nero himself performed publicly. Once again, the blurring of boundaries
between classes presages a disastrous event; in this case, an overwhelmingly military
defeat in Britain (62b.1.1). The tone used by the narrator is highly condescending,
linking the two events by saying that the defeat occurred “while he was playing at
these things in Rome (ἐν ᾧ δὲ ταῦτα ἐν τῇ Ῥώμῃ ἐπαίζετο).” The intended effect upon
the reader is clear.
Following this, Dio Cassius offers his own version of the banquet on the Lake
of Agrippa. Here also, the influence of the arena upon Nero is emphasized. At the
outset, it is noted that Nero had slipped so far into licentiousness that he dared to drive
chariots in public (62b.15.1). At the same time, he pushed the boundaries of arena
spectacle, seeking ever greater novelty. This need for excess and the “new” is seen in
the arrangements for the banquet as well: elite matrons and virgins confined to
brothels, available to any man of any rank, the mob dining with the upper echelon of
society, etc. Dio Cassius even more explicitly links the arena’s extravagance with
Nero’s personal decadence by stating that “a slave would assault his mistress with his
master present, and a gladiator [would assault] an unwed girl (ὕβριζον καί τις καὶ
δοῦλος τῇ δεσποίνῃ παρόντος τοῦ δεσπότου καὶ μονομάχος εὐγενεῖ) (62b.15.5).”
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Further heightening the link between the arena and political realm is the grim mention
of the deaths that resulted from the banquet, both men and women.
In this narrative, no ambiguity is voiced as to the guilt of Nero. Rhetorically,
the fire is set up as the culmination of Nero’s excesses, the desire against which the
antics at the banquets paled by comparison: “After this Nero set his heart on
accomplishing what had doubtless always been his desire, namely to make an end of
the whole city and realm during his lifetime (μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα ἐπεθύμησεν ὅπερ που ἀεὶ
ηὔχετο, τήν τε πόλιν ὅλην καὶ τὴν βασιλείαν ζῶν ἀναλῶσαι) (62b.16.1).” Going
further, Dio Cassius specifically reports that Nero had hired men to set the city ablaze.
Here also, Nero’s performance is included, followed by a pair of prophecies, one from
the time of Tiberius, the other from the Sibylline books, purporting to predict the
destruction of Rome and the rule of Nero. The mention of the prophecies after the
events related subtly suggests that all the previously described occurrences were not
merely linked through the actions of Nero, but actually long foretold. In this way, the
historian ensures that a causal relationship exists in the mind of the reader among all
the events recorded, leaving no room for mere coincidence. Thus, here as well, the
themes of prophecy and politics are collapsed into a single, continuous metonymic
chain, uniting the narrative, while the extent of the metaphor and the addition of
details absent in the earlier text distinguish this account with its own artistic “novelty.”
In these accounts, the authors select and combine familiar elements from
disparate ideological “languages” to articulate “new” narratives. In the case of Martial,
epigram 24 transforms the well-known damnatio ad bestias performance by
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intersecting pastoral discourse with the violent and spectacular terminology of the
arena. The epigram inverts the expected organization of the events by presenting the
pastoral as the source of orchestrated violence rather than the innocent setting for
sudden, unforeseen brutality, as in the Ovidian account. The narratives of the Roman
historians examined here function in much the same way, moving spectacular
performance into the metonymic chain of prophecy so that the transgressive
performances detailed above become omens themselves. Through these inventive
juxtapositions, the authors are able to furnish familiar motifs with literary originality.
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CONCLUSION
The Shock of the New?: Problematizing the Standard Narrative of the Arena
In the light of all these considerations—the primacy of novelty in Latin poetry
as an artistic token, the stigma of the unprecedented in official matters, the selfconscious presentation of elaborate spectacle in both prose and poetry—it seems clear
that some aspects of the usual presentation of the “hunger for novelty” in the Roman
arena should be reconsidered. In his 1980 text The Shock of the New, Robert Hughes
chronicles the rise and decline of several modern art movements, characterizing the
“newness” of each. The works discussed in Hughes’ study are truly unprecedented and
this aspect constitutes a central concern for both the artist and the viewer. As he
observes, however, “novelty” is a fleeting thing: “The machine was a relatively fresh
part of social experience in 1880, whereas in 1780 it had been exotic, and by 1980 it
would be a cliché” (11).
If we consider the performances in the arena, a similar phenomenon may be at
work. After several centuries of such spectacles, is it realistic to assume that the arena
would not also have become quotidian, rather than exotic? Such “novelty” might,
however, be possible in the literary sphere. By describing the events of the arena in
new ways or in unfamiliar contexts, these authors could reinvent something that had
become “cliché,” giving it new life. Can we, then, treat sources such as the Satires of
Juvenal or Martial’s epigrams in the De Spectaculis as reliably factual representations,
either of “real” events in the arena or of the attitudes of the spectators? The historians
too are clearly not exempt from similar tendencies to “shock.” Is it reasonable to
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assume that it was, in fact, primarily a thirst for novelty that drove the spectators to the
arena for so many centuries?
I would argue that the presence of novelty, so familiar in narratives of the
arena, is more representative of an artistic movement than a spectacular reality. These
accounts, then, would present, not so much the contemporary arena as any reader
could experience it, as a literary arena, certainly rooted in the physical shows to a
controllable degree, but existing independently from them and moving beyond their
example to offer accounts that are more vivid, more shocking, more memorable, and
more “novel”. We can say that “novelty” in such narratives is a literary trope. By
recording spectacular events, these authors present their own literary munera, utilizing
the “language” of Roman spectacles for poetic effect and their own self-promotion as
“original.” Taking this into account, aspects of the current scholarly depiction of the
arena must be viewed with some skepticism.
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Res Gestae
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