Alexandria: The Oxford Undergraduate Classics Journal - Second Issue

2 ALEXANDRIA

E D I TO R I A L T E A M Edi t or -i n - C hief

Charlie Willis

Edi t or s

Reem Ahmed Evie Atmore Isabella Cullen Dominic Kane

Cre ati ve Di rec t o r

Liam T. Frahm

I N T RO D U C T I O N TO T H E J O U R N A L We’re back again, dear readers, with the second issue of Alexandria: The Undergraduate Classics Journal. First of all, a warm welcome to the new Freshers! Hopefully this publication is self-explanatory, but we would encourage you to keep up with the Mods section of the journal, which is aimed at first and second years.

Secondly, the content this term is pleasingly varied, with articles for all types. For first years, ‘The Praetorian Camp and the Emperor During the Early Principate’ is a useful overview of both parties and their interactions throughout the Mods-relevant period of Roman history. For Greats students, we have both Greek and Roman offerings, and an intriguing piece of reception.

As always, the offer stands to any undergraduate student to submit articles, and any student of any level to apply to edit.

Charlie Willis, Editor-in-Chief

T H E U N D E RG R A D U AT E C L A S S I C S J O U R N A L 3

TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S THE PRAETORIAN CAMP AND THE EMPEROR DURING THE EARLY PRINCIPATE Tom Gavin

4-17

M6.E.4 ROMAN ARCHITECTURE

18-24 DECEIT AND BEAUT Y IN HOMER’S G3.5 EARLY GREEK ODYSSEY HEXAMETER POETRY Molly Willett ROME: THE ETERNAL MUSEUM Eleanor Martin A CASE FOR SEBASTIANE: A NEXUS OF RECEPTION Alex Grindley

25-32

G4.5 ROMAN ARCHITECTURE

33-43

G.5.19 RECEPTION

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THE PRAETORIAN CAMP AND THE EMPEROR DURING THE EARLY PRINCIPATE To m Ga v i n St . A n n e’s C o llege ‘While emperor [Tiberius] constructed no magnificent public works, for the only ones which he undertook, the temple of Augustus and the restoration of Pompey’s theatre, he left unfinished after so many years.’12 ‘Whilst, even on the public account, the only two works [Tiberius] erected were the temple of Augustus and the stage of Pompey’s theatre, and in each case he was either too scornful of popularity or too old to dedicate them after completion.’3 Such are the succinct judgements of Suetonius and Tacitus on the building work carried out by Tiberius in Rome, a marked contrast to Augustus, who is said to have described himself finding Rome a city of brick, and leaving it a city of marble.4 Tiberius has never been considered a ‘builder’ by the standards of the emperors, in contrast to other principes both before and after him.5 Indeed, his lack of public munificence in this regard is hardly surprising; Tiberius’ accession was 1 I am particularly indebted to Dr A. Ellis-Evans for excellent feedback on this article and constant encouragement.

2 Suet. Tib. 47, trans. Rolfe 1989.

3 Tac. Ann. 6.45.1, trans. Jackson 1989.

4 Suet. Aug. 28.3.

5 Augustus’ contribution to the architecture of the city has already been mentioned.

To this we can add Claudius’ aqueducts (the Aqua Claudia and Aqua Anio Novus) and the harbour at Ostia, as well as Nero’s extensive building projects in the aftermath of the Great Fire of Rome in AD 64, and the extensive building work under the Flavians. In addition, Hadrian’s interest in architecture is well documented by ancient authors (see Dio 69.4 for the exile and execution of Apollodorus of Damascus).

T O M G AV I N 5

preceded by almost fifty years of continuous building in Rome, firstly under Julius Caesar and then under Augustus.6 Augustus had been able to utilise the proceeds from the conquest of Egypt to fund his transformation of the urban space, while Tiberius’ rule had no such sources of income.7 Moreover, Tiberius’ later retirement to Capri probably removed his desire to embellish Rome further, and explains why the majority of the building work undertaken by Tiberius is confined to the earlier portion of his reign.

In general modern scholarship has followed the judgements of these ancient historians, choosing to place a much greater emphasis on the monuments of the Augustan period, with the result that comparatively little has been said about how the Roman urban landscape changed under Tiberius. Again, this is understandable: the ideological messages conveyed by the construction of the Augustan monuments tend to be more obvious and noteworthy than those conveyed by projects undertaken by Tiberius.8 Moreover, the Augustan period is arguably the first time in Roman history that we can really talk of a ‘building programme’ in the urban development of the city. However, in passing over the question of how the urban landscape changed during Tiberius’ reign, we risk misunderstanding the ways in which Roman urban culture developed during the same period. This makes the question of how the republican institutions of Rome adapted to the institution of the Principate fundamentally harder to answer. In this article I aim to address this problem by examining the Praetorian Camp (Castra Praetoria), the fortress constructed from AD 20 to 239 for the use of the 6

Ward-Perkins 1981, 45.

7

Osgood 2011, 171.

8 Mostly confined to restoration work (e.g. the stage-building of the Theatre of Pompey in AD 21, the Basilica Aemilia in AD 22) and victory arches (e.g. the arch in honour of Germanicus in AD 16, another arch in honour of Germanicus and Drusus in AD 22).

9 Tacitus gives AD 23 as the date of the camp’s construction (Tac. Ann. 4.2); Dio gives AD 20 (Dio 57.19.6). See Martin & Woodman 1989, 87-8 for a discussion of why this contradiction occurs.

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emperor’s elite military force, the Praetorian Guard. I wish to survey the structure of the Praetorian Camp and what ideological messages its construction carried, before placing the construction of the camp into a wider historical context, illustrating how the importance of the Praetorian Guard increased during the early Principate. I shall use the phrase ‘Praetorian Guard’ or ‘Guard’ for convenience; they are generally described by ancient sources as praetoriani or praetoriae cohortes.10 The Praetorian Guard emerged in the republican period as an escort force for high-ranking officials in the field: in the early 1st cent.

BC, provincial governors were allocated similar forces, although their tasks concerned both security and more general administration.11 A more organised body appears to have formed around Augustus during his principate, however our sources are vague and unclear concerning this formation.12 Only Dio mentions their increased pay under Augustus, apparently to ensure that his absolute rule was maintained.13 The Guard in the imperial period were not merely security for the emperor and his family; their numbers alone (6,000-7,000 in the Tiberian period by Keppie’s estimate, 15,000 by Bingham’s)14 make this impractical.

Rather, as a unit under the direct control of the emperor (although commanded by a Praetorian Prefect) the Praetorians were required to adapt to any tasks he might want them to perform, whether administrative, civic or military. It is likely these included providing security at public events (games, festivals, etc.), keeping the peace, and assisting

10

Keppie 2000, 99.

11

Bingham 2013, 1-2.

12 Indeed, this is a particularly interesting omission, most likely reflecting Augustus’ own wish to divert attention from the reality of how his power was maintained; see Campbell 1994, 183.

13

Dio 53.11.5.

14 Keppie 2000, 110; Bingham 2013, 75. The precise number of Praetorians at any one point is hard to ascertain, due to conflicting sources: for a useful summary of the debate, see Bingham 2013, 51ff.

T O M G AV I N 7

the vigiles (watchmen) in fighting fires in the city.15 Caligula apparently even used the centurions and tribunes of the Praetorian Guard to collect taxes.16 The actual security of the princeps himself was ensured by a personal bodyguard of German mercenaries, rather than the Praetorian Guard.17 However, despite their wider role, the personal link between the princeps and the Praetorian Guard is clear. Military diplomas in particular emphasise this in the use of the formula qui in meo praetorio militaverunt (‘those who served in my [i.e. the emperor’s] Praetorian Guard’)18, and this is further seen in the roles the Guard played on the emperor’s death. Forty of their number carried Augustus’ body in his funeral procession.19 Twenty-three years later, the Guard was employed in AD 37 to convey the news of Tiberius’ death at Misenum to the provinces.20 Whatever role they were performing, the Praetorian Guard were undeniably connected with the emperor and his family. Indeed, the link between the emperor and the Praetorian Guard seems in some ways to have been stronger than the link between the Praetorian Guard and their own Prefect; notably it was the emperor himself who set the passwords for security.21 Before the construction of the camp, the Praetorian Guard were scattered throughout the city in various locations. Suetonius describes 15

See Suet. Aug. 30.1 for the establishment of the vigiles.

16 Suet. Cal. 40.1; the passage in question certainly presents this action as atypical.

17 Suet. Aug. 49.1 records the disbanding of this group after the Varian Disaster in AD 9; it is thus likely that the Praetorians played a far larger role in a bodyguard capacity after this. The use of non-Roman forces by the emperor as a personal ‘honour’ guard has a notable later history (sadly beyond the scope of this article).

18

CIL 16.8, 21, 98.

19 Suet. Aug. 99; compare also the fact that the Prefect of the Praetorian Guard took the oath to Tiberius on his accession after the two consuls but before the senate, soldiers, and people, see Tac. Ann. 1.7.2.

20 Tac. Ann. 6.50.4; see the same passage for the role of Macro, the Praetorian Prefect, in Tiberius’ death.

21 Suet. Cal. 56.2. This is also seen in the role of the Praetorian Guard in the accession of emperors (discussed below).

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how Augustus never allowed more than three cohorts to remain inside the city proper, and sent the remainder to winter or summer quarters in the towns near Rome.22 Despite these limitations, it is important to mark the visual power the quartering of the Praetorians within the city limits must have had. Officially, troops had not been allowed within the pomerium under the Republic, and thus the presence of the Guard within Rome itself was a visible sign of dominance, even if they had no obvious barracks.23 We can imagine the visual impact of the construction of a permanent camp for the Praetorians to have been far greater.

The camp’s location shows the attention that went into its construction.24 Sited in the extreme north-east corner of Rome on the Viminial Hill, it was technically not within the pomerium boundary, and thus not breaking any law regarding quartering troops within the city limits. However, in a practical sense, the camp was effectively part of the city, with the result that the north and east walls of the camp were incorporated into the city defences constructed under Aurelian in the late 3rd cent. AD.25 Although the camp’s structure was modelled on the military architecture that had evolved on the frontiers of the empire, certain buildings absent from the Praetorian Camp testify to its unique context and integration with Rome. The archaeological data shows no evidence of facilities such as baths, hospitals, etc., indicating that the soldiers would have gone into the city proper for such amenities.26 Due to the lack of a principium (the headquarters at the central crossroads of the camp), we must assume that the majority of the administration would have been done in the imperial palace, further corroborating the closeness between the emperor and the units under his command: indeed, the Camp was only a forty minute walk from the 22 Suet. Aug. 49.1.

23

Bingham 2013, 1. For the pomerium, see Gargola, 1995.

24

Construction of the camp: Suet. Tib. 37.1, Tac. Ann. 4.2, Dio 57.19.6.

25 The north and east walls are the best preserved parts of the camp, due to their incorporation into the Aurelianic structures.

26

Bingham 2013, 73f.

T O M G AV I N 9

Palatine Hill. These omissions aside, the structure and contents of the camp seem to have been fairly typical of Roman military architecture of the period. The enclosing walls formed a rounded rectangle measuring 440m by 380m, and were constructed of opus caementicium (also known as ‘Roman concrete’) faced with fired brick.27 This use of brick as a facing material (an architectural style that developed in the provinces) was a novelty in the context of Rome.28 These outer walls, nearly 5m in height, were divided equally about the long axis and unequally about the short axis by two main streets (the via principalis and the via praetoria). In terms of the interior, our evidence is far less substantial. A series of inscriptions show that the camp was well-supplied with water throughout its history.29 The camp had a variety of shrines and altars, many of them typical of a legionary camp, as well as an armamentarium, a tribunal, and barracks to quarter the soldiers.30 Several points emerge from this description of the camp’s structure. Firstly, while technically obeying the spirit of the law, the camp was essentially part of the Roman city space; it relied on Rome for various facilities and, since one of the tasks of the Praetorian Guard was to police the city, this was to a great extent a practical decision.

However, one cannot deny the visual impact such a monument would have had on the city’s landscape. The presence of soldiers within the Roman city limits acted as a sign of dominance for the princeps, and the construction of a permanent camp could only serve to emphasise this further, particularly when the area of the camp itself was so large, at least in comparison to monuments in the city. The camp’s extreme elevation on the Viminal Hill – at c. 60m above sea level, one of the 27

Richardson 1992, 78.

28

Ward-Perkins 1981, 46.

29

CIL 15.7237-44, ILS 8697-9.

30 For the shrine of the standards, see Herodian 4.4.5, 5.8.5-7; for the shrine of Mars, see CIL 6.2256 = ILS 2090; for the altar of Fortuna Restitutrix, see CIL 6.30876; for the armamentarium, see Tac. Hist. 1.38, CIL 6.999 = ILS 333, CIL 2725 = ILS 2034); for the tribunal, see Tac. Hist. 1.36.

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highest points in Rome31 – as well as the composition of the camp both served to highlight the visual statement that the camp made. To a Roman citizen in the city below, it would have signified that, while the princeps theoretically held his mandate through the grant of powers by the Senate, the actual instrument of maintaining power at Rome was far more insidious. The camp was designed to stand out from the architecture of Rome, in terms of its elevation, scale, and material and provide a statement for how the princeps truly ensured control.

Indeed, this idea of visual spectacle is something that Tacitus particularly draws attention to in his description of the camp’s construction. At the start of Annals IV, Tacitus states: ‘The power of the prefectship, which had hitherto been moderate, [Sejanus] increased by massing the cohorts, dispersed throughout the capital, in one camp; in order that commands should reach them simultaneously, and that their numbers, their strength, and the sight of one another, might in themselves breed confidence, and in others awe. His pretext was that scattered troops became unruly; that, when a sudden emergency called, help was more effective if the helpers were compact; and that there would be less laxity of conduct, if an encampment was created at a distance from the attractions of the city.’32 I would like to draw attention to two particular emphases here.

The first is on the practical concerns which Sejanus used to veil the true reasons for the camp’s construction (at least according to Tacitus). It is hard to argue that these were not a significant factor: a permanent base would have made the Praetorians more effective in carrying out their functions. The remark on the soldiers being less lax if they were quartered away from the city is perhaps more suspect, seeing as the camp was

31

Richardson 1992, 78.

32 Tac. Ann. 4.2, trans. Jackson 1989.

T O M G A V I N 11

within close walking distance of the centre (see above).33 The second emphasis is on the visual power that the gathering of troops was meant to have. As I have discussed, the archaeological evidence for the camp supports this motive, and so it seems wrong to dismiss Tacitus’ comments here as merely baseless criticisms of Sejanus in preparation for his attempt to seize power. Moreover, while Tacitus is certainly writing at a time in which the Praetorian Guard are themselves a particularly potent force in imperial politics, it is hard to argue that Tacitus is merely anachronistically assuming that the Praetorian Guard held the same importance in the early Principate as they did in the late 1st/early 2nd cent. AD.34 As I shall discuss below, even during the early 1st cent AD, the Guard already performed an important role, and thus held a fair amount of power within the city. Since the Guard was instrumental in maintaining the power of the princeps, it was important for him to ensure their support, most often done through the use of cash donatives, either in the form of legacies from the will of the deceased princeps or in the form of donatives promised on the new emperor’s accession.

Suetonius describes how Augustus gave each soldier in the Praetorian Guard 1,000 sesterces in his will, beginning a trend that would continue with later principes.35 Likewise, Tiberius gave legacies to the soldiers in Rome, although Suetonius does not specify the amount.36 It was not just the military nature of the Guard that made them a potent political instrument, but also their proximity to the emperor himself. An emperor who hoped to rule for the rest of his natural life, and who wanted 33 This perhaps arises as part of Tacitus’ presentation of Sejanus as duplicitous; the contrast between appearance and reality is a constant theme in the Annals, see Martin & Woodman 1989, 88.

34 Tacitus himself was active in politics in a period when the power of the Praetorian Guard was particularly visible: he held a suffect consulship in AD 97, around the same time that the ruling emperor Nerva was forced to adopt Trajan as his successor by the Praetorian Prefect Casperius Aelianus; see Dio 68.3.3-4.

35 Suet. Aug. 101.2. The Praetorian Guard were also given a large pay rise shortly before Augustus’ death (see Tac. Ann. 1.17 for the anger of the legionaries at this), most likely in order to ensure the loyalty of the Guard to his successor Tiberius, see Birley 2007, 382.

36 Suet. Tib. 76.

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to ensure the transfer of power to his chosen successor, had to ensure that he held the support of the Praetorian Guard, since they contributed significantly to his ability to retain power.

Obviously, the dangers in mistreating the Praetorian Guard (as well as the benefits of honouring them) are shown most clearly by the assassination of Caligula by members of the Guard in AD 41 and the subsequent accession of Claudius. Caligula’s erratic rule ended with his murder by Cassius Chaerea and his allies, the first overtly political action undertaken by the emperor’s personal force.37 The historical accounts regarding the assassination vary regarding the following events.

According to Suetonius and Cassius Dio, Claudius was brought to the Praetorian Camp by a group of soldiers and, with reluctance, accepted the oath of the Praetorians.38 However, Josephus’ version of events is far more elaborate, involving a meeting of the leading Praetorians after Caligula’s assassination where a decision was made to support Claudius’ claim to the principate.39 A discussion of the various motives and specifics of the situation is beyond the scope of this article; what is clear, however, is that the Praetorians acclaimed Claudius as imperator, swore an oath of loyalty to him, and thus forced the Senate to accept Claudius as princeps.40 The role of the Praetorians in Claudius’ accession is certainly made apparent by Claudius’ behaviour in the early portion of his reign.

Each member of the Guard was given a huge donative upon his accession, 15,000 sesterces according to Suetonius, 20,000 according to Josephus.41 Of course, other emperors before Claudius had given money to the Praetorians; Caligula himself had given a donative upon his suc37 For the conspiracy of Cassius Chaerea, see Suet. Cal. 56, Dio 59.25.5; cf. Bingham 2013, 25.

38 Suet. Claud. 10; Dio 60.1.3a.

39 Joseph. AJ 19.164.

40

For a more detailed discussion, see Osgood 2011, 29f.

41 Suet. Claud. 10.4; Joseph. AJ 19.164.

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cession, and this had not stopped some of the Praetorians from being implicated in his murder. However, the scale of Claudius’ handout was unprecedented: 15,000 sesterces represented six-times the annual pay of a Praetorian and, assuming the number of Praetorians to be around 9,000, this entailed Claudius paying out 135,000,000 sesterces upon his accession.42 It is possible that Claudius’ early coinage was designed in part for paying this handout, due to the Praetorian Guard featuring heavily on the coins’ reverses.43 Two examples, one showing the Praetorian Camp, the other Claudius shaking hands with a Praetorian are shown below.

Fig. 1: Aureus of AD 41/42, minted at Rome (RIC I2 Claud. 11)44 Obverse: TI CLAUD CAESAR AVG P M TR P: Head of Claudius, laureate, right.

Reverse: PRAETOR RECEPT: Claudius, bare-headed and togate, right, clasping hands with soldier, left, holding shield and aquila.

42

Taking a number between Bingham’s and Keppie’s figures; see Osgood 2011, 36.

43 In this case, die studies could be used to calculate more precisely what proportion of Claudius’ early coinage featured the Praetorian Guard; there certainly seems to be scope for future research in this field.

44

Photo © Münzkabinett der Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin

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Fig. 2: Aureus of AD 41/42, minted at Rome (RIC I2 Claud. 7)45 Obverse: TI CLAUD CAESAR AVG P M TR P: Head of Claudius, laureate, right.

Reverse: IMPER RECEPT: Battlemented wall enclosing praetorian camp; inside, soldier, holding spear, right; in front, aquila; behind, pediment with flanking walls.

No later imperial coinage features the Praetorian Guard quite as heavily as Claudius’ does and this is very clearly due to Claudius’ unique position on his accession. Having held very little political or military power before this, he owed his position more to the Praetorian Guard than any other emperor.46 Nevertheless, two precedents were set by the events surrounding the beginning of Claudius’ principate. The first was the huge donative given by Claudius to each soldier of the Praetorian Guard: an equal amount was apparently given on Nero’s accession.47 The events surrounding the Year of the Four Emperors are less specific, yet Vitellius 45

Photo © The Trustees of the British Museum / Art Resource, NY.

46 Suet. Claud. 4; cf. Osgood 2011, 30.

47 Tac. Ann. 12.69.

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certainly made promises to the members of the Guard in Rome, although he was initially unsuccessful.48 After the defeat of Otho, Vitellius managed to keep the Praetorians content with the promise of honourable discharge (which would be accompanied by a large cash sum), at least until the news that Vespasian had declared war had reached them.49 Suetonius states that on the death of Vespasian, Domitian considered paying the soldiers double what Titus had paid them in order to attempt to seize power.50 On Titus’ death, Domitian equalled his donative to the troops.51 The second precedent was the image of the future princeps being led into the Praetorian Camp, and hailed as imperator by the soldiers, occurring again with Nero, Otho, and Domitian in the 1st cent. AD and multiple times in the following centuries. The acclamation of a candidate by the Praetorians as princeps still required a grant of imperial powers by the Senate in order for the candidate to be fully legitimate; but the 1st cent. AD showed that the soldiers present in Rome played an important role during the period of uncertainty between emperors. If a would-be princeps failed to gain their support, it could prove disastrous for his accession.

In the light of the increasing importance of the Praetorians as the imperial system matured during the 1st cent. AD, I believe that we must reconsider the impact of the Praetorian Camp’s construction.

While the camp may not have the same level of decorative detail as the monuments of the Augustan period, it should not be dismissed as merely a practical project, although of course we cannot eliminate practical motives entirely. Many details concerning the site, architecture, and construction of the camp served to accent its prominence, 48 Tac. Hist. 1.74.1; cf. Tac. Hist. 1.5.1 for the mutiny amongst the Praetorians, partly motivated by the fact that they had not received their donative, promised in Galba’s name.

49 Tac. Hist. 2.67.1; the Praetorian troops normally received 5,000 denarii on their retirement, usually serving sixteen year terms, see Dio 55.23.

50 Suet. Dom. 2.3: we must obviously treat this statement critically, but it supports nonetheless the importance of the Praetorian donative in imperial power.

51

Dio 66.26.

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and thus the importance of the Praetorians, in the new imperial system. For a 21st century historian, particularly one living in a country where soldiers in uniform are an uncommon sight, it is hard to imagine the visual impact the creation of such a monument would have had on the populace of Rome. Under the Republic, armed troops had been banned from the city entirely, but now, a camp was being built only a short walk from the centre of the urban space, a camp whose very design drew attention to the power of the one who controlled the soldiery within. Just as the importance of the Praetorian Guard rose, so did their power, such that they became a notable force within the city and imperial politics, most clearly in cases of succession. This is shown not only by the huge donatives they received, but also by the repeated image of the candidate for emperor being acclaimed imperator within the walls of the Praetorian Camp. The accession of Claudius to the principate marked a series of cases in which the Praetorians themselves chose the princeps’ successor, and were adequately compensated for their support. Although Claudius was particularly beholden to the Praetorian Guard after his succession to the Principate, they remained an important body throughout the imperial period, until Constantine disbanded them in AD 312.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Bingham, S. 2013. The Praetorian Guard. A History of Rome’s Elite Special Forces (London).

Birley, A.R. 2007. ‘Making Emperors. Imperial Instrument or Independent Force?’, in Erdkamp, P. (ed.), A Companion to the Roman Army (Oxford: Blackwell).

Campbell, J.B. 1994. The Roman Army, 31 BC-AD 337: A Sourcebook (London: Routledge).

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Gargola, D.J. 1995. Lands, Laws, & Gods: Magistrates & Ceremony in the Regulation of Public Lands in Republican Rome (University of North Carolina Press).

Keppie, L.J.F. 2000. Legions and Veterans: Roman Army Papers 1971-2000 (Stuttgart).

Martin, R.H. & Woodman, A.J. 1989. Tacitus Annals Book IV (Cambridge University Press) Osgood, J. 2011. Claudius Caesar. Image and Power in the Early Roman Empire (Cambridge University Press).

Richardson, L. 1992. A New Topographical Dictionary of Ancient Rome (John Hopkins University Press).

Suetonius, 1989. Lives of the Caesars. Volume I, trans. J.C. Rolfe (Loeb).

Tacitus, 1989. Annals. Books 4-6, 11-12, trans. J. Jackson (Loeb).

Ward-Perkins, J.B. 1994. Roman Imperial Architecture (Yale University Press).

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DECEIT AND BEAUTY IN HOMER’S ODYSSEY

D E C E I T A N D B E AU T Y I N H O M E R ’ S O DY S S E Y Mo l l y Wi l l ett C or p us C hr i s t i Co llege “διὸ δεῖ τοὺς ἐντυγχάνοντας μηδαμῶς πιστεύειν αὐτοῖς.”

-Lucian A True Story 1.4 Odysseus in disguise sings of his fictitious travels in Crete to Eumaios, just as the bards and minstrels sing of tales at Troy and of the homecomings (νόστοι) of other heroes. The use of songs as the vehicles for lies presents us with an interesting dynamic; the poet seems to be undermining the truthfulness of poetry and song and highlighting the danger of trusting it. Is the poet therefore using meta-poetry to highlight, as Lucian does in his later satirical work, that poetry and song is not truth? Though Lucian points to Homer’s Odysseus as a prime example of a fallacious storyteller because of his tales of outrageous monsters, I would argue, like Parry, that his narratives in the apologoi are not presented in the world of the poem as untrue. Rather, the doubts we have about various other acts of singing throughout the poem make the audience aware of the fundamental untruth of poetry as a genre.

One of the most powerful images to do with singing in the poem is Odysseus’ encounter with the Sirens. Their song runs as follows: “οὐ γάρ πώ τις τῇδε παρήλασε νηὶ μελαίνῃ, πρίν γ᾽ ἡμέων μελίγηρυν ἀπὸ στομάτων ὄπ᾽ ἀκοῦσαι, ἀλλ᾽ ὅ γε τερψάμενος νεῖται καὶ πλείονα εἰδώς.”

- Od. 12.186-8 They are attempting to entice the sailors to listen to their song,

M O L L Y W I L L E T T 19

promising that others who have listened have gone away again in possession of a greater knowledge. This is a lie. Circe has told Odysseus only a few verses before that those who hear the sirens song never return.1 The adjectives used of the sirens’ song, both used by Circe and themselves in their song, are complementary of their musical ability.

There is effort put into stressing that their song remains aesthetically pleasing despite its fundamental untruth. Contrary to the modern views of Ethicism, the moral defect produced by Sirens’ lies does not translate to an aesthetic defect in the Homeric imagination. Indeed, the extent of the beauty attributed to the Sirens’ song suggests that lies and deceit can actually enrich the beauty of a song. The Homeric poet is in effect suggesting that his poetry benefits from the fantastical tales it contains; though you might not be able to trust it, you can nonetheless enjoy it.

The idea that beauty is not equal to goodness and truth is only briefly touched upon in the Iliad, but is indicative of how it will later be treated in the Odyssey. Helen, who is incredibly beautiful, is also described as bringing fear to the men of Troy. She laments the fact that she makes people shudder when they see her. Her beauty is the very reason that they are embroiled in such a terrible war; trusting someone so beautiful evidently has its risks. However, the case of Helen is a minor element in a poem otherwise presenting the more traditional view that beauty is trustworthy: all the heroes are presented as beautiful, and the one character, Thersites, who is presented as ugly and physically deformed, is beaten and his opinion is disregarded. While the questioning of beauty is sparse in the Iliad, it is more schematised in the Odyssey. Arguably, the greater presence of female characters and variety of settings in the Odyssey give the poet more space to explore themes of beauty and truth. We can see a shift in outlook of the poet; the concerted effort to present the beautiful as untrustworthy and dangerous shows a marked departure from the predominant attitudes of the Iliad, 1

Od. 12. 42-3

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DECEIT AND BEAUTY IN HOMER’S ODYSSEY

and adds to the suspense of the adventure narrative. If one is unable to accurately judge the integrity of a person by their appearance or skill, it becomes a lot harder to know whom one is able to trust.

This idea is particularly echoed through the presentation of Circe.

When the audience is first introduced to her in Book 102 she is described as being physically beautiful, she is weaving and the companions of Odysseus hear her singing. It is on the basis of this that they decide to approach the house and trust her. As they are soon turned to pigs, it is quite clear that their trust was misplaced! The fact that all but one of the group were deceived suggests that there is, in the characters of the apologoi, a preconceived notion of beauty and musical skill correlating with trustworthiness. It may seem strange then for Odysseus, as he himself has been made beautiful and is singing to the Phaeacians, to draw attention to this common misconception. Surely Homer would not have Odysseus implicitly tell the Phaeacians not to trust singers, whilst he himself is seeking passage home.

Weaving, like singing, is also presented as an activity to be considered with suspicion. Circe is weaving when Odysseus’ men come upon her. Here this tries to construct the homely and trustworthy facade Circe wishes to present to passers-by; it is part of her deception.

Penelope too uses weaving as part of her deception of the suitors and Helen is shown to be weaving in Book 4 before she drugs her guests. In particular, Helen and Circe’s parallel episodes of weaving and poisoning act to present the women of the Odyssey as dangerous to the male sphere despite their apparent beauty and domestication. Weaving also presents a danger to the male sphere in a more metaphorical sense. In the Iliad Helen is shown weaving a tapestry of the war. Just as Homer is weaving his tale, Helen is weaving her version of the events. The medium of weaving enables female agency in that it allows the creation of alternative narratives to oppose those of the male bards such 2

Od. 10.210ff.

M O L L Y W I L L E T T 21

as Pheimus, Demodocus, Odysseus and even Homer himself. More symbolically, of course, Helen’s weaving reveals the part she played in the instigation of the war in reality. The use of the verb “ὐφαινω” for both weaving and the conceiving of a plan presents Helen as being a calculating force who, as she weaves her tapestry, conceived of a great war and was instrumental in the creation of that same conflict. Perhaps Helen’s challenge to the male poets is not her alternative version; rather, it is the fact that while they can create fictional versions of events, it was her that engineered the reality. Just so, while Odysseus is able to construct the story of Circe for the Phaeacians, Circe is directing events on her island by luring him in and keeping Odysseus from his nostos.

G. Most argues that Odysseus emphasises the episodes of Circe and the Sirens, among others, to the Phaeacians as a part of a wider theme of bad hospitality.3 The idea of being delayed on his journey by those who appeared to be hospitable and trustworthy can be read as a veiled message to the Phaeacians regarding how Odysseus does not wish to be treated at Scheria. Indeed, there is a sense that the Phaeacians are not as trustworthy or as honest as they seem. The description of Alcinous’ palace in Book 7 is full of the language of artifice. The walls are made of bronze, with decorations in silver and gold, and there is an elaborate “θριγκὸς κυάνοιο” (cyan cornice)4. This palace is not practical, rather it is a place of show and of appearance. This is particularly emphasised by the reference to the cornice as a piece of the architecture that is purely decorative and has no structural function.

While the palace is impressive and beautiful, there is a sense that it is not quite as it seems. Just as Calypso’s island and the island of the Cyclopes are described as though they were paradises, their inhabitants provide a very real threat to the onward travels of visitors. The fact that

3

Most pg. 15-30

4

Od. 7.87

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DECEIT AND BEAUTY IN HOMER’S ODYSSEY

Athene shrouds Odysseus in a mist for him to walk to Alcinous’ palace5 indicates that he is unsafe in the Phaeacian city, and there is an explicit reference to the fact that Phaeacians do not like foreign people.6 This seems then at odds with Alcinous’ claim that the Phaeacians are good hosts. As Most argues, while most people focus on Odysseus’ tales as the lies on Scheria, perhaps the real liars are the Phaeacians. They say that they will take him home but repeatedly express a desire to keep him there as a husband for Nausicaa. These contradictions support the idea that Odysseus is tailoring his narrative to offer parallels to the Phaeacians; in effect, he is warning them to take him home else he will give them a similar report to the monsters and manipulative goddesses who have proved untrustworthy and have lied to him.

Ironically, however, the threat of the sirens is that their song has lured sailors to their untimely deaths, just as Odysseus’ song ultimately leads the Phaeacian sailors to their demise. Considering the fact that this is a tale being told to the Phaeacians by Odysseus, there is a certain amount of dramatic irony played out that acts to reinforce a wider message in the poem that songs are fundamentally untrustworthy. This consequence for the wider poem is further supported through the link between sirens and muses, both divine beings with the power of beautiful song. Indeed, Pseudo-Apollodorus later attests that the sirens were the daughters of the muse Melpomene, although this is not a consistent tradition throughout antiquity. However, it is typically thought that if something is said to be from the muses it is accurate. The sirens claim that they know everything; this is directly reminiscent of the description of the muses at the beginning of the catalogue of ships in the Iliad. Indeed, the Sirens’ claim to omniscience is supported when they recognise Odysseus without introduction. The accuracy of the muses is brought into question if we accept that the muses have a close relation to the devious sirens. It suggests that they are able to tell both truth 5

Od. 7.42

6

Od. 7.32-3

M O L L Y W I L L E T T 23

and lies as is attested in Hesiod.7 Therefore, Homer’s poem, that calls upon the muse to sing of Odysseus’ travels,8 also becomes less certainly truthful. This uncertainty regarding the poem as a whole is a self-conscious attempt by the poet to draw attention to the nature of song and poetry; blind faith in any song, even his own, is not advisable.

The sirens also offer to sing to Odysseus and send him on his way a wiser man. It is implied that they would tell him about the future.

Here the sirens are tempting Odysseus with knowledge that is reserved for seers and singers (through the muses). Thus, the sirens reinforce their link with the muses and flatter Odysseus by suggesting that he is on par with other divinely inspired singers. Homer goes further and links Odysseus with the muses. Just as Athene shrouds Odysseus in mist when he approaches his audience,9 the Phaeacians, Hesiod’s muses are covered in air or mist at the outset of his Theogony.10 Here Odysseus’ disguise is revealing of his true nature as a skilled and beautiful singer.

This idea - that disguise represents a further truth - is explored when in lying and disguising himself, Odysseus assumes the character of a beggar. Odysseus is embodying the idea that he has not yet returned to his kingly state. It becomes clear that his status as a king has to be regained through reasserting himself in his household. Thus, through his lies Odysseus reveals his true nature and his circumstances. Here we can infer that the poet appreciates the value of poetry, although it is by its very nature fallacious, as a means of elucidating truths.

While Lucian suggests that he is a better liar than other authors because he is upfront about his lies, I would argue that the Homeric poet too indicates that he is aware of, and is deliberately using, lies and deceit to weave a tale that is no less valuable because of it.

7

Theogony 27-8

8

Od. 1.3

9

Od. 7.42

10

Theogony 10

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DECEIT AND BEAUTY IN HOMER’S ODYSSEY

BIBLIOGRAPHY Most, G. W., ‘The Structure and Function of Odysseus’ Apologoi’ TAPA 119 (1989) de Jong, I., A Narratological Commentary to the Odyssey, Cambridge 2002

E L E A N O R M A R T I N 25

RO M E : T H E E T E R N A L M U S E U M El ea n o r Ma r ti n Br a s e n o s e C o l lege To think about the museums which you might have visited in your life is to think of places like the British Museum, the Louvre, and the Metropolitan Museum of Art – institutions in major cities which collect, preserve, organize, and display objects of cultural and artistic worth from across the world and across history. The mission statements of these museums, clearly advertised on their respective websites, all sound fairly similar: they wish to be diverse and global, to foster learning and growth, and to look to the future while preserving the past. These principles guide their exhibitions, the type and range of objects within them, and can even influence the content of the information placards accompanying each artifact. That a city could be a museum might at first seem counterintuitive, but such an idea relies more on how we think a museum should look than on what a museum is conceptually. The Museum of American History in Washington D.C. houses objects which form part of the American identity, from military medals of honor to Julia Child’s kitchen, but American ideals are equally visible in the monumental topography of city’s National Mall. Compare a building filled with various objects to a carefully orchestrated city plan, and you will find at the heart of each the same conceptual function.1 This argument can be applied to any number of cities invested with significant symbolic capital, but it is a particularly useful way of thinking about Rome, from the Republican period to today: as an urban space it has consistently been turned into a museum, to an ex1 S. Rutledge, Ancient Rome as a Museum: Power, Identity, and the Culture of Collecting (Oxford, 2012).

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tent which few other cities can match. In this discussion, I will focus first on the new Ara Pacis Museum as a type of museum which fits our expectations, before turning to the way in which the Fascist dictator Benito Mussolini turned Rome into a museum and, finally, to Augustan Rome, another example of urban-space-as-museum, with which Mussolini was in dialogue. By working backwards chronologically, one sees how the organization and presentation of buildings as a means of asserting a mission or ideology means that Rome is still, and may always be, a museum.

The current Ara Pacis Museum, designed by Richard Meier to house the Augustan altar, opened in 2006. This was preceded by nearly a decade of delays, due to the aesthetic and political controversy surrounding the monument. The new museum replaced the original structure, designed by the Italian Rationalist architect Vittorio Ballio Morpurgo in 1938 under the direction of Mussolini, and was one of the first new buildings to be constructed in the center of Rome since the 1950s. This more recent construction was intended to demonstrate that Rome was now willing to relax its stance against new building projects and, just as importantly, to distance it from its Fascist past, of which many buildings in the city besides the former Ara Pacis Museum continued to serve as reminders. However, politicians and regular Romans alike objected to its modern design and colossal footprint (plans included an auditorium and a separate exhibition space) both of which were equally as oblivious to the surrounding architecture as the Fascist-era museum had been. For example, the design has resulted in the obstruction of the views of two churches, San Rocco and San Girolamo dei Croati, views of which have now been cropped and robbed of their full effect by a travertine wall extending from the museum to the road beside the Tiber.

This criticism was echoed across the world: in an article for the New York Times written shortly after the opening of Meier’s museum, Nicolai Ouroussoff called it “a contemporary expression of what

E L E A N O R M A R T I N 27

can happen when an architect fetishizes his own style out of a sense of self-aggrandisement”.2 The ideology of a modern, future-facing Italy – which the design of the museum was meant to communicate – was met with opposition by those who thought the museum should send a slightly different message: that the city’s modern architecture should not stick out, but should rather be sympathetic to the older buildings in the vicinity. This is an example of a museum which is controversial not for the objects it houses, but for its physical structure, for the message conveyed by its design, and for how these relate to the museum’s surroundings. In this way, the structure of the new Ara Pacis Museum functions as one ‘exhibit’ inside the museum of the city as a whole, and its critics were concerned with how the structure related to and functioned within what might be thought of as the museum’s mission statement.

Mussolini’s Ara Pacis Museum was no less a part of the fabric of the conceptual museum of Fascist Rome. In the 1930s he ordered Augustus’ Altar of Peace to be excavated from the four meters of silt deposits in the Tiber’s former floodplain under which it had then been buried. The altar, located on the northern outskirts of the city – where it was first erected in 9 BC – was reconstructed a short distance away next to the Mausoleum of Augustus. His building of a new piazza, the Piazza Augusto Imperatore, and the demolition of the old neighborhood surrounding the Mausoleum of Augustus were also elements of his plan to celebrate the 2000th anniversary of Augustus’ birth with the opening of the Ara Pacis Museum in 1938. The celebration, as well as the lasting architectural changes, were meant to pay homage to the glory of both Augustus and Mussolini.

This development coincided with changes made across the city.

Fascist ideology looked back to the imperial period, a time when 2 Nicolai Ourousoff, ‘An Oracle of Modernism in Ancient Rome’ (Sept. 25, 2006), The New York Times.

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ROME: THE ETERNAL MUSEUM

Rome was powerful both politically and militarily and was full of opportunity, growth, and beauty. This ideology, and Mussolini’s intention to articulate it through Rome’s urban topography, is evident in what he said to the first Governor of Rome upon his inauguration in December 1925: “In five years Rome must appear marvellous to all the people of the world: vast, ordered, powerful as it was in the time of the first emperor Augustus. You will continue to free the trunk of the great oak from everything which chokes it still…everything which has grown up in the centuries of decadence must be swept away”.3 He wanted to turn Rome into a monument to Italian Fascism, a project which involved erasing references to the previous government, which Mussolini deemed a failure. These would be replaced with Fascist buildings while Rome’s Renaissance, Medieval, and, most importantly, Antique architecture was simultaneously elevated.

Throughout Italy, Mussolini advertised the new opportunities for the young and enhanced infrastructure and civil administration through new post offices, schools, and sports centers. All were decorated with Mussolini’s chosen symbol, the fasces (itself, of course, an ancient emblem of power), clearly engraved into their structures. The return of imperial prosperity and glory, and his personal affiliation with Augustus as instigator of this return, was marked by his excavation and restoration of many imperial structures. These included the imperial fora and the Circus Maximus, with the wide boulevards connecting these monuments also used for grand Fascist military parades which echoed ancient triumphs. In this way, Mussolini’s redesigning of the city can be seen as a rebranding of sorts: the ‘mission statement’ of Rome as a museum undergoes a transformation, and the curator Mussolini - re-makes the Augustan museum spaces in order to most effectively communicate it to both native and foreign visitors.

3 Mussolini, speech in the Campidoglio, 31 December 1925, in G. Pini and D. Susmel (eds.) Opera omnia (Florence, 1951-78), vol. 22, 47-8, translated by T. Benton, ‘Humanism and Fascism’, in E. S. Shaffer (ed.), Comparative Criticism: Volume 23, Humanist Traditions in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge, 2001), 94

E L E A N O R M A R T I N 29

Mussolini’s curatorial changes to Rome’s urban topography referred back to those which Augustus had made during his own time in power between his victory over Antony at the Battle of Actium in 31 BC and his death in AD 14. While there are some similarities between the ideologies of the two men, there are also striking differences. Mussolini wished to erase any connection with the regime that came before him, whereas Augustus’ imperial policy and ideology were embedded within the façade of a ‘restored Republic’: the notion of the new leader, the Princeps, as primus inter pares among the senators (a concept which gave his new system validity and security) was reflected in the building projects which Augustus undertook during the first half of his reign.

In his Forum, built as an extension to the Republican-era Forum Romanum and the Forum of Caesar, he had erected statues of himself in military garb, celebrating his place at the head of Rome’s military might. Near these were statues of Mars and Venus, gods with whom he had a personal connection, which advertised the personality and power of the Princeps himself as central to his ideology. The Temple of Mars Ultor, vowed by Augustus after the Battle of Philippi against Caesar’s assassins in 42 and inaugurated in his Forum in 2 BC, gave the god a new place of honor within the center of the city, and also housed the recovered standards originally taken from the forces of Crassus during the Parthian war. To all who visited, these monuments advertised Rome’s return to military glory and renown, something which had already been a defining feature of Roman identity during the late Republic, under Augustus’ leadership. The forum also contained two semi-circular exedrae through which, according to Suetonius, Augustus “honored the memory of leaders who had found the empire of the Roman people small and left it great”. “For this reason,” he continued, “he restored the public works each had undertaken, leaving the inscriptions in place, and dedicated statues of all of them with their triumphal ornaments in the two colonnades of his Forum, also proclaiming in an edict that he had done this so

30

ROME: THE ETERNAL MUSEUM

that he himself, while he lived, and the rulers of later ages would be required by the Roman people to take the lives of these men as their model” (Suet. Div. Aug. 31.5).4 The Forum of Augustus is therefore a central exhibit within the museum of Augustan Rome: the artifacts on display include a blend of Republican structures, respectfully restored without alteration, and structures and statues of import to the Princeps himself, referencing his religious affiliations, military achievements, and political auctoritas.

Augustus’ appropriation of the Palatine Hill, formerly a residential area for wealthy senators, for his imperial palace served as an exhibition of how he wanted his Principate to be integrated into the vestiges of the Republic. His integral position was reflected in the centralized location of the Palatine, which overlooked the fora. In addition, the inclusion of a shrine to Vesta within his house equated his personal hearth with the civic hearth of the state. As is the case with most brick-and-mortar museums, the public had virtually no influence over the ideology or the identity reflected in the ‘exhibits’ on display in the center of their city. Everything was subject to Augustus, curator of his conceptual museum of imperial ideology and of what it meant to be Roman under his gift of restored peace and prosperity.

His emphasis on the official story of the Principate through the urban topography solidified the new system and ensured its continuation after his death.

Under the autocracies of the Augustan Principate and of twentieth-century Fascism, Rome’s topography served as a museum for the ideologies of the men who held supreme power in the same way that traditional museums reflect what their curators and board members believe the museum’s message should be. Both felt that Rome’s physical appearance should reflect its position – realized or envisioned 4 Suetonius, The Lives of the Caesars: The Divine Augustus in Catharine Edwards (ed.), Oxford World’s Classics: Suetonius: Lives of the Caesars (2000).

E L E A N O R M A R T I N 31

– as a cultural, economic, and military power, with their authority as leaders and restorers of Rome’s greatness evident in the design and decoration of their buildings. Just as the Roman government hesitated in taking widespread decisive action against the Fascist architecture spread throughout the city in the decades following Mussolini’s execution in 1945, so Augustus’ successors (particularly the Flavians in the late first century AD) had to negotiate delicately with Augustan civic developments in making the center of the city their own.5 Today, Rome, a city which prides itself on the history evident in its architectural layout, is left with the vestiges of these ideologies, not to mention those of the nearly two thousand years between Augustus and Mussolini, during which many powerful Medieval and Renaissance families imposed their ideological visions upon the urban fabric of Rome. The 2006 controversy surrounding the new Ara Pacis Museum demonstrates that even a conventional museum can serve as an exhibit in the wider conceptual museum of the city in which it was built. This demonstrates the difficulties of curating a new Roman ideology through the city’s topography without levelling huge swathes of the city and of finding a compromise between divergent ideological outlooks, potentially for the first time, in a place where democracy is a relatively new concept. Perhaps this pattern of Rome as a museum, with its ideologies communicating with their predecessors, is only possible under an autocratic government. Washington D.C. is able to emphasize democratic ideals through the National Mall because it started from scratch, and has continued to represent such ideals in its government since its founding. By contrast, many of Rome’s architectural exhibits are steeped in autocratic ideals, making it difficult, perhaps even impossible, for the city to continue to turn itself into a museum as it has consistently done for over two millennia.

5 P. Heslin, ‘Augustus, Domitian, and the so-called Horologium Augusti’, JRS 97 (2007), 16-18.

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ROME: THE ETERNAL MUSEUM

BIBLIOGRAPHY Mussolini, speech in the Campidoglio, 31 December 1925, in G. Pini and D. Susmel (eds.) Opera omnia (Florence, 1951-78), vol.

22, 47-8, translated by T. Benton, ‘Humanism and Fascism’, in E. S. Shaffer (ed.), Comparative Criticism: Volume 23, Humanist Traditions in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge, 2001), 94 Nicolai Ourousoff, ‘An Oracle of Modernism in Ancient Rome’ (Sept. 25, 2006), The New York Times.

S. Rutledge, Ancient Rome as a Museum: Power, Identity, and the Culture of Collecting (Oxford, 2012).

Suetonius, The Lives of the Caesars: The Divine Augustus in Catharine Edwards (ed.), Oxford World’s Classics: Suetonius: Lives of the Caesars (2000).

A L E X G R I N D L E Y 33

A CASE FOR SEBASTIANE: A NEXUS OF RECEPTION Al ex Gr i n d l ey Wo rc e st e r Co llege “Jarman strove in his work to invent new ways of seeing and of representing the relation between the past and the present, of exploring the ways in which history inhabits and informs the present”1 Derek Jarman’s 1976 film Sebastiane has received relatively little scholarly attention from the perspective of Classical reception or reception more generally.2 This is surprising, considering the film’s unique perspective: it is a homoerotic appropriation of Christian hagiography, a love-letter to Pasolini, a deliberately disorientating experiment in the relationship between history and the present, a film that, more than forty years on, still remains one of the few dialogued entirely in Latin. Why, then, has the film received such little discussion? There are many reasons one could attribute to this; Classical reception studies’ frequent fixation upon Hollywood3, Jarman’s rather brazen intentional use of anachronism, and the lack of any specific Classical text upon which the film is based ,all may have contributed to neglect towards the film. There is also the issue of the film itself being somewhat easy to dismiss as “bad” on simplistic aesthetic grounds, and thus also to dismiss its worth, incorrectly, as an object 1

Ellis (2009), Derek Jarman’s Angelic Conversations, p. viii

2 Wyke (2005) remains one of the only specific analyses of the film as a piece of Classical reception. Carla-Uhink (2017) offers analysis of the film in the context of the reception of Christianity and Late Antiquity in film. Beyond this one often finds little attention granted to the film beyond passing mention or allusion; it is for the most part ignored entirely in works on Classics in film.

3 Paul (2010) discusses this issue in detail (along with other critiques of Classical film reception’s common methodologies and practices)

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A CASE FOR SEBASTIANE: A NEXUS OF RECEPTION

of study. Jarman has jokingly described himself as “cine-illiterate”4 which, while self-effacing, has a kernel of truth in it. His works’ unconventional aesthetics and experiments in form, especially in his earlier works like Sebastiane, can often prove alienating towards the viewer. Perhaps its content may also have led to its neglect; unapologetically homoerotic and sexually explicit, it forcefully challenges and confronts the heteronormative gaze, to the point where it can, again, become disregarded, this time on the grounds of the film being no more than pornographic titillation. This is an incredibly reductive approach to the film, and also to the greater meaning sex or eroticism can hold in film more generally. It is easy for us in a modern context to forget the impact such a frank depiction of homosexuality in film could and did have at the time of its release, just nine years after the decriminalisation of homosexuality in the UK; Jarman in one of his autobiographies directly calls the film “historically important” since it “didn’t present homosexuality as a problem”,5 placing it in stark contrast to the homophobia that characterised both mainstream cinema and lived reality for most in this period. The sexually explicit scenes therefore simultaneously become both subversive and affirming at once, seeming to seek to challenge the audience far more than arouse them.

Having analysed the question of why the film is frequently forgotten in discussions of reception we are still left with the question of why the film is important to analyse through the lens of reception; the primary question that this article seeks to address. Beyond its supposed shortcomings, Sebastiane functions as a highly complex formulation of and comment upon reception as a process. The film is not only a piece of Classical reception in and of itself, but a dialogue with previous manifestations of reception in both film and the historical past. This process, however, goes far beyond mere reference and 4

Lippard (1996) By angels driven: The films of Derek Jarman, p. 3

5

Jarman, D (1992) At your own risk: A Saint’s Testament, p. 83

A L E X G R I N D L E Y 35

allusion; Jarman not only alludes to previous receptions, but subjects them to great scrutiny, subverting viewers’ expectations and making them question the process of reception itself. Therefore the film is ultimately a commentary on reception, a reception of receptions, creating a network of subversive allusion and intertextuality which interacts to create the experience of the film. This meta-commentary brings together seemingly disparate threads from film history, art history, hagiography, contemporary politics, and historiography with a winking self-awareness to construct an invaluable and unique work: a nexus of reception.

The appropriation and adaptation of the past in order to create new narratives resonant with the contemporary present is a characteristic found throughout Jarman’s oeuvre, from his Renaissance biopic Caravaggio (1986) to his Marlowe-adaptation Edward II (1991). His aims in his historically inspired works are never simply recreation of history or ‘authentic’ adaptation; his goal is always to probe the relationship between the past and present, to question established narratives and blur temporal lines. As Richardson explains, “The effect of [Jarman’s] anachronism is to collapse the intervening years and emphasise the relevance of his images throughout history.”6 This supposed “collapse” of the boundary between past and present is especially present in Sebastiane, perhaps the most out of his entire filmography (apart from his bizarre exploration of Elizabethan time-travel and the punk movement in 1978’s Jubilee). The opening shot of the film is a painted stage background of the Colosseum, signalling from the offset the unreal nature of what is to come: this will not be a ‘true’ representation of antiquity but a performance of it. While all historical films may be read as performative expressions of contemporary conceptions of the past, for “the historical film is

6

Richardson (2009), The Queer Cinema of Derek Jarman, p. 59

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A CASE FOR SEBASTIANE: A NEXUS OF RECEPTION

always contemporary”,7 Jarman goes further than most by calling attention to this process and deliberately exploiting this unreality. In this opening shot the dissonance that comes to characterise the film is also made immediately apparent via Brian Eno’s haunting ambient score, eerie synthesisers juxtaposed with an image of antiquity. A distinctly modern form of music has been imposed upon the past, and we find the temporal lines already blurring. This all becomes most apparent, however, in the next scene, the anachronistic tour-de-force of the entire film, the orgy.

It opens with close-up of dancer Lindsay Kemp in androgynous and surreal make-up, his face painted unnaturally white and contrasted with red glitter that almost evokes blood. His face writhes as if in the midst of sexual pleasure; this is not a film that will conform to expectations of how antiquity is typically or “ought” to be represented. The camera pans out and we see he is centre stage, performing a bizarre, ritualistic and highly sexual dance for the onlooking party-goers. Supporting dancers in similarly surreal makeup and sporting comically large phalluses prance around him, culminating in white paint being thrown over Kemp (the allusion to ejaculation so obvious it hardly requires mentioning). Everything about this sequence is intended as disorienting to the spectator. While the orgy scene has been a staple of representations of Rome since the silent era, this scene is rather unprecedented in comparison with earlier examples of said scenes in terms of its unambiguous explicit sexuality and its unapologetic depiction of homoeroticism, which had both otherwise only been covertly alluded to. Moreover, it lacks the moralising dimension that characterises many depictions of the orgy up to this point, especially those found in the mainstream Hollywood swordand-sandal epics of the 30s through to the 50s. Raucci, in her article analysing Roman orgy scenes in film, states that “these sexual scenes offer the audience a subtle, yet effective means of appreciating the vir7

Wyke (1997) Projecting the Past: Ancient Rome, Cinema and History, p.36

A L E X G R I N D L E Y 37

tue and morality of the different characters of a production”,8 whereby those participating in the orgy are often framed so as to induce moral judgement in the viewer, while the moral centre or protagonist of the film may be shown to reject the decadence of the orgy in order to invoke a positive reaction.9 Sebastiane’s orgy completely lacks these moralising frameworks: the audience may project their own moral judgement on the screen, but there is nothing in the scene’s aesthetics or composition to deliberately encourage it. The party-goers watch Kemp’s dance as the viewer does, but there is no suggestion that they are not enjoying the display. The scene revels in itself and presents itself, almost tauntingly, as a challenge to normative cinematic representations of not only orgies, but Rome as a whole.

Kemp’s performance also highlights the other subversive element to this scene: almost all of the guests to the orgy are Jarman’s own famous friends and associates from the queer art world of contemporary London. The camera frequently focuses on the faces of the party-goers, lingering as if to allow a moment of recognition: there is also a deliberate call out to Mammea Morgana (when out of costume, the punk icon Jordan) in her jarring modern latex outfit.

We are again deliberately disoriented but this time on the temporal axis. It becomes impossible to discern whether we are in the present or the past; the presence of Diocletian and Sebastian suggests we are experiencing a retelling of St Sebastian’s story, but modern London persistently interrupts any time Classical modes attempt to completely assert themselves. Sebastian and his story are not allowed to exist in isolation or on their own terms: the present is inescapable, commenting on the reciprocal nature of historical reception, as the present informs how we view the past and vice versa.

8 Raucci (2013) ‘ The Order of Orgies: Sex and the Cinematic Roman’ in Cyrino (ed.), Screening Love and Sex in the Ancient World, p. 144 9 For example the trope of the pure and moral Christian woman who rejects the decadence of the orgy e.g. The Sign of the Cross (1932), Quo Vadis (1951)

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A CASE FOR SEBASTIANE: A NEXUS OF RECEPTION

Beyond the orgy comes Sebastian’s exile to the hinterlands of the Empire, bringing with it far more complex subversions and commentaries of reception. The beginning of the film’s ‘modernity’ lapsing into a more identifiably ‘ancient’ setting in a desolate landscape mirrors the beginning of Pasolini’s Edipo Re (1967), with its turn from a recognisable present into a deliberately alienating representation of the past once Oedipus has been abandoned in the desert. However, while the aesthetic and structural debt to Pasolini is clear here, Jarman does not settle for mere imitation and instead pushes the dislocation of the past and present even further. Even when we are in the company of a Roman legion we find Max reminiscing about participating in the films of Cecil DeMille, or speaking of the “perversity” of a recent theatre production of the Satyricon by ‘Philistinus’ - a blatant reference to Fellini’s Satyricon. Yet as Max mentions this Satyricon production the legion are communally bathing, a characteristically Roman practice, and the camera’s gaze focuses upon a character who cleans himself with a strigil, another Classical symbol. Jarman has created a complex network and dialogue between his reference points. He directly alludes to Pasolini yet deliberately alters how it manifests, but he does not fully go against Pasolini’s presentation either; the temporal dislocation and modern anachronistic intrusions continue where it does not in Pasolini’s work, yet this part of the film is still very firmly located in the world of antiquity, unlike the orgy.

Jarman’s deployment of reception and intertextuality thus does not allow for simplistic or reductive readings: he does not just do the opposite of what is expected or what has come before, but directly critiques that which is expected, creating an ambiguous, surreal space that reflects back upon and questions the contemporary space of the viewer.

This is also particularly apparent in the film’s rather peculiar approach to Christianity within the film. Despite this supposedly being a story of the saint’s martyrship, Sebastian’s Christianity is dubious at best. He is banished after the orgy for defending a Christian, not

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because he himself expresses that he is a Christian. Moreover while the other characters in the legion frequently taunt him for being a Christian, such as Max’s jibes that he is a “Christian whore”, the only explicit affirmation from Sebastian that he considers himself Christian is in answer to the question “Are you still a Christian?” from Severus. Even if we are to accept that Sebastian conceptualises himself as a Christian, his piety is articulated in terms completely different to the expressions of Christian religiosity with which we are familiar. Sebastian’s worship is oriented towards praising a god of the sun, who in one speech is identified as Phoebus Apollo, in highly erotically charged words: the god’s beauty is emphasised above all else. These prayers are also accompanied by a highly voyeuristic gaze from the camera, focusing upon Sebastian’s nude body as he caresses it and gazes lovingly at his own reflection like a Narcissus. His piety is expressed not only “expressed in vividly homoerotic terms”10 but in terms Richardson correctly identifies as autoerotic.11 Is this Christianity? Paganism? Or something else entirely? By presenting Sebastian’s spirituality in such an ambiguous manner, the film draws out how personal belief and expression may often be in conflict with constructed patterns of religiosity, and so cannot always be reduced or straightforwardly mapped onto discrete labels.

This ambiguous attitude to Christianity is further complicated when one considers the saint’s history of appropriation as a symbol of latent homosexuality.12 The ephebic Apolline nudes, serene or ecstatic in the midst of their execution, that characterise the Renaissance iconography13 of the artist came to be interpreted as a symbol of 10

Dyer (1990) Now You See It: Studies on Lesbian and Gay Film, p. 169

11

Richardson (2009), p. 108

12 See Kaye (1996) for a comprehensive and authoritative analysis of this history and iconography 13 Evoking painterly compositions is a Jarman trademark and this film is no different. It deliberately evokes a number of said paintings in its shot composition, E.g. Reni’s Sebastian mirroring the film Sebastian’s execution with his hands tied up and a single arrow

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perverse or transgressive sexuality, due to the saint’s perceived sexual gratification at his own martyrdom: as Jarman himself puts it, the saint is “in Love with his martyrdom.”14 He therefore came to be adopted by a number of artists and creatives from the Victorian era onwards as an allusive symbol of homoerotic desire: a transgressive reformulation of iconography associated with an institution that so frequently repressed and punished expressions of said desire. The film therefore seems to be far more concerned with this reception and reinterpretation of Sebastian’s symbolism rather than his story itself.

Homoeroticism and queer desire dominate the narrative and inform almost every aspect of the film, to the extent that it completely subsumes and reformulates certain aspects of Sebastian’s traditional story. Sebastian’s sentencing to death only comes after his complete rejection of his commander Severus’ advances; he may be punished for expressing his religious beliefs by Severus throughout the film, but the ultimate punishment does not come until Severus has flown into a violent rage from his despair at rejection. His punishments of Sebastian can also be interpreted as merely an expression of sadistic desires towards Sebastian, rather than acting upon some urge or duty to punish him for his religion. It must also be noted that Justin, who explicitly identifies as a Christian, is not punished by Severus or at least not in the same violent ways as he tortures Sebastian, and his death comes at the hands of Max after an attempt to defend Sebastian from a threat of sexual violence. Again this death is not explicitly linked to being on account of his Christianity. What was traditionally a story of Christian persecution becomes devoid of this religious context - his death becomes a manifestation of a jilted lover’s spite, and the legion’s (and perhaps also Rome’s) cruelty and complicity in enabling Severus’ actions. piercing his armpit, or the arrangement of the soldiers around Sebastian at the end of the film mirroring the six executioners surrounding the saint in the Pollaiuolo brothers’ “The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian”.

14

Jarman (1984), Dancing Ledge, p. 142

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We might also interpret Sebastian’s exile in a similar way; in the opening exposition, Sebastian is called Diocletian’s “favourite”, and the relationship between the two is made clear when the two exchange a kiss during the orgy scene. Sebastian’s exile comes to be more a ‘falling out of favour’ with Diocletian than an explicit act of persecution against his beliefs, since as previously stated we do not know what these are yet beyond ‘Christian-sympathetic’. Another key part of the saint’s story is thus again reinterpreted in the context of a spiteful former lover. Jarman can therefore be seen as remythologising Christianity into a context wherein Sebastian as homosexual symbol is front and centre in its importance. However I would not go as far to say that this therefore makes the film negative or excessively critical towards Christianity, or at least not in isolation; the film may deconstruct and critique Christian belief but it also does this with the Roman Empire. Both institutions are presented ambiguously.

By contrast pagan Rome may allow for great sexual freedom, but its agents are also myopic, misogynist and violent to a degree that the Christian (or alleged Christian) characters simply are not. So we once again find ourselves confronted with themes and questions which the film has raised which do not allow for simple answers, confronting and interrogating the viewer along the lines of historical, religious, or cultural interpretation and reception in ways which are quite foreign to typical viewing experiences.

Jarman’s Sebastiane is in a constant dialogue with its myriad of influences , always subverting one’s expectations in its interpretations of the past. Nothing remains fixed or left unexamined in its critical approach to reception. History is reinterpreted, as are past reinterpretations of this history, creating a work that is a nexus of intertextual relationships. While the film is certainly flawed in many respects and is by no means a masterpiece, it has a rather unique potential to be approached and interpreted from the perspective of reception studies.

Its uniquely self-aware, confrontational approach to reception and the historical tradition as a whole make it a particularly challenging

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but ultimately rewarding and rich work to analyse through this lens.

While this article is by no means comprehensive, I hope it at least demonstrates the potential such an approach can yield, and how widening our perspective of films considered worthy of study beyond more straightforward historical narratives can productively challenge the assumptions we may hold of Classical receptions within film.

BIBLIOGRAPHY Carla-Uhink, F. (2017) ‘Thinking through the Ancient World: “Late Antique Movies” as a Mirror of Shifting Attitudes towards Christian Religion’ in Pomeroy, A. (ed.) A Companion to Ancient Greece and Rome on Screen Dyer, R. (1990) Now You See It: Studies on Lesbian and Gay Film Ellis, J. (2009). Derek Jarman’s Angelic Conversations Jarman, D (1984) Dancing Ledge Jarman, D (1992) At your own risk: A Saint’s Testament Kaye, R. (1996) ‘Losing His Religion: Saint Sebastian as Contemporary Gay Martyr’ in Horne, P and Lewis, R (ed.) Outlooks: Lesbian and Gay Sexualities and Visual Cultures man

Lippard, C. ed. (1996) By angels driven : The films of Derek Jar-

Paul, J. (2010) ‘Cinematic receptions of antiquity: the current state of play’, Classical Receptions Journal, Volume 2, Issue 1

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Raucci, S. (2013) ‘The Order of Orgies: Sex and the Cinematic Roman’ in Cyrino, M. (ed.), Screening Love and Sex in the Ancient World Richardson, N. (2009), The Queer Cinema of Derek Jarman Wyke, M. (1997) Projecting the Past: Ancient Rome, Cinema and History Wyke, M. (2005) ‘Shared Sexualities: Roman Soldiers, Derek Jarman’s Sebastiane, and British Homosexuality’ in Joshel, S., Malamud, M., & McGuire, D. (eds.) Imperial projections : Ancient Rome in modern popular culture