by David Potter
Their fascination derived less from a desire to learn from other cultures than from a smug satisfaction that the world under Rome’s control embraced the collected wisdom of sages from all eras and all places. The fascination with new religious understanding from outside the Graeco-Roman tradition lies behind the adoption of a number of Eastern cults in the first century AD, whose popularity continued to expand over following centuries. One of these was the cult of Isis and Serapis, originally invented, it seems, by the first Ptolemaic king of Egypt in the early fourth century BC. Supported by an extensive mythology and a large body of religious texts – especially hymns in praise of Isis – the cult took hold throughout the Roman empire. Another cult that gained a huge following was that of the Persian sun-god Mithras, which came to prominence in the later first century AD. The Roman form of Mithraism came via a sect in the area of eastern Turkey known as Commagene, who adopted traditions of Persian worship that had existed there since the days of Alexander the Great.
Mithraism is an especially interesting cult both because of the complexity of its belief system and the speed with which it spread around the empire, having been devised, it seems, by a rather small group of initiates in the first century AD – the parallel with another religious movement that developed in Palestine at roughly the same period is striking, and speaks to a need on the part of people living in the empire for certainties that came from outside the bounds of traditional classical culture. Mithras’ rites were based on a complex mixture of astrology and myth. Members of this all-male cult were arranged into a hierarchy of seven grades, with the highest grade usually reserved for the individual who had the highest social standing in the world at large. The seven grades, which corresponded to the seven planets known to ancient astronomy, were the Father (Saturn), Heliodromos or ‘Sun Runner’ (the Sun), Persian (Moon), Lion (Jupiter), Soldier (Mars), Nymphus (Venus) and the Raven (Mercury). Rituals of Mithraism included an initiation banquet commemorating the meal that Mithras took with the Sun after he had created the world by killing a cosmic bull. The flowing blood of the slain bull was supposedly the source of all life and vegetation on Earth. During this ceremony, the Father pointed a bow at a naked initiate, recalling Mithras’ firing of an arrow at a stone, bringing forth water. Another rite, the procession of the Heliodromos, mimicked the journey of the sun through the equinoxes and symbolized the journey taken by the human soul.
Mithraism’s appeal was enhanced by the stress that its powerful liturgy placed on secrecy; because Mithras had killed the cosmic bull in a cave, the cult’s temples, or Mithraea (singular: Mithraeum), were all located under ground. There was also a great emphasis on loyalty and discipline, making Mithraism highly attractive to soldiers. Mithraea were especially common where legions were stationed – one such ritual chamber has been found under Hadrian’s Wall, and another at Dura Europus, a garrison city on the empire’s far-eastern edge, attesting to the way that new cults could become common intellectual currency throughout the empire.
The rise of Christianity
Aspects of both the cults of Isis and Mithras, which promised salvation in an afterlife to devoted acolytes, were reflected in yet another Eastern cult that emerged in the course of the first century AD. Unlike the other two, however, this cult was far less readily absorbed into the bounds of conventional society. True, the cult of Isis had on occasion been officially suppressed – even being outlawed altogether for a while in Rome during the reign of Tiberius after its priests facilitated a notorious sex scandal involving people of senatorial status – but it never fundamentally challenged the norms of Roman society. Still less the cult of Mithras, which could even be construed as being openly supportive of the status quo. The same could not be said, however, of the cult whose central tenet was that a Jewish prophet executed c. AD 36 by the Roman governor of Judea was the son of God and the saviour of mankind.
The fervent belief of the first followers of Jesus in the corruption of the world around them, and the rejection by many of any deity other than the One God of Jewish scripture, set the new movement at odds with all its neighbours. Christianity, as it emerged from the teachings of the first generation of preachers after the execution of Jesus, appealed to people as a genuine alternative to current religious practices. To be sure, other religious groups – notably the Celtic Druids – had found themselves at variance with the Roman state, but none of these other movements had texts in a language – Greek – that was universally understood.
Christianity appealed especially to people seeking an alternative to conventional morality. Unlike the Isis or Mithras cults, it turned not on the marvellous actions of a god, but rather on the suffering of a human being who had dared to defy established authority. Within a couple of generations, Christians had begun to produce a literature unequalled in its complexity and modernity, addressing as it did not some mythic past, but the conditions of life in the here and now. Even though splinter groups produced their own books of revelation that made the message of Jesus far more arcane than its expression in the four gospels and the letters of the early teachers, they still adhered to a core narrative that was firmly established by the reign of Domitian.
People were drawn to the new faith both because it was wholly independent of the power structure of the state, and by its insistence on a strict moral code. The often brutal response of the Roman government only served to increase Christianity’s popular appeal and publicize its message. Nero blamed Christians for the great fire of Rome in AD 64, and later emperors came to regard the new faith as so subversive that it ought to be banned. But just as outlawing magic did not quell interest in it, neither did the proscription of Christianity, which was only enforced erratically. The rise of Christianity in the first two centuries AD was not unparalleled as a sociological phenomenon, but it was unique in providing an alternative model for approaching the divine in a world where divine action was profoundly important.
THREE
Reinventing Caesar
The Slippery Slope:
The Beginnings of Rome’s Decline
(AD 180–211)
One thing that emerges very clearly from the works of Tacitus is that he was no purblind admirer of every aspect of Roman culture or of Rome’s military might per se. He knew that Roman armies often did not live up to the high standards of drill and discipline that were expected in the ideal world and that grave defeats could result from these shortcomings. He also recognized the tendency of Romans to rest on the cultural laurels of the distant past. Finally, he was all too keenly aware that, beyond the empire’s northern frontiers, there dwelt many unconquered (and unconquerable) peoples who might, in time, be impossible to contain. Yet, despite his critical acumen, even Tacitus failed to pinpoint what we, with the benefit of hindsight, can identify as the empire’s greatest weakness – the highly traditional nature of Roman thought.
Senior Roman officers were trained, first and foremost, in the arts of administration. And this, in a nutshell, was the Achilles’ heel of the Roman army as the second century drew to a close and the third began. Rome had no war college, and Roman commanders’ understanding of warfare seems primarily to have been based upon the analysis of examples of past success rather than a wider appreciation of the factors that underlay that success. The most renowned generals of history – Alexander, Hannibal and Caesar – had all had the ability to adjust rapidly to changing circumstances. The generals who served under Marcus, though perfectly competent, seem rather to have favoured tradition over experimentation, stressing micromanagement over broad strategic thought. This issue is well illustrated in a manual on generalship entitled The Stratagems of War, in which a Macedonian writer named Polyaenus gathered together the successful stratagems of famous commanders of the past. He dedicated his book to Marcus and Verus, who at the time (AD 162–165) were campaigning against the Parthians. The sweeping, anecdotal approach taken in Polyaenus’ book to the art of war stood in a long and honourable tradition of learning from the past, but is ra
ther short on the practical aspects of waging war against Rome’s current enemies.
If he wanted a more technical treatment, an aspiring Roman general could consult, at the other end of the spectrum, a book like Apollodorus of Damascus’ work on siege engines. Trajan’s chief military engineer during the Dacian Wars, and the architectural genius behind his forum, Apollodorus begins promisingly enough by stating that an unnamed ruler had asked advice in attacking an enemy who held a fortified height in an unnamed place. He lists the devices that could be used against all manner of potential threats, all practical enough, until he goes on to propose the construction of all manner of eccentric devices that seem designed simply to show off his cleverness. Yet, for all their ostensible differences, both works focus on the minutiae of tactics and on displays of authorial learning in preference to analysing more fundamental strategic problems.
Ironically, in learning by rote the career details of their illustrious predecessors, the generals of the second and third centuries failed to take on board precisely those essential, spontaneous qualities – innovation and flexibility – that made them truly great. And so, notwithstanding its initial success, Marcus’ invasion of Persia in AD 163 was based on a plan devised by Julius Caesar in 44 BC, while the Northern Wars fought during his reign dragged on interminably because the enemy steadfastly refused to offer battle under conditions that Roman commanders had been schooled to deal with.
The issues that Tacitus highlighted – cultural complacency and the vast expanse of the non-Roman world to the north – would come to dominate the 80 years following Marcus’ death. Beginning with internal upheaval, the empire’s problems were later compounded by the sudden emergence of a militarily competent Persian dynasty in the 220s. Persian successes would so weaken Rome’s central government that its defences against the northern tribes crumbled. Consequently, for more than a decade after AD 260, the empire split into three parts. The catastrophes of the 250s and 260s ushered in an era of radical reform rivalling that which saw the emergence of the imperial office in the time of Augustus. By AD 337, the Roman emperor was a Christian and Rome had ceased to be the centre of imperial government.
Theatre of blood
Commodus became sole emperor with the death of his father on March 17, AD 180; his subsequent reign was hallmarked by moments of extraordinary theatricality and brutality. Throughout his 12 years in power, Commodus showed a marked aversion to hands-on governance. Instead, he devoted his time to pleasure, and, ultimately, to learning the arts of an amphitheatrical entertainer. Meanwhile, those of his lieutenants to whom he entrusted the reins of government did their best to upset the fragile balance achieved by the emperors of the previous century. In the end, the scales tipped over into civil war, heralding the rise of a new regime in which the tensions unleashed at the end of Commodus’ reign would never be fully reconciled.
The basic problem with Commodus was simply that he wasn’t very bright. Naturally inclined to sloth, he left the business of government to a series of favourites. They, in turn, alienated those who wished for a continuation of the Antonine style of collaborative rule, even though they were often unwilling to make the concessions necessary for that system to work. The first crisis of Commodus’ reign, two years after his accession, arose from nothing more serious than his crass insensitivity to the feelings of his elder sister Lucilla, who felt that the emperor’s wife was threatening the prerogatives due to her, as the widow of Lucius Verus. Her response to the slights that she perceived was to gather about her a group of discontented younger senators and hatch a plot to assassinate her brother. The conspiracy might even have succeeded, if the chosen assassin had not shouted, ‘The senate sends you this’ as he drew a dagger on the emperor, whereupon he was overpowered and disarmed.
What emerged from this bungled assassination was far from the conspirators’ intentions. One of the praetorian prefects, a man named Tigidius Perennis, noticed the emperor’s abject terror during the incident and decided to turn it to his advantage. Inveigling himself into a position of trust by exploiting Commodus’ fears, Perennis dominated the government for the next five years. Perennis was the most powerful official since Sejanus, and just as brutal and efficient in eliminating his political rivals. He took control of organizing the security of the empire, a task in which he acquitted himself well. The generals that Perennis appointed successfully maintained order on the frontiers, and so the image of Commodus that was projected to the provinces was largely positive, in marked contrast to his appalling reputation in Rome.
Yet Perennis had made many powerful enemies in Rome, especially in Commodus’ inner circle, and before long Commodus’ chief cubicularius, Marcus Aurelius Cleander, conspired to remove him. When a delegation of soldiers from mutinous legions in Britain arrived in Rome to warn Commodus of an alleged plot against him by Perennis, Cleander corroborated their claims and secured the emperor’s agreement in having the legionaries murder the praetorian prefect. Cleander, whose background as a former slave made it impossible for him to claim a position that was formally outside the palace bureaucracy, now managed the state under the title of a pugione, which may be translated as ‘dagger bearer’ or, perhaps more accurately, ‘emperor’s bodyguard’.
Cleander’s influence remained unchecked for a number of years until AD 189, when the prefect of the grain supply, in collusion with other figures in the court – including Commodus’ sister Fadilla and his mistress, Marcia – arranged for a riot to take place in the Circus Maximus. The plan was to discredit Cleander in the emperor’s eyes, and it worked brilliantly. The trouble began when a gigantic mime actress entered the arena and told the crowd that Cleander was planning to starve them; when the mob took to the streets, Commodus ordered Cleander’s immediate execution. Effective government now devolved to Marcia, Eclectus (the new cubicularius, with whom she had a longstanding romantic liaison) and the new praetorian prefect.
The biggest problem facing the new governing coalition was that Commodus was growing ever more difficult to control, especially in his megalomania and his affection for gladiators and for the god Hercules. In AD 190, he renamed Rome Colonia Commodiana in his own honour – the same year that he added the name Hercules to his own after displaying his skill as a beast hunter in the amphitheatre at Lanuvium, just outside Rome. Having trained extensively as a public combatant – he may even have moved into a gladiatorial dormitory for a spell – he decided to treat the Roman people to displays of his fighting prowess. At the ludi Romani in AD 192, Commodus appeared in the Colosseum as both a beast hunter and a gladiator, in a series of performances that were intended to evoke the 12 labours of Hercules. The events included Commodus fighting gladiators armed with wooden weapons. Among the wide range of other events were displays of archery – including, we are told, the decapitation of ostriches with specially designed arrows – and the massacre of physically disabled people who were dressed as mythological monsters to recall Hercules’ role in the battle between the gods and the giants. At one point Cassius Dio says that Commodus even held up the head of an ostrich in front of where the senators sat, suggesting that he could do the same to them. This grotesque spectacle proved to be the final straw. On the last day of AD 192, Marcia fed Commodus some poisoned beef; when it appeared that he might recover, she ordered a professional wrestler, Narcissus, to finish the job by strangling the emperor.
Sold to the highest bidder
The plot to assassinate Commodus had been organized in such an impromptu and secretive manner that the conspirators had not even had time to arrange the succession in advance. So it was that in the middle of the night, the elderly Helvius Pertinax (AD 126–193), twice consul of Rome and one of Marcus’ best generals, was approached by the assassins and offered the job. He duly became emperor on New Year’s Day, AD 193. The appointment was a disaster, with Pertinax turning out to be a harsh and unpopular disciplinarian. In particular, the praetorian guard resented the fact that the palace staff had conspired to murder an emperor wh
ose eccentricities had worked in its favour, and was instantly restive when presented with the fait accompli. In March, a group of 300 praetorians left their camp and stormed the palace. When Pertinax tried to face them down, he was killed. He had reigned for just 86 days.
The day and night after the death of Pertinax witnessed one of the most bizarre events in the long history of Rome. The praetorian guard was adamant that no man could be made emperor without its prior approval, but on this occasion had no candidate in mind. One of the praetorian prefects had gone to the camp to negotiate on his own behalf when there suddenly appeared outside the walls a wealthy senator named Didius Julianus (AD 133–193). Accompanied by a crowd of followers chanting slogans in favour of Commodus, he gained admission to the camp and, having promised to pay a much larger accession donativum, or gift, than his rival, won the guards’ support. Accession gifts had a long history going back to the time of Tiberius, and the amount offered by Julianus was not much more than the sum Marcus Aurelius had paid when he became emperor. Yet the circumstances were far more nakedly corrupt when Julianus took office. In encouraging this public auction of the throne, Julianus colluded in the notion that the army held the whip hand in appointing a new emperor. This lesson was immediately taken to heart outside Rome.
Out of Africa
Long before AD 193, Tacitus had written in his account of the civil wars of AD 69 that the dread secret of empire was that it was possible to make an emperor elsewhere than in Rome. No sooner had the events surrounding Julianus’ succession become known in the provinces than three provincial governors were immediately proclaimed emperor by their armies: Clodius Albinus (c. AD 145–197) in Britain, Pescennius Niger (c. AD 145–194) in Syria and Septimius Severus (AD 146–211) on the Danube. It is entirely likely that all three men, aware that Pertinax was in a weak position, had already planned some sort of intervention; his murder simply provided the excuse they needed.