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The Alternative Augustan Age
The Alternative Augustan Age

Edited by
Kit Morrell, Josiah Osgood, and Kathryn Welch
 Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the
University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing
worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and
certain other countries.

Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press

198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America.

© Oxford University Press 2019

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in
writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under
terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning
reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department,
Oxford University Press, at the address above.

You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same
condition on any acquirer.

CIP data is on file at the Library of Congress

ISBN 978–0–19–090140–0
eISBN 978–0–19–090142–4
For Anton Powell
 Contents

List of Figures
Preface
List of Contributors

1. The Alternative Augustan Age

Hannah Mitchell, Kit Morrell, Josiah Osgood, and Kathryn Welch
2. Augustus as Magpie
Kit Morrell
3. Hopes and Aspirations: Res Publica, Leges et Iura, and
Alternatives at Rome
Eleanor Cowan
4. Rebuilding Romulus’ Senate: The Lectio Senatus of 18 BCE
Andrew Pettinger
5. The Good Wife: Fate, Fortune, and Familia in Augustan Rome
Bronwyn Hopwood
6. At Magnus Caesar, and Yet! Social Resistance against Augustan
Legislation
Werner Eck
7. C. Asinius Pollio and the Politics of Cosmopolitanism
Joel Allen
8. For Rome or for Augustus? Triumphs beyond the Imperial
Family in the Post-Civil-War Period
Carsten Hjort Lange
9. Egyptian Victories: The Praefectus Aegypti and the Presentation
of Military Success in the Age of Augustus
Wolfgang Havener
10. African Alternatives
Josiah Osgood
11. The Reputation of L. Munatius Plancus and the Idea of “Serving
the Times”
Hannah Mitchell
12. How Do You Solve a Problem Like Marcus Agrippa?
James Tan
13. Acting “Republican” under Augustus: The Coin Types of the
Gens Antistia
Megan Goldman-Petri
14. Saecular Discourse: Qualitative Periodization in First-Century-
BCE Rome
Paul Hay
15. Maecenas and the Augustan Poets: The Background of a
Cultural Ambition
Philippe Le Doze
16. Gauls on Top: Provincials Ruling Rome on the Shield of Aeneas
Geraldine Herbert-Brown
17. The Rise of the Centumviral Court in the Augustan Age: An
Alternative Arena of Aristocratic Competition
Matthew Roller
18. Shields of Virtue(s)
Kathryn Welch
19. The Popular Reception of Augustus and the Self-Infantilization
of Rome’s Citizenry
Tom Hillard
20. Inventing the Imperial Senate
Amy Russell

Bibliography
Index
 Figures

3.1 Aureus 1995,0401.1.

9.1 The trilingual stele from Philae, 29 BCE.
9.2 Relief from the temple of Dendur (south wall of the porch)
depicting Augustus burning incense in front of the deified
Pedesi and Pihor.
10.1 RRC 461.1. The head of Africa on the coinage of Q. Metellus
Scipio imperator.
10.2 RRC 509.4. The head of Africa on the coinage of Q. Cornificius
imperator.
12.1 Marble Agrippa (Venezia Museo Archaeologico inv. 11).
12.2 RIC Aug. 14. Agrippa with corona navalis and corona muralis.
12.3 Marble rostrum with Agrippa crowned by Victoria.
13.1 RIC 12 (Aug) 363. Denarius of C. Antistius Vetus.
13.2 RRC 29.1. Gold stater with oath-taking scene.
13.3 RIC 12 (Aug) 369. Aureus of C. Antistius Vetus.
13.4 RIC 12 (Aug) 368. Denarius of C. Antistius Vetus.
13.5 RIC 12 (Aug) 410. Denarius of C. Antistius Reginus.
13.6 RIC 12 (Aug) 411. Aureus of C. Antistius Reginus.
18.1 Frieze with winged victories, the so-called Monument of
Bocchus
18.2 The clupeus from Arles. Musee de l’Arles antique inv. 51–195.
18.3 CIL 6.82, 40365. Fragment of the clupeus from the Mausoleum
of Augustus.
18.4 Reconstruction of the Potentia Altar.
18.5 Reconstruction of the inscription on the altar at Potentia.
18.6 RIC 12 (Aug) 42b. Coin displaying the Cl.V. c. 19–18 BCE.
18.7 RIC 12 (Aug) 52a. Coin displaying the Cl.V. with laurel bushes
c. 19–18 BCE.
18.8 RIC 12 (Aug) 47a. Coin displaying the Cl.V carried by Victory c.
19–18 BCE.
18.9 RIC 12 (Aug) 79a. Cl.V. with the corona civica and the slogan
ob civis servatos c. 19–18 BCE.
18.10 RIC 12 (Aug) 415. Obv: Head of Augustus. Rev: Augustus and
Divus Julius with the clupeus with a wreath. L. Lentulus
Flamen Martialis.
18.11 Clupeus and corona civica from Ostia (Squarciapino 1982).
18.12 Reconstructed temple of Rome and Augustus.
18.13 Side B from the altar of the Vicus Sandaliarius.
18.14 The Belvedere Altar.
 Preface

Along with many centers of Roman Studies throughout the world,

the University of Sydney held a conference in 2014 to commemorate
the bimillennium of the death of Augustus. The conference
organizers, Eleanor Cowan, Geraldine Herbert-Brown, Andrew
Pettinger, and I, stated our intention not to publish the papers from
the beginning. We wanted to create space for free discussion and
new ideas unimpeded by an overarching theme, the need for
cohesion, and a deadline for submitting papers that a conference
volume requires.
Nevertheless, it was clear that the occasion revealed an important
trend in scholarship that called out for further investigation. What
would the “Age of Augustus” look like if one turned one’s gaze away
from the single important individual who receives most of the
attention and onto the other players of the period? We wrestled to
find a way to capture, collect, and promote some answers to this
question. Then, in late July 2015, the Vergilian Society of America
advertised a new conference series, the Symposium Campanum,
that was to begin in 2016. Within a day of that notice arriving in my
inbox, I decided to mount a second international conference in
which all papers would examine the Augustan period but no paper
would center upon Augustus himself. Within a week, Josiah Osgood
had enthusiastically accepted my invitation to co-convene the
project. The prospect of The Alternative Augustan Age as conference
and volume began to take shape.
To our delight, we won the bid to host the first Symposium
Campanum and our call for papers led to a flood of excellent
proposals, revealing the extent to which the topic was ripe for
discussion. After some tough decisions, the program was decided,
and our conference took place at the Villa Virgiliana, Cuma, October
13–16, 2016. At the end of four wonderful days of papers, it was
very clear to us that publication of the conference was not just a
possibility. It would be a task well worth the effort.
During the conference, we invited Kit Morrell to join the editorial
team. Her knowledge, hard work, and talent for engaging
constructively with every contributor have played an important part
in the brisk progress of the project from successful conference to
publication. Hannah Mitchell’s unique understanding of the topic was
indispensable to constructing the first chapter and in deciding the
order of papers. Every author, however, has assisted us greatly in
bringing the project together in good time, not only by delivering
their revised papers in a timely fashion, but in responding to
requests for further consideration of their arguments and by reading
and incorporating the views of other contributors. This has been a
team effort from beginning to end.
It remains to thank Richard Thomas and the Vergilian society for
sponsoring the conference, the staff of the Villa Virgiliana for their
hospitality, and the Loeb Classical Foundation, the University of
Sydney, and Georgetown University for providing the bulk of the
funding. We are also grateful to Harriet Flower, Karl Galinsky, and
Nicholas Purcell for supporting our funding applications. Every
participant who attended the conference in 2016 made a lively,
collegial, and valuable contribution to the experience and we are
sorry that for various reasons they could not all be represented in
this collection. Stefan Vranka from Oxford University Press has been
a wonderful commissioning editor who has offered unstinting
support from the moment we approached the Press as a potential
publisher. Thanks are due also to the readers for the Press who were
both enthusiastic and perceptive in their critiques, to the many
people who have read and commented on individual papers, to Mary
Jane Cuyler for preparing the index, and to our families, friends, and
colleagues who have supported us in this endeavor, as they always
have.
Finally, it is with great pleasure and thanks that the editors
dedicate this book to Anton Powell, whose own hunt for an
alternative narrative of Roman civil wars and the onset of the
principate has emboldened us all.
Kathryn Welch
September 2018
 Contributors

Joel Allen, Associate Professor of History and Classics, Queens

College and the Graduate Center, The City University of New York
(USA)

Eleanor Cowan, Lecturer in Ancient History, Department of Classics

and Ancient History, University of Sydney (Australia)

Werner Eck, Professor Emeritus of Ancient History, University of

Cologne (Germany)

Megan Goldman-Petri, Graduate Student in Classical Art and

Archaeology, Princeton University (USA)

Wolfgang Havener, Assistant Professor, Seminar for Ancient

History and Epigraphy, University of Heidelberg (Germany)

Paul Hay, Visiting Assistant Professor of Classics, Case Western

Reserve University (USA)

Geraldine Herbert-Brown, Honorary Associate, Department of

Classics and Ancient History, University of Sydney (Australia); and
Associate Member, Corpus Christi College, Oxford (UK)

Tom Hillard, Honorary Associate Professor of Ancient History,

Macquarie University (Australia)

Carsten Hjort Lange, Associate Professor of Ancient History,

Aalborg University (Denmark)
Bronwyn Hopwood, Senior Lecturer in Roman History and Curator
of the Museum of Antiquities, University of New England (Australia)

Philippe Le Doze, Maître de conférences en Histoire ancienne,

Université de Rennes 2 (France)

Hannah Mitchell, Teaching Fellow in Roman History, University of

Warwick (UK)

Kit Morrell, Honorary Associate, Department of Classics and

Ancient History, University of Sydney (Australia); and Postdoctoral
Researcher, Department of History, European Studies, and Religious
Studies, University of Amsterdam (Netherlands)

Josiah Osgood, Professor of Classics, Georgetown University (USA)

Andrew Pettinger, Honorary Associate, Department of Classics

and Ancient History, University of Sydney (Australia)

Matthew Roller, Professor of Classics, Johns Hopkins University

(USA)

Amy Russell, Associate Professor of Classics and Ancient History,

Durham University (UK)

James Tan, Lecturer in Ancient History and Classics, Department of

Classics and Ancient History, University of Sydney (Australia)

Kathryn Welch, Associate Professor, Department of Classics and

Ancient History, University of Sydney (Australia)
 1

The Alternative Augustan Age

HANNAH MITCHELL, KIT MORRELL, JOSIAH OSGOOD, AND KATHRYN
WELCH

“THE AUGUSTAN AGE” IS A DOMINANT TERM IN HISTORICAL, LITERARY, and

cultural analysis, not to mention teaching. It is enshrined in studies
such as Werner Eck’s The Age of Augustus (2003; originally
Augustus und seine Zeit 1998), as well as edited collections including
Karl Galinsky’s Cambridge Companion to the Age of Augustus
(2005).1 The magnetism of the term in English scholarship in
particular is reflected in the fact that Paul Zanker’s influential work,
Augustus und die Macht der Bilder (1987), became, in translation,
The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus (1988). The change of
emphasis is revealing of a wider phenomenon; Augustus symbolically
assumes ownership of this entire period of history.
The concept of “an Augustan age,” to be sure, is not simply a
retrospective one settled on by later historians. Contemporaries
expressed the idea they were living through a distinctive age
associated with Augustus.2 On Augustus’ death, a senator proposed
naming the span of time stretching back to the birth of the princeps
as “the Augustan Age” (saeculum Augustum, Suet. Aug. 100.3).
Decades earlier, Horace could refer to “your age, Caesar” (tua,
Caesar, aetas, Odes 4.15.4). And, even before that, Horace was
commissioned to write the hymn for the ludi saeculares staged by
Agrippa and Augustus in 17 BCE, an elaborate festival that
encouraged Romans to think they were living in a new saeculum
(age).3
 In both ancient and modern searches for the distinctiveness of the
“Augustan age,” chronological developments are often minimized, or
simplified into one linear process. Yet, reckoning the “Augustan age”
from (say) the most conventional choice, 27 BCE, when Imperator
Caesar gained his new name Augustus, to his death in 14 CE
produces a span of more than four decades. This period, no less
than the decades preceding, was a time of constant change.
Moreover, the various trends do not always neatly map onto one
another in a single timeline, even within particular spheres.
Summaries of “politics in the age of Augustus” or “the Senate in the
age of Augustus,” for instance, mislead when they pay no attention
to chronological and multidirectional development. If a week can be
a long time in politics, what is a year, a decade, many decades?
Tacitus saw the problem when he made his sharp dissection of
Augustus’ power: “little by little he elevated himself and drew to
himself the functions of Senate, magistrates, and laws” (insurgere
paulatim, munia senatus magistratuum legum in se trahere, Ann.
1.2). The word paulatim, along with the historical infinitives to
denote an unfolding action, gestures at a long-drawn-out series of
developments that need to be teased out—though we need not
entirely accept Tacitus’ view of the end result.4
Hindsight has often blinded historians to the dynamic politics of
the period and sometimes even has made the principate seem
inevitable.5 Scholarly treatments of the triumviral period and early
20s BCE typically adopt a chronological approach, yet, as J. A. Crook
noted (1996a, 70), time then seems to stop, “giving way to thematic
accounts of ‘institutions’ of the Roman Empire as initiated by the
‘founder.’ ”6 The classic example is Ronald Syme’s The Roman
Revolution (1939). The book, in Syme’s own words, “is composed
round a central narrative that records the rise to power of Augustus
and the establishment of his rule, embracing the years 44–23 B.C.
(chapters vii–xxiii)” (vii). At that point, narrative gives way to a
series of thematic chapters with such titles as “The Government”
and “The Cabinet.” The limitations of such an approach were
addressed in an edited volume, Between Republic and Empire:
Approaches to Augustus and His Principate (Raaflaub and Toher
1990), which resisted the tendency to apply “constitutional” labels to
the period, instead exploring various spheres in terms of transition
and slow development.7 Even if historians continue to look for signs
of a “system” or “regime” emerging with Augustus, how far
contemporaries saw it that way requires careful consideration. In this
vein, Syme’s late and relatively neglected work, The Augustan
Aristocracy (1986), with its detailed reconstruction of the stories of a
host of (mostly high-ranking) Romans from their own perspectives,
is an important precursor to this book.
To an extent, modern approaches reflect our available source
material. Our contemporary or near-contemporary accounts of the
period, such as Augustus’ Res Gestae, Nicolaus of Damascus’ Life of
Augustus, and Velleius’ history, tend to focus on Augustus and either
screen out his peers or give them at best short shrift.8 Had we Livy’s
Augustan books, we would likely have a different picture.9 Even from
later summaries it is clear that Livy accorded great importance to
figures other than Augustus, such as the highly aristocratic L.
Calpurnius Piso Caesoninus (cos. 15 BCE) and Nero Claudius Drusus,
Livia’s son. Famously, the Ab Urbe Condita ended with Drusus’ death
and funeral in 9 BCE, despite Livy surviving for many years after this
event. The difficulty of rediscovering the significance of Augustus’
contemporaries is reflected perhaps even more strikingly in the
material record. Portraits of Augustus proliferated and his likeness
circulated on coins as no Roman’s had before. While there were
images of others, too, they are—for us, at least—harder to identify.
Without the contemporary narratives of Livy and his
historiographical peers, we rely to a great extent on Suetonius’
biography of Augustus and Cassius Dio’s history, written with the
“benefit” of centuries of hindsight.10 They naturally tend to
downplay the negotiations by which Augustus became Augustus and
a principate emerged paulatim, compressing the processes of
change. While they highlight some spectacular (and also some petty)
moments of opposition to Augustus, they also present us with a
principate which emerges from civil war more or less neatly in a
series of discrete steps, giving rise to the “settlements” familiar from
modern textbooks of Roman history.11 By their very nature, these
later sources do not provide good evidence of how contemporaries’
views developed over time, or the range of their views. When the
ancient sources do mention opposition to Augustus, they still often
privilege Augustus’ version of events. Ronald Syme gave a neat
demonstration of this in his paper “Who Was Vedius Pollio?,” showing
that this freedman’s son came to be remembered purely for his
fallout with Augustus; “standard tradition knew nothing of the
financial expert who set in order the affairs of Asia, and Cassius Dio
can affirm that Vedius had performed no service of any note” (29).
This book seeks to problematize understandings of “the Augustan
age” and even to challenge the term itself. One of the ways we have
attempted this is by looking across and beyond the conventional
“key dates” and resisting the tendency to delineate beginning and
endpoints. This approach builds on recent work on the Caesarian
and triumviral civil wars, particularly Welch (2012), which revived an
idea present in ancient historiography of a continuous civil war from
49 to 30 BCE, with significant ideological continuities; this poses real
challenges to studies of the “age of Augustus” that start in 44 or 43
12
BCE. Another formative influence was Fergus Millar’s 2000 paper,
“The First Revolution: Imperator Caesar, 36–28 BC,” which
demonstrated the significance of political developments before
28/27; the first “settlement” should therefore be seen as only one
stage in the negotiation of Augustus’ power and position, a process
that continued both before and after Actium. These studies show,
furthermore, that the civil wars were a time of not only great chaos,
but also great creativity.
The chapters in this volume similarly show developments
crisscrossing the 40s and 30s—or even earlier—and the traditional
decades of the “Augustan age.” The lives and careers of key
individuals also traversed this period. Remembering that many of the
formative figures of what we call “the Augustan age” had a
worldview and ambitions shaped by the Republic in which they were
born can help us to recover contemporary perspectives on political
and cultural developments, and the contributions that individuals felt
empowered to make to their society. Looking at the 20s BCE, one
might almost reverse Tacitus’ famous line (Ann. 1.3): how many
remained who had seen the Republic! Likewise, acknowledging the
experience of prolonged civil war helps to explain how these
individuals, as much as the supposedly inspired and inspiring
Augustus, gained new visions for Roman society and the training to
negotiate, with skillful diplomacy, the shape the res publica would
take.
More than just challenging entrenched chronologies, all of the
book’s chapters try to move away from an Augustus-centered
narrative. Scholarship has grappled with the extent of Augustus’
personal contribution as an agent of change; he is no longer seen
unproblematically as the architect of a new order.13 Nevertheless, his
dominance exerts its influence on our collective imagination in other
ways. History is still often written, or taught, with Augustus as the
implied focalizer of this period. Such innocuous phrases as “the
problems Augustus faced” reveal our tendency to see everything
from Augustus’ point of view. Even when we make a concerted effort
to examine the time period from other perspectives, Augustus often
remains the focus of our vision. Studies of other actors in this period
have traditionally tended to ask what their subjects thought of
Augustus or “his” system. Developments in literary criticism have led
the way in moving us beyond this, by questioning the wisdom of
asking whether something or someone was “pro-” or “anti-
Augustan.”14 Recent work focused on Roman culture in the first
century BCE has further eschewed top-down approaches, and has
drawn our attention to experimentation, dynamism, and evolution,
with a range of actors involved in creating and negotiating change.15
Nevertheless, Augustus, and particularly the nature and extent of
his famous auctoritas, has remained center stage. Galinsky (1996)
advanced an interpretation of “Augustan culture” based on Augustus
as a transformative leader, guiding and shaping society through a
system of values which were developed in dialogue, rather than
being imposed. In practice, the emphasis on Augustan auctoritas has
led much recent scholarship to detect Augustus lurking behind
everything—inspiring, encouraging, vetting, and limiting. Yet, as
Rowe (2013, esp. 3–9) has recently argued, the focus on Augustus’
auctoritas as the key to the dynamics of the period is not well
supported in the evidence; consensus, for example, is highlighted
more.16 Dispensing with the view that Augustus was or intended to
be omnipresent allows us to discover—and give due attention to—his
absence.
The “alternative” of our title is thus a series of alternatives—
alternative spaces, alternative worldviews, and alternative narratives.
Focalizing the period through various individuals and groups, we try
to see Augustus and the developing principate as just one part
(however large or small) of their fields of vision. We ask: What did
the Roman world of their lifetimes look like to them? What problems
did they see? What opportunities? Unlike Cassius Dio, they did not
look at the endpoint and work backward, and keeping this in mind
allows us to reconsider what options they had to shape different
outcomes through negotiation, debate, resistance, and even (at
times) fairly overt opposition. This approach reveals how far people
other than Augustus succeeded in shaping the principatus and
rediscovers moments of compromise. At the same time, it sets
individuals, institutions, and artistic achievements within a republican
culture that, as we show, was more resilient than has often been
believed. Augustan culture, in other words, was not always
particularly “Augustan.” It was Roman culture. In this regard, our
book points the way for future scholarship to combine studies of
Rome’s political transformation with the broader sociocultural
approach urged in Wallace-Hadrill’s Rome’s Cultural Revolution.
In making their arguments, the contributors to this volume do not
on the whole adduce new evidence. Important exceptions are the
recently discovered fragment of a municipal law from Troesmis,
discussed by Werner Eck in Chapter 6, and the new fragments of a
shield from Ostia adduced by Kathryn Welch in Chapter 18. For the
most part, however, the “alternative Augustan Age” emerges
through reanalysis of the sorts of “standard” literary sources noted
earlier, challenging previous interpretations, reading between the
lines to recover alternative contemporary voices, and giving renewed
attention to evidence that has been dismissed or ignored because it
does not fit the conventional narrative.17 There is something of a
parallel here with reassessments of “Augustan” literature. In a
number of instances, contributors also fruitfully draw attention to the
gaps between contemporary epigraphic and numismatic sources, on
the one hand, and later literary accounts, on the other; even
between what Augustus saw fit to publish at the end of his life, and
what others had to say decades earlier.
Early chapters in the volume focus on law and institutions. They
reveal a series of continuities and changes that highlight multiple
sources of authority, negotiation with and opposition to Augustus,
debts to the past, and the resilience of Roman (republican) culture.
In a metaphor that is important for later contributors, Kit Morrell in
Chapter 2 casts Augustus as a magpie. A number of his initiatives,
she shows, adapted or continued republican reform experiments.
The past could be a tool of change, and it could be wielded by
people other than Augustus. It could also impede change, while
informing the shape of it. Taking inspiration from a coin of 28 BCE,
Eleanor Cowan in Chapter 3 recovers a contemporary desire for
leges et iura pressed for by senators and a contemporary rhetoric
that looked back to Cicero, while other more Augustus-centered
narratives of the events of 28 and 27 emerged only years later. In a
bold reinterpretation of the lectio senatus of 18 BCE, Andrew
Pettinger suggests in Chapter 4 that it was not Augustus, but the
senators themselves, who lay behind the proposed reforms to
Senate size and selection. It was the expertise of such men,
Pettinger suggests, that helped to build the principate.
The contributions of Bronwyn Hopwood (Chapter 5) and Werner
Eck (Chapter 6), exploiting new or unexpected evidence, then show
how the Augustan marriage legislation aroused criticism and even
overt opposition from a range of Romans. This opposition directly
impinged on Augustus’ actions. It also speaks to the abiding strength
of Roman culture and social norms, even under direct pressure from
the princeps. In Hopwood’s hands, a text that has often been seen
as an embodiment of Augustan ideology, the so-called Laudatio
Turiae, is revealed to be far more complicated.
A series of four chapters next engages with questions of Augustus’
absence, revealing initiatives we might not expect if we assume he
was ever-present. First is Joel Allen’s fresh look at C. Asinius Pollio in
Chapter 7. Key for Allen is Pollio’s re-imagination of the Atrium
Libertatis in Rome as a Hellenistic-style museum that established a
lasting primacy for its patron that Augustus emulated rather than
inspired. Carsten Hjort Lange (Chapter 8), Wolfgang Havener
(Chapter 9), and Josiah Osgood (Chapter 10) reveal opportunities for
individual military glory enjoyed by senators after the end of civil
war, as well as the ways senators negotiated in the Senate for the
recognition of martial successes. Havener, for instance, shows how
the new equestrian prefects had special opportunities, and how
senators found ways to regulate these. These essays also highlight
fresh ways of reading sources that lead to deeper historical
understanding: careful attention to what contemporary evidence we
have (epigraphic, numismatic) and traces of contemporary accounts,
such as Pliny the Elder on the African triumph of L. Cornelius Balbus
celebrated in 19 BCE, reveal how much “Augustan” filtering there is in
Suetonius and Dio. This filtering is exactly the tendency we try to
reverse in this volume.
“Who’s steering the ship?” Andrew Pettinger asks in Chapter 4. We
return to the question in a series of chapters that look at individuals
other than Augustus making contributions, competing with one
another, and shaping the so-called Augustan age, with a view to
their own self-promotion and interests, in communal interests, and
also, often enough, in the interests of Augustus. We are not trying to
screen Augustus out of history—that would yield a far more
misleading picture than the ones we are challenging—but rather to
restore the agency and initiative of the many other significant
players of the period.
Hannah Mitchell illustrates these themes in Chapter 11 with a
startling reinterpretation of the career of L. Munatius Plancus.
Condemned in ancient and modern historiography alike as a craven
time-server who shifted allegiance without compunction, he is
revealed here as a thoughtful politician who shaped the outcomes of
civil war rather than being buffeted by it. Plancus did not leave
Antonius in Athens because he knew “Augustus” would win; it was
more that Augustus won because Plancus left Antonius. Similarly,
James Tan (Chapter 12) throws out another entrenched idea,
Agrippa as the “right-hand man of Augustus”. Agrippa’s refusal of
certain conventional honors, along with his pursuit of extraordinary
ones, was a strategy he used to promote himself and to make larger
contributions to Rome. Even to Augustus, Agrippa was far more
valuable as an independent partner. Megan Goldman-Petri in Chapter
13 turns to a figure less well known than these but no less revealing,
C. Antistius Vetus (cos. 6 BCE). Analysis of the coins he issued as a
mint official in 16 BCE shows that he asserted his own genealogy and
achievements. Breaking down a traditional dichotomy between
“republican” and “Augustan” image-making, Goldman-Petri
demonstrates how a “savvy aristocrat” could appropriate some of
Augustus’ religious authority, even as the “Magpie” appropriated
religious authority in ways that were in many respects “republican.”
In exploring the concept of the saeculum, Paul Hay usefully
establishes in Chapter 14 that the “age of Augustus” was hardly the
only historical period contemporaries thought of. Individuals had
other ways of constructing histories that led up to themselves, and
of thinking about cultural efflorescence without focusing on
Augustus. In another reinterpretation of a major figure, Philippe Le
Doze in Chapter 15 detaches Maecenas’ promotion of Latin literature
from “Augustan propaganda” and sets it in other contexts, including
long-standing philosophical traditions as well as more recent thinking
about how one could benefit one’s homeland through writing. Major
authors could, at the same time, compete with one another and
contest readings of the past. In Chapter 16, Geraldine Herbert-
Brown shows that, far from using Livy to make sense of the place of
the Gauls on Aeneas’ shield in Book 8 of the Aeneid, we should see
Vergil’s treatment as distinctive, an expression of pride in his Gallic
heritage. In Matthew Roller’s Chapter 17, we see senators competing
for oratorical primacy in the sometimes explosive trials of the
centumviral court, which, Roller demonstrates, gained prominence at
this time.
More collective responses to Augustus and his emerging
principatus are treated in a final trio of essays. Kathryn Welch shows
in Chapter 18 that the Senate’s award of a golden shield honoring
Augustus’ virtues in 27 BCE was really a message to him about duty
to community and only later became associated with other, more
monarchical honors. Her analysis mirrors Eleanor Cowan’s discussion
of leges et iura, and reminds us how at least some of the familiar
turning-point years, such as 27 BCE, were often seen as such only in
retrospect. Tom Hillard in Chapter 19 turns to a group not much
discussed elsewhere in the volume, the populus Romanus, and
argues that citizens in many respects abdicated their traditional role
in the res publica, desiring to see Augustus as a father, with
particular urgency in 2 BCE. The clamor for Augustus to accept the
title pater patriae was far less a senatorial initiative, although
tellingly it took the Senate to persuade Augustus to accept, as Amy
Russell explores in a somewhat different reading of the same
moment in Chapter 20. She argues that the Senate did not abdicate
its traditional role, but adopted a more corporate personality as a
way of preserving its significance.
These last chapters help bring out some findings that emerge
from the book as a whole and provocatively overturn standard
views. In general, historians as far back as Tacitus have seen the
populus Romanus—and the plebs urbana in particular—as doing
rather well out of the principate, while the senators lost out.18 If
competition among them for glory did not disappear, it did decline—
but, we suggest, this might not always have frustrated aristocrats. In
some ways, the emergence of a princeps and a political culture in
which competition was held more in check represented a triumph of
old conservative thinking.19 Certainly, as numerous contributions to
this volume show, senators came off quite well on the whole. The
notable exceptions were populares like M. Egnatius Rufus—a senator
who thought that by establishing a fire brigade for Rome he could
attain the consulship without the support of leading senators or the
princeps.20 “Popular” politicians were a threat to both, and the
leading senators (as in the case of L. Sentius Saturninus), as much
as Augustus himself, were responsible for their destruction. Arguably,
then, the real victims of the principate were the Roman people and
their champions (cf. Herbert-Brown 2009 on Ovid and the plebs).
Even so, the contributors to this volume reveal an ongoing
dynamism in Roman political culture that encompassed many figures
beyond Augustus. This volume is not and was never intended to be
comprehensive—it is, rather, an experiment in trying to think with
alternative viewpoints and questions. Nevertheless, it is striking that
contributions grouped themselves around several themes, including
the experimentation and creativity of individuals and groups; the
wide horizons and adaptability of the ruling class; and a richness in
politics that comprised negotiation and resistance, and not just
acquiescence. It is clear how much remains to be done once we
decenter Augustus and reintegrate the politics of the early principate
with other aspects of Roman culture. The viewpoints and themes on
offer here are not intended to be final or totalizing—and no attempt
has been made to reconcile them with each other. Instead, we hope
to present a kaleidoscopic (and necessarily selective) vision of this
period.
It is therefore inevitable that many important topics have not been
addressed, even though they too would benefit from a fresh look. It
is regrettable that there is no alternative view of the women of the
period presented here. Although several contributors have written on
this topic in other fora, we recognize that there is still much more to
do.21 Getting closer to Augustus himself, the domus Augusta should
be explored as multiple centers of power.22 Tiberius and Drusus
would repay more attention, as would Agrippa Postumus. Other
social groups could have been examined, including veterans,
provincials, and “client kings,” as agents of change in the so-called
Augustan age.23 We cover parts of the so-called Augustan building
program here (for instance, work by Pollio, Agrippa, and Statilius
Taurus), but a more thorough deconstruction of that concept is
needed.24 Scholarship on so-called Augustan literature has been
trailblazing in contesting conventional terminology and frameworks
of analysis; but we believe the approaches in this volume could lead
to new perspectives on familiar works such as Horace’s odes or the
elegies of Propertius.25 We also note that most of our contributions
focus on figures active in the 30s, 20s, and 10s BCE. Future work
should examine the next generation, including senators such as C.
Asinius Gallus and M. Valerius Messallinus Corvinus, who were born
in different circumstances.26 In the light of this book, might we take
a different view of the principate of Tiberius?
Finally, we urge not only researchers but also teachers to strive to
showcase absences of Augustus, and to give more due to figures
other than the princeps. There are many opportunities to
defamiliarize the familiar and configure curricula in new ways. With
even a little less Augustus, “his” age becomes a lot more fascinating.

1. Other recent examples include Lintott 2010, Milnor 2005, Kuttner 1995, Powell
1992, and source books such as Cooley 2003 and Chisholm and Ferguson 1981.
This introduction makes no pretense to offering a complete review of the
scholarship on Augustus and “his” age. For this, a good starting point is
Edmondson 2009, 1–29. On some more recent work, Goodman (2018) gives a
thoughtful survey.
2. Further on this question: Eder 1990, 72–3, Breed 2004, and Hay in this volume
(Chapter 14).
3. See discussions of this festival by Galinsky 1996, 90–121; Beard, North, and
Price 1998, 1.201–6; Feeney 1998, 28–32.
4. Crook (1996, 113) remarked of Tacitus’ analysis, “insurgere paulatim describes
what occurred with profound insight.”
5. See Powell 2008 (especially 14–24) on the erasure of the 30s from
contemporary literature, and Powell 2013, where he and his fellow contributors
examine the impact of hindsight on the writing of history.
6. A recent exception is Richardson 2012, which continues the chronological
framework throughout.
7. A key essay from this collection is Eder 1990, emphasizing the weight of
republican tradition on the development of the principate, and on Augustus
himself. Other fine studies sensitively trace the development of the principate over
time, e.g., on attitudes to war and peace, Rich 2003 (reprinted in Edmondson
2009, 137–64) and Cornwell 2017; on Augustus and the triumph, Havener 2016;
on Augustus’ colleagues, Hurlet 2007; and, on the evolution of Augustus’ position,
Ferrary 2001 (translated in abridged form in Edmondson 2009, 90–136) and Rich
2012.
8. One of the most significant advances in recent (or fairly recent) scholarship is
the number of superb commentaries on these works: on the Res Gestae, Scheid
2007a and Cooley 2009; on Nicolaus’ Life of Augustus, Toher 2016; on Velleius,
Woodman 1977 and 1983, along with an important edited volume, Cowan 2011a.
Also note that in recent decades more attention has been paid to sources
documenting the triumviral period, e.g., Welch 2015 on Appian; Pelling 1988 on
Plutarch’s Antonius, and Millar 1988 on Nepos’ Atticus. Note also Pelling 2011 on
Plutarch’s Caesar. See, more generally, Osgood 2006 and Welch 2012.
9. Some pertinent studies here include Luce 1990, Badian 1993, and Ridley 2010.
Burton 2000 and Vasaly 2015 explore Livy as a republican thinker. Other significant
lost works include Claudius’ histories (Suet. Claud. 41).
10. Again, there are now superb historical commentaries, in particular, for
Suetonius, Wardle 2014; and for Dio, Reinhold 1988, Rich 1990, and Swan 2004.
11. What used to be called “the settlement of 27 BCE” has been radically
reassessed in scholarship, not that any consensus on developments around that
time has emerged. Some views include Rich and Williams 1999, Lange 2009, 159–
90, Vervaet 2010a, and the essays of Cowan and Welch (Chapters 3 and 18) in
this volume. To us, the challenges of pinning down this moment speak to the
larger problems of looking for a “system” or “regime.” Also important is earlier
work by Edwin Judge, reprinted in Judge 2008 (esp. 111–16 and 141–64).
12. That Syme took a long-term view in 1939 is an intrinsic part of the lasting
value of The Roman Revolution. On the “twenty-year war,” see further Osgood
2015, 1684. The framing of a “triumviral period”—which complicates a neat
transition from “late Republic” to “Augustan principate”—has also been a theme of
recent scholarship, including Osgood 2006 and Lange 2009.
13. Relevant discussions include Williams 1990; Galinsky 1996, 376–89 and 2005,
1–9; Crook 1996; Habinek and Schiesaro 1997, especially the introduction (xv–
xxi); Hurlet and Mineo 2009; Levick 2010, 6–15.
14. Some key studies here are Kennedy 1992; White 1993; Herbert-Brown 1994;
Gurval 1995; Galinsky 1996. Giusti 2016 reflects on the significance of Kennedy
1992, while also trying to characterize Augustan ideology as in some ways
totalitarian. Important, too, is Le Doze’s 2014 monograph on Maecenas; see also
his essay (Chapter 15) in this volume.
15. The pioneering works were Wallace-Hadrill’s review (1989) of Zanker’s Power
of Images and the edited collection of Habinek and Schiesaro (1997), including a
key essay by Wallace-Hadrill subsequently revised as Wallace-Hadrill 2005 and
elaborated into a book-length study, Wallace-Hadrill 2008. Work by Greg Woolf has
also been at the heart of this cultural “turn”: see especially Woolf 1998 and 2001.
16. Rowe’s reinterpretation of RGDA 34.3 has been challenged, e.g., by Harris
2016, 100, and, more fully, Galinsky 2015. On consensus see Lobur 2008.
17. Andrew Pettinger’s study of the lectio senatus in 18 BCE (Chapter 4 in this
volume) is a good example.
18. For fairly positive assessments of the role of the plebs, see Yavetz 1969, 83–
102; Rowe 2002, 85–101; Purcell 1996, 792–811.
19. Wiseman (2009, 235), by contrast, argues that, with the emergence of the
principate, “the People’s cause . . . prevailed over that of the aristocracy.”
However, he immediately adds the comment, “But the victory was short-lived.”
20. Velleius’ account of Egnatius (2.91.3–92.4) is especially revealing; see also Dio
53.34.4–6.
21. Purcell (1986) established women as highly visible shapers of the principate.
More recent work includes Herbert-Brown 1994, 130–72, Woodhull 2003, Treggiari
2005, Hopwood 2009, Welch 2011, and Osgood 2014a.
22. Work by Levick is important here (e.g., Levick 1975 and 1976), as is Pettinger
2012, which offers a bold reassessment of politics in the later Augustan principate.
See also studies of the women of the domus Augusta, including Kokkinos 1992,
Barrett 2002, and Fantham 2006.
23. Building on Keppie 1983, MacMullen 2000, Woolf 2005, Purcell 2005, and
Cornwell 2015.
24. Lamp 2013; Davies 2017.
25. Cf. Farrell and Nelis 2013, a collection exploring how Augustan poets present
their past “as a specifically Republican history” (2).
26. On C. Asinius Gallus, see Herbert-Brown 2004.
 2

Augustus as Magpie
KIT MORRELL*

IN THE SPIRIT OF SCIENTIFIC ACCURACY, IT SHOULD BE NOTED THAT the

Eurasian Magpie is not attracted to shiny objects. It is not a thief or
a hoarder. “La gazza ladra,” recent research has shown, has been
wrongly impugned (Shephard, Lea, and de Ibarra 2015). Augustus,
by contrast, not only arrogated the wealth of Egypt and
“appropriated for himself the functions of the senate, the
magistrates, and the laws,”1 but also “collected” (or has been
credited with) the ideas and reforms of a number of late republican
figures, including Cn. Pompeius Magnus and even M. Porcius Cato,
archenemy of the princeps’ adoptive father.
In the case of the magpie, researchers suggest the bird’s
reputation is due to “observation bias”: “We notice when magpies
collect shiny objects because we ‘know’ they are attracted to shiny
objects but we do not notice when they interact with less eye-
catching items” (Shephard, Lea, and de Ibarra 2015, 393). We might
think of a similar kind of observation bias at work in the study of the
Augustan age. We know it is an “Augustan” age, a new regime, that
Augustus was a great reformer; thus there is a propensity to see as
Augustan initiatives what were in fact ongoing experiments or
longer-term processes of reform stretching back into the republican
past. Conventional periodization compounds the effect: to begin at
44 or 31 or 27 naturally obscures earlier antecedents for Augustan
initiatives, especially where those antecedents in themselves are not
well known. A further factor is the tendency to associate Augustan
developments with Augustus himself and thereby undervalue the
Another random document with
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 L’AMITIÉ DES FEMMES

Je descendrai le fleuve au son des instruments

Sans voir les caïmans et les hippopotames,
Les marais vénéneux où rôdent les flamants,
Sur ce bateau de fleurs qu’est l’amitié des femmes.

Je ne m’entretiendrai que de subtilités,

Aspirant les fraîcheurs sous le mât qui s’allonge
Et, nourri de sorbets et de vapeurs de thé,
Les bambous bruissant me donneront des songes.

La lanterne du pont sera de papier peint

Et ne reflétera qu’une clarté trop vague,
Pour qu’on voit la tribu se partager le pain
Et la pirogue et son rameur aux mains sans bagues.

Le lit sera suave et les manceniliers

Rouleront leurs parfums sous la tente de soie.
Je poserai mon front sur des seins familiers,
Me plongerai parmi des cheveux qui châtoient.

Et quand j’arriverai dans l’éternelle mer,

J’aurai pour affronter le sel et la bruine,
Sous la lune trop vive et le vent trop amer,
L’éventail, le sachet, la rose et les pralines...
 LE PLAISIR

O danseur, aux doigts longs, aux yeux peints, aux bas roses,
Dont les reins sont creusés, le torse languissant,
Avec le tambourin, le citron et la rose,
T’en vas-tu chez la vierge ou chez l’adolescent?

Je te suis à travers les lumières tremblantes

De la rue et tu mets sur un portail fermé
Le contour imprécis d’une femme charmante
Qui tend en souriant son manchon parfumé.

Je monte un escalier sur tes pas. Tu t’arrêtes,

Oh! l’intime chaleur de cet appartement!
Le coussin à trois fleurs, la lampe violette,
L’éventail cramoisi, la femme au diamant!

Mais toujours, compagnon léger, tu te dérobes.

Près du souper servi, s’accoude un beau bras d’or.
Avant que le vin coule ou que s’ouvre la robe,
Je t’entends fuir parmi le froid du corridor.

Danseur enfant, danseur fardé aux mains perverses,

La chambre ici sent le tabac et le charbon...
Dans tous les bras tendus vers toi, tu te renverses,
Tous les cœurs te sont chauds, tous les seins te sont bons.

Tu cours les carnavals tenant au bras les masques,

Étreignant leurs brocarts, leurs armes, leurs sequins
Et le prisme tournant de ton plaisir fantasque
A plus de feux que l’arc-en-ciel des arlequins.

Sur le seuil des villas parfois tu te reposes,

Les grands magnolias t’abritent un instant,
Avant qu’on t’ait porté le sorbet et la rose
Tu repars, ô subtil, délicat, inconstant!...
Tu voles un baiser sous un pilier d’église,
Tu mens avec amour au confessionnal...
Vers quel jardin fermé, quelle terre promise
Cours-tu pour boire aux fruits le lait verdi du mal?

Qu’espères-tu du soir, danseur aux jambes fines,

De la chaleur des lits que tu ne connais pas,
Du damas sous les fleurs ruisselant d’étamines,
Vers quels miracles d’yeux vas-tu rêver là-bas?

Ah! Comme j’ai souffert d’avoir voulu te suivre,

D’avoir pris pour ami, pour compagnon du soir
Un danseur équivoque, un adolescent ivre
Dont les yeux d’un bleu pur parfois deviennent noirs.

Pour toi, pour la beauté que ta forme révèle

Je n’ai pas voulu voir ceux qui tendaient les bras,
J’ai négligé les bons, oublié les fidèles,
Tu m’as fait plus ingrat encor que les ingrats.

J’ai bu le vin qui fait que l’âme devient folle,

J’ai joué mon bonheur sur un seul coup de dés,
Pour tourner un instant avec ta farandole
Pour respirer l’odeur de ton mouchoir brodé.

Pour toi j’ai tout laissé, l’étude, la tendresse;

J’ai cherché mes amis dans un monde vénal;
Je me suis dépouillé de toute ma richesse;
J’ai déchu volontiers, même j’ai fait du mal.

J’ai vieilli, j’ai cassé mes dents en voulant mordre;

Mes yeux se sont brûlés en pleurant de dégoût;
Mes traits se sont creusés des tares du désordre;
Sur la croix du désir on m’a percé de clous.

Mais tu m’as fui. Jamais ma soif n’a pu s’éteindre

Et mes sens ont toujours brûlé, te désirant;
Je n’ai jamais saisi quand je voulais t’étreindre
Que le reflet du vide et l’ombre du néant
Que le reflet du vide et l ombre du néant.

Et pourtant, quel que soit le mensonge et la chute,

Plaisir, quelle que soit la tristesse du joug,
Je n’abdiquerai pas la gloire de la lutte,
J’irai derrière toi, même sur les genoux.

J’userai ma puissance et mes dernières fièvres

Sous les derniers reflets qui tombent du flambeau
Pour atteindre le fard vénéneux de tes lèvres,
O subtil, ô pervers, par qui le monde est beau!
 LE PAUVRE PÊCHEUR

Près du quai désert, près du pont qui s’arque,

Près de l’hôpital, près de l’entrepôt.
Moi, pauvre pêcheur assis dans ma barque,
Avec mon filet, avec mon falot.
J’ai vu des reflets qui sortaient de l’eau
Et sur les galets qui faisaient des marques,
De rouges reflets qui tachaient ma barque.

Le fleuve fécond, le fleuve puissant,

Avec son limon engraissant la terre,
Passant éternel, ami millénaire
Qui protège l’homme en le nourrissant,
Le bon fleuve bleu qui baigne les pierres
De son frôlement régulier, puissant.
Le fleuve au grand cœur charriait du sang.

J’ai pris le falot, j’ai lâché la rame,

Je me suis penché sur le flot sanglant,
Des caillots épais coulaient dans les lames
Et l’air peu à peu devenait brûlant.
L’écume rougeâtre ainsi qu’une flamme,
Me chauffait la face en m’éclaboussant,
La barque roulait sur le flot sanglant...

Et j’ai vu passer de terribles formes...

Des membres coupés heurtèrent mon bord,
Je vis de longs bras, des visages morts
Et, gonflés par l’eau, des ventres énormes.
Et de glauques yeux aux lobes informes
Me fixaient, chargés d’un affreux remords...
Le fleuve sanglant charriait des morts.

Et je vis aussi des formes étreintes

Avec cet amour que la mort raidit.
Je vis passer ceux qui portaient l’empreinte
Je vis passer ceux qui portaient l empreinte
De l’espoir déçu, du mal, de la crainte.
Je vis les vaincus, je vis les maudits,
J’entendis monter une grande plainte
Et par la pitié mon cœur se fendit.

Le fleuve croissait, atteignait la ville

Et le flot de sang grossissait toujours.
Il battait les murs, il battait les tours,
Du vieux pont arqué dépassait les piles,
Enlaçait l’église et le carrefour
Et le quartier haut n’était plus qu’une île.
Parmi les noyés je voguais toujours...

Sur la terre au loin qu’ont donc fait les hommes?

Ai-je atteint ce soir le rouge royaume?
Je sens se dresser les poils de ma chair.
Des crânes sans yeux entonnent des psaumes.
J’entends m’appeler l’ange Lucifer...
Moi, pauvre pêcheur allant vers la mer,
Puis-je racheter ce qu’ont fait les hommes?...

Sur un Golgotha mille fois plus haut,

Une croix de soufre et des clous de flamme!...
Apportez la lance avec le marteau!
Que je sois cloué mille fois s’il faut!
Je veux racheter, moi, l’homme à la rame,
Les corps malheureux et les pauvres âmes
Sur un Golgotha mille fois plus haut.

Je travaillerai durant mille siècles,

Les humbles paieront la dette de sang,
Je ferai sortir les blés et les seigles
Du sol envahi par les ossements,
Je travaillerai si terriblement
Que, plus haut encor que le vol des aigles,
Jailliront les tours de mes monuments.

O grand fleuve bleu qui viens des montagnes,

 g q g ,
Tu recouleras aussi pur qu’avant,
Ensemencé d’herbe, imprégné de vent.
Tu mettras ta force au cœur des campagnes
Et dans le bateau du pêcheur errant,
Et tu changeras les morts en vivants,
O grand fleuve bleu qui viens des montagnes...
 LE CHATEAU DES MASQUES

Les sept rois noirs masqués vivaient dans le palais

Au milieu des danseurs, des nains, des bayadères,
Derrière des remparts sculptés, de bronze épais,
Et le soir ils dormaient dans sept chambres de pierre.

Chacun devait porter un masque devant eux...

Ceux des nains étaient bleus et ceux des femmes roses.
Certains étaient charmants, d’autres étaient affreux
Et certains imitaient la coquille ou la rose.

Les gardes laissaient voir des dents couleur de feu

Et des barbes de sang sous la boucle des casques.
Des figures de cire étaient presque sans yeux
Et des yeux verts gemmaient la pourpre d’autres masques.

Et le palais couleur de rubis ruisselait

Des trésors amassés par les guerres des hommes,
Mais les masques toujours devaient cacher leurs traits
Que ce soit dans les bals, les festins ou les sommes.

Car il ne fallait pas que le prince enfantin

Sous son corselet d’or et son masque de soie
Dans les blancs escaliers croise un visage humain,
Voie aux lampes safran la tristesse ou la joie.

En vain il épiait les joueurs d’instruments

Et les nègres avec leurs cimeterres courbes,
Ou sous les longs jets d’eau les femmes se baignant...
Les corps nus même au bain gardaient les masques fourbes.

Mais un soir une vierge en peignant ses cheveux,

Peut-être exprès fit choir le loup de sa figure
Et le prince un instant vit de loin de grands yeux,
L’ovale délicat d’une chose très pure.
Le châtiment eut lieu dans la plus grande cour.
La jeune fille fut par sept fois flagellée.
On scella sur son crâne un masque de plomb lourd
Avec deux trous sanglants, les prunelles crevées.

Depuis le petit prince entendit, certains soirs,

Courir des pas muets dans le palais splendide.
Il fut souvent suivi de couloir en couloir
Par cette tête en plomb avec ses deux trous vides.

Était-ce la laideur, était-ce le remords

Qui lui cachaient la vie, ou bien des choses pires?...
Ah! pouvoir une fois ôter les crochets d’or
Des fronts vermillonnés et des mentons de cire.

Mais une nuit, hanté par l’espoir et l’effroi,

Seul vivant éveillé parmi les ombres mortes,
Des chambres où dormaient ses parents, les sept rois,
Lui le prince malade alla tâter les portes.

Il entra, grelottant de peur, mais voulant voir.

Les sept rois reposaient entre les murs de pierre,
Ils avaient pour dormir gardé leur masque noir...
Les chandeliers jetaient de tremblantes lumières...

Il se pencha sur eux, écartant doucement

Le métal qui cachait la face de ses pères.
Il vit sous chaque masque, immobile et dormant
Une tête de mort sans lèvres ni paupières...

Alors, il s’en alla sur la pointe des pieds,

Il gravit l’escalier, atteignit la terrasse,
Leva ses petits bras ainsi que pour prier
Disant: «Est-ce mon sang, Seigneur, est-ce ma race?

«Je sais pourquoi mes os deviennent plus saillants,

Je sais pourquoi mes mains se durcissent aux paumes,
Mon front qui s’ossifie a des yeux moins brillants...
Que je voudrais avoir un vrai visage d’homme »
Que je voudrais avoir un vrai visage d homme...»

Du palais dont les murs n’avaient pas de miroir

Il franchit les remparts de bronze. A son passage
Les gardiens sur le seuil hochèrent pour le voir
La laque affreusement luisante des visages.

La ville des mendiants grouillait non loin de là

Avec ses toits tassés et ses balcons difformes,
Et l’aurore en naissant baignait d’un vague éclat
La petite cité sous le palais énorme.

Il arracha la soie attachée à son front

Et se pencha sur l’eau verdâtre d’une mare.
Alors il vit très loin dans la vase et les joncs
Une triste momie, une larve bizarre.

Quand le soleil parut et que sur le chemin

Des enfants en haillons, des femmes apparurent,
Il connut les cheveux, les lèvres de carmin,
Le riche mouvement du sang des créatures.

Mais il ne comprit pas la couleur de la chair,

Le charme rayonnant émané des figures...
«Quoi! la terre, dit-il, produit ces êtres clairs...
Les masques sont plus beaux que ces caricatures.

«Les sept rois effrayants ont des têtes de morts

Mais le peuple a pour moi des faces trop vivantes.
Je suis l’enfant déjà séché, marqué du sort,
Le squelette futur des royautés sanglantes.»

Il revint à pas lents au palais sans miroir...

Les gardes agitaient au vent leurs barbes peintes.
Les sept rois l’attendaient avec leur masque noir
Et de leurs sept mains d’os il sentit les étreintes.

Les salles rayonnaient sous les lampes de safran,

Les danseuses tournaient dans des robes splendides
Et les bouffons avaient un rire déchirant...
Seul un masque de plomb pleurait de ses yeux vides...
 LA FILLE DE LUCIFER

J’aime Sabbahalla, fille de Lucifer,

La même qui jadis près d’un lac de Syrie,
Riait aux chameliers qui venaient du désert
Et leur montrait sa peau par la flamme fleurie.

Elle avait eu pour mère une chèvre aux poils blancs.

Elle rendait dément par un reflet de bague
Et tuait les enfants en les écartelant.
Ses reins étaient creusés et ses veux longs et vagues.

D’impudiques démons aux visages bronzés

L’aidaient à torturer le soir des jeunes filles.
Quand un adolescent buvait à son baiser,
Elle lui traversait le cerveau d’une aiguille.

Elle vint une fois dans mon appartement

Avec ses bijoux verts, en robe de soirée.
Elle avait sur l’épaule une goutte de sang
Et le sable du lac dans sa jupe dorée.

Elle ôta ses gants blancs d’un geste familier

Et tout en fredonnant une valse tzigane,
Elle défit sa robe et jeta ses souliers
Et je vis dans ses yeux l’ombre des caravanes.

Depuis elle sommeille et fume et me sourit,

Étendue à demi sur le tapis orange.
Elle prend le plaisir de l’amour par l’esprit,
Non par les sens, et sait des caresses étranges.

Chez moi, certaines nuits entrent ses compagnons.

Ils passent par les murs comme par des nuages.
Elle les fait asseoir, elle me dit leur nom:
«Voici Samaël blanc avec ses deux visages.
«Celui-ci c’est Enoch, l’ange à l’esprit borné,
Le stupide, au front dur, à la mâchoire d’âne,
Voici Mammon déformateur des nouveau-nés,
Voici l’incestueux père des courtisanes...

«Voici l’ange sans sexe au visage fardé

Avec des jambes d’homme et des hanches de femme,
Et voici le démon animal, possédé
Par la bête qui hurle, aboie, glapit et brame.

«Ce cornu, c’est Emin, l’orgueilleux, le paré,

Au ventre énorme, lourd de saphirs et d’opales,
Et ce fourchu, c’est Astaroth, le désiré
Pour ses membres velus et sa puissance mâle.

«Voici le paresseux, amant des lits profonds,

Celui qui se souvient des sabbats priapiques,
Des crapauds baptisés en des rites bouffons
Et du grand bouc royal dans les nuits impudiques.

«Voici le tentateur au bouquet, l’ingénu,

Bélial dont la bouche est faite de babines
Et celui qui ressemble à quelque arbre chenu
Et dont les pieds au sol tiennent par des racines.

«De sa gorge, ce ténébreux crache la nuit

Et ce blême verse la peur et le silence.
Le triste qui se tait et qui pense est celui
Qui mangea les fruits noirs de l’arbre de science...»

C’était un grouillement de faces, de contours,

Qui semblaient tout d’abord effrayants. L’épouvante
Me faisait des os grelottants, un crâne lourd,
Mais je vis derrière eux deux formes étonnantes.

Une clarté venant de ces formes, montrait

Des fiertés sans espoir, des grandeurs imprévues.
Des visages affreux masquaient de beaux secrets,
Reflétaient des douleurs humaines jamais vues
Reflétaient des douleurs humaines jamais vues.

Le démon qui parlait par des cris d’animaux

Avait dans ses appels la misère des bêtes.
Les souffrances naissant de la haine et des maux
Sortaient des corps velus et des grosseurs des têtes.

La splendeur du désir harmonisait les dos

Des accouplés, de ceux que brûlaient les luxures.
La pitié, la beauté baignaient les infernaux,
Les révoltés, toutes les pauvres créatures.

—Brune Sabbahalla, fille de Lucifer,

Je t’aime pour les nuits sur le tapis orange,
Pour ton baiser sans flamme et pourtant si pervers
Et l’immortel désir de tes frères, les Anges...

Je sais qu’auprès de toi ma raison tremble et dort,

Mais tu m’as pris la main et tu m’as fait descendre
Au pays souterrain où sont les fleuves morts
Et les plus beaux palais qui sont bâtis de cendres...

Je sais qu’auprès de toi je risque d’être impur,

Mais, dans tes bras couché, j’ai compris le mystère.
Je sais combien on est aveuglé par l’azur
Et qu’il faut par en bas regarder cette terre.

Alors, on lit enfin les antiques secrets

Sur le revers obscur de la médaille humaine,
Pour la première fois les yeux voient le ciel vrai
Où tourne un seul soleil, fait d’amour et de haine.
 LA MALÉDICTION

La ville dormira comme à son ordinaire

Et parmi les quartiers rien ne fera prévoir
Que le signe fatal a paru sur la terre,
Sauf la lune montant, verdâtre, dans le soir...

Les marchands gravement fermeront leur boutique,

Des femmes en marchant feront saillir leurs seins,
Dans les cafés mourront doucement les musiques,
Les bons et les mauvais iront vers leur destin...

Et ce sera d’abord une bizarre empreinte

Sur un mur et dont nul ne comprendra le sens,
Un feu jaune éclairant une vitrine éteinte,
Un trottoir sans raison maculé par du sang...

Puis, devant une église, un prêtre voulant faire

Le signe de la croix et se touchant le front,
Retirera son doigt mouillé par un ulcère...
Toutes seules alors les cloches sonneront...

Des lézardes soudain partageront les rues.

Un homme passera jouant du violon.
Derrière les carreaux, les têtes apparues
Porteront des grosseurs, des déformations...

Un vieil hôtel tordra sa porte comme un membre

Et dans la cour allongera son escalier.
Deux amants paraissant sur le seuil de leur chambre
Se verront des sabots de chevaux à leurs pieds.

Et d’autres se plieront comme des acrobates,

Auront l’air de passer à travers des cerceaux.
Ils aboieront comme des chiens à quatre pattes,
Se rouleront comme des vers dans les ruisseaux.
Des musiciens bouffons marcheront en cortège.
Leurs instruments ne feront qu’un avec leur corps.
Les lèvres en piston cracheront les arpèges
Et les tambours seront des peaux de ventres morts,
Des nonnes, d’un couvent sortiront demi-nues;
Des poils drus sur leur corps se mettront à pousser;
Des mufles remplaçant leurs faces ingénues,
Aux bassins des jardins elles iront lamper.

Les rires casseront les dents comme du verre,

Les larmes brûleront comme du vitriol,
Les yeux dans un bruit mou tomberont des paupières,
Des goitres monstrueux traîneront sur le sol.

Les monuments vivront et vibreront de râles,

Ils se pénétreront entre eux avec fureur.
Les piliers fouilleront au fond des cathédrales,
Le ventre de la voûte et le sexe du chœur.

Des casernes éclateront comme des bulles.

On entendra craquer les échines des ponts.
Les usines perdront par d’énormes fistules
L’amas liquéfié de leurs productions.

L’air s’empoisonnera de mille pourritures.

Des gaz exploseront au-dessus des charniers.
Les eaux de la rivière auront des boursouflures,
S’épaissiront, seront un afflux de fumier.

Puis la ville, séchant comme une chrysalide

Périra d’une étrange ossification,
Les fenêtres seront de grands orbites vides
Dans les têtes de mort branlantes des maisons.

Les clochers auront l’air de fémurs fantastiques,

Les tours, de tibias déformés et géants.
Sur l’immense squelette aux vertèbres de briques,
Les soirs épais mettront le souffle du néant.
Et dix mille ans après, venus des antipodes,
Deux enfants nus s’assiéront là, feront du feu
Dans les amas ensevelis où le vent rôde...
Ils auront la cité maudite au fond des yeux.

Et ne comprenant pas la chute et le mystère,

Ils riront et se montreront avec la main
Des rats géants, de loin, dans les couloirs des pierres,
Qui, tristes, les suivront avec des yeux humains.
LE VOYAGE FANTASTIQUE
 LA DIVINE ENCHAINÉE

Je traversai, conduit par l’homme au capuchon,

Les quartiers où l’on vend le fer et les chiffons.
Ensuite les maisons étaient noires et basses.
On percevait des grouillements dans les impasses,
On voyait à des soupiraux des yeux hagards.
Et j’atteignis enfin près des anciens remparts
Le quartier des déchus et des êtres sordides...
Je suivis l’homme au fond d’une boutique vide.
Et là sur le plancher pourri, je vis le corps
D’une beauté parfaite avec une peau d’or,
Un visage divin, des jambes translucides.
Une chaîne de fer tenait le cou splendide
Et l’homme qui riait prit un bâton pointu
Et se mit à piquer le sein, le ventre nu.
Faisant en gémissant se tordre la divine.
Et des êtres aux corps ravagés de famine,
Des visages affreux où ne vivait qu’un œil,
Des nains, des déformés ricanaient sur le seuil...
Comme son capuchon lui découvrait la tête,
Je vis que l’homme avait la face de la Bête...
 LA VALLÉE DES LARVES

Les monstres vagissants enfantés par la femme

Étaient amoncelés sur les rochers crayeux...
Certains ouvraient des yeux énormes et sans flammes,
De frêles cous pliaient sous des crânes laiteux.

Et d’autres éclataient de sang pâle et de glaire,

Riaient avec un rire édenté de vieillard.
Des corps mous et bouffis sortaient du sol calcaire,
Semblaient en s’étalant de vivants nénufars.

Un vent froid remuait ce peuple en cartilages,

Ces larves sans contour, ces germes suintants
Et la vallée avec ces blanchâtres visages
Ressemblait la sanie et le pus du printemps.

La Parque descendait près de moi la colline.

Elle était belle et triste en le déclin du jour
Et vers le sol vivant courbant sa grande échine
Elle touchait du doigt les monstres tour à tour.

Et tout le mal inscrit au livre des ténèbres

Pénétrait ces cerveaux corrompus en naissant,
Il dessinait les traits, durcissait les vertèbres,
S’infiltrait dans leurs nerfs et coulait dans leur sang.

De sorte que ces crânes mous en apparence

Renfermaient cependant la pierre de l’orgueil,
La colère de marbre et les fureurs immenses
Qui devaient déchaîner les douleurs et les deuils.

Les visages réduits prenaient des bouffissures

De haine, devenaient tout à coup malfaisants.
Ces fœtus irrités dans des caricatures
De combats, essayaient leurs gencives sans dents.