Colonialism, Colonization: Roman Perspectives
Abstract and Keywords
This chapter explores the practicalities of empire and colonialism as these affected the conditions of cultural production under Roman rule and adumbrates contours of enquiry within several such domains. It commences with general remarks on the fit between ancient empire as a political form and the regular features of early modern and modern experience that gave rise to contemporary postcolonial theory. Subsequent sections explore the metropolitan desire for knowledge pursuant to governance; the responses that this desire generated in colonial contexts, in both conduct and self-understanding; and the lingering power of imperial knowledge in ancient and modern scholarship. The essay closes by enquiring into nature of elite cultural production under Rome, asking how imperial were the empire’s elites and how metropolitan were their tastes.
The ancient Mediterranean was a landscape of empires. Translocal and transregional political formations regularly came into being and passed away, the passing of one often occurring in contest with another such entity. Indeed, the regularity of this phenomenon gave rise to a potent myth, according to which the mantle of imperial rule qua world domination was a singularity that passed from race to race, the races in question varying from telling to telling and context to context. Like hegemony itself, the myth too was passed down and proved vital across a stunning range of literary and linguistic systems (compare, e.g. Daniel 2: 31–45, 7:1–14 with Velleius Paterculus 1.6.6 = Aemilius Sura fr. 1 FRHist1).
The literatures of the Roman Empire were thus universally conditioned by the experience of empire. Indeed, one might go further. All the great literatures of the ancient Mediterranean now available to us in meaningful remains – Egyptian, Jewish, Greek, and Roman, and, indeed, those of the Fertile Crescent – were produced by peoples who employed and approved the use of state violence to dominate and exploit others, even as they universally enslaved both those they deemed other as well as those they deemed kin. The myth of succession to empire thus gestures to a fundamental feature of ancient society, to wit, the imminent potentiality of domination for all persons, as agent or object, if not in present time, then in the past and future of historical imagination.
It is the object of this chapter to explore the practicalities of empire and colonialism as these affected the conditions of cultural production under Roman rule, and also to adumbrate contours of enquiry within several such domains. I commence with some general remarks on the fit between ancient empire as a political form and the regular features of early modern and modern experience that gave rise to contemporary postcolonial theory. Subsequent sections explore the dialectic between a metropolitan desire for knowledge pursuant to governance and the technologies and taxonomies devised to realize that desire, on the one hand, and the languages deployed in colonial contexts in response to the metropole. The essay closes by inquiring into the nature of elite cultural production under Rome, asking how imperial were the empire’s elites and how metropolitan were their tastes.
This chapter thus positions colonialism as establishing the material, demographic, and epistemic conditions of cultural production under Roman rule. Its concerns might therefore be taken as prior to the more explicitly literary engagements of other chapters in this volume. I would resist, however, any attempt to exclude, by dint of genre or medium of publication, the texts discussed in this chapter from some corpus of the literary. As this volume seeks to restore to view the multiplicity of literatures that flourished under Roman rule, so we must beware any act that (re)imposes canons of taste upon the diversity of ancient literary production.
Ancient empire, modern theory
Imperial states exist on many scales and exhibit many forms. They achieve a certain kind of historical, political, and theoretical salience when the parties involved each understand some essential distinction to divide them, whether a difference of race, language, culture, or what have you; and further reify that distinction such that one group, deriving from the imperial centre, rules over some dominated other(s). One might invoke here the distinction drawn by Geoffrey Hosking between states that have, and states that are, empires: states that have empires often claim to respect some notional equality before the law of all persons holding metropolitan citizenship, such that those belonging to the centre are equal amongst themselves in contradistinction to those over whom they collectively rule. In states that are empires, there exists a single or unified logic of social differentiation that extends uniformly through the population and establishes metropolitans and others in mutual relation to some suzerain in a single hierarchical scheme.2 In ancient states that had empires, among the varied practices by which domination was sustained was the situating or implantation of officials from the metropolitan centre in the landscape, and among the peoples, over which they ruled. These acts of governance might be realized through many different institutional arrangements, from autonomous and notionally autarchic city-states founded by the imperial power within conquered territories, to outposts of soldiery situated within or without conquered polities, to harmosts inserted into existing communities and civic structures.
Official agents of the metropole might themselves be accompanied by unofficial others, whether family members or businessmen, bankers or slaves. The spread of imperial power was sometimes preceded by, and often promoted, the further diffusion of a metropolitan diaspora, of individuals seeking profit or adventure in the wider world, under the sheltering advantage of imperial citizenship. Indeed, the footprint of this diaspora was undoubtedly nearly always and everywhere greater than that of any ancient imperial bureaucracy, even that of Rome, whose infrastructural power vastly exceeded that of any other ancient state. What is more, very often such individuals were understood by provincial subalterns as exploiting the relations of power that structured the overall relationship of their polity to Rome and were resented for it, though this was not always the case.3 Of course, human mobility is something of an historical universal, but it has a particular cast in contexts of empire.
For classicists, the terms ‘metropole’ and ‘metropolitan’ have a special valence and draw attention to two related problems in the study of colonialism in the ancient world. First, they are not in classical antiquity general terms of art applicable to all colonialist enterprises. Rather, they express something distinctive about the relationship of city of origin to colonial foundation in the first instance within Greek culture. There, colonies were generally conceived as autonomous political entities, and the relationship of colony to its originating polity was therefore better figured in affective rather than juridical terms. (As a corollary, those relations might also be figured in terms of disaffection.) Roman colonies, by contrast, were construed as constituent parts of a unitary political community centered in Rome. Their relationship to the centre was juridical, and their inhabitants retained and likely felt their Roman citizenship as primary. In consequence, the affective terminology common in Greek, which expressed a relationship of descent but also ontological distinction between colony and mother city, is largely absent in Latin: the term metropolis, for example, first enters Latin through transliteration, on inscriptions of the Severan period in Asia Minor.4 Such considerations caution us to reflect carefully on the particularist nature of colonial enterprises (as well as the imperial quality of archaic Greece colonization), nor is this the only issue on which comparison between Rome and Greece can enlighten such inquiry.
As with metropole and metropolitan, so colony and its derivatives have meanings in contemporary empire and postcolonial studies strongly discrepant from those they carry in classical studies, where unsurprisingly a certain etymological purity in respect to terms of art in Greek and Latin has long obtained. Some reflection on distinctions between ancient and modern colonialism is thus in order before theoretical and interpretive apparatus developed in response to modern contexts of empire and decolonization are imported to the ancient Mediterranean.
The dynamics to which theories of modern European empire and the cultural and social dynamics of its successor states respond are, of course, quite well known.5 A description designed to draw out distinctions with ancient empires more generally, and Rome more particularly, might nevertheless be useful. In early modern Europe, which is to say, among the imperial states of Europe in the ages of Enlightenment and liberalism, relative peace within a network of recognized peers was purchased through the systematic conquest, dehumanization, and exploitation of peoples deemed incapable of self-governance or insufficiently respectful of the norms of the law of nations.6 The result was an irresolvable tension between a project that both required and sustained ideological and institutional practices of structural differentiation between conquerors and conquered, on the one hand, and the justificatory claims generated by European self-regard, according to which the project of empire was precisely to enable non-European subalterns to enter the network of civilized peoples and so self-emancipate. As a further matter, the interplay of nationalism and racialism in the birth of modern states has made ideologies of cultural autonomy a potent force in contemporary postcolonial politics (and theory); but its very potency and apparent universality in contemporary life has induced some to take it for an historical universal, too.
The context and practices of Roman imperialism may be distinguished from this paradigm on a number of grounds of importance to this chapter. There is first the universality of the experiences of ruling and being ruled in turn. In consequence, one witnesses in every major literature of the ancient Mediterranean patterns of triumph and despondency in success or failure, but also massive acceptance of empire as the normative form of regional rule. Indeed, until the modern era, empire was by an extraordinary margin the regular form of supra-local political formation the world over.
Second, broad technological, ecological, and demographic factors constrained the ability of imperial states to penetrate local societies, and practices and ideologies of governance developed accordingly. Most notably, by and large ancient empires governed through the cultivation and management of difference, and they employed, selected, and sustained local elites to govern on their behalf.7 In consequence, far from striving for the uniform penetration of metropolitan culture throughout the territories and populations over which they ruled, ancient empires generally sought to rive subject populations one from another and encouraged each to have exclusively bilateral relations with the metropole. Sustaining and betimes celebrating local cultures as normative within some territory encouraged this pattern of distinction.8 Another ideological expression of this basic pattern in governance, itself deriving from material constraints on infrastructural power, is the absence in Greek and Latin of any unitary conception of state sovereignty.9 On the contrary, Greek and Latin distinguished carefully between the use of one’s own laws in the domestic sphere and freedom of action in foreign affairs precisely because few imperial states even attempted systematic interference in local affairs. The normative vocabulary of state sovereignty thus bracketed matters truly of interest to imperial hegemony, to wit, military and foreign affairs beyond the boundaries of domestic jurisdiction, from those regularly ceded to subaltern self-governance. In consequence, a primary index of moral evaluation was not whether one’s state was independent, so much as the question of whether one lived under a good or bad empire or, perhaps, a good or bad emperor.
In consequence of these considerations, it must remain an open question whether a series of standard assumptions regarding the practice of imperial power and its effects in European and post-European modernity are apposite to ancient experience. These include most importantly the massive delegitimation effected by European empire upon local systems of norms, whether social or cultural, and, as a related matter, the systemic alienation of colonized peoples from self and society that regularly followed upon such delegitimation. In saying this, I do not intend to discount the effect that European colonialism had on the priorities of classical scholarship in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in particular,10 but the problem of disjuncture between modern decolonization and ancient experience abides nevertheless.
What should not be in doubt are the effects of matrices of power relations on knowledge production at every level: knowledge of the colonized among the Romans, of course, but also more generally of oneself and one’s culture among both ruler and ruled. It was among the great achievements of Edward Saïd to demonstrate how the project of sustaining peace within some network of European states was aided by the attribution to it of a shared and unitary stable and historic nature, whose articulation in metropolitan literatures was concretized by drawing structural distinctions between that image of Europeanness and the cultures of its colonial subjects.11 The exhortation of both Saïd and Dipesh Chakrabarty to investigate the structuring of knowledge in both colony and metropole, of each and their constitutive other, and likewise the focus of both scholars on the importance of colonialism to the conditions of knowledge production, offer essential lessons to classical studies.
Discourse at the centre: (Not) knowing the other
The astonishing appetite of Roman government for information about its subjects was a major theme of provincial literatures. Consider for example the following reflection in the Babylonian Talmud:
The sages said in the name of Rav: If all the seas were ink, all reeds were pens, all skies parchment, and all men scribes, they would be unable to set down the full scope of the Roman government’s concerns. And the proof? The verse, said R. Mesharsheya, ‘Like the heaven for height, and the earth for depth, so is the heart of kings unfathomable’ (Prov. 25:3).
(Babylonian Talmud Shabbat 11a, excerpted in Sefer Ha-Aggadah 5.5.93, translated by William G. Braude)
The Roman passion for inventory brackets the Jewish experience of Roman rule. A half millennium before the redaction of the Babylonian Talmud, we are told, ‘a decree went out from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be registered’ (Luke 2:1). That registration involved more than reeds, parchment, and pens. As Luke understood, it was an act of inventory that both moved persons across the landscape and fixed their identities in relation to empire, each other, and the land. What is more, in bringing Mary and Joseph to the city where they held domicilium, or residence, the Augustan registration of Judaea and Galilee brought about the fulfilment of prophecy, and so the Lucan census, Augustus, and Rome itself came to occupy a particular and essential place in Christian providentialist historiography.
The rationality and punctiliousness of Roman government penetrated the consciousness of the rabbis at a different level. That it did so at all, in a culture so implicated in the skills of literacy, itself merits notice. But by the time of the conversation recorded in the Talmud, the actions of Roman government had become so naturalized, the sages’ identification with its processes and aims so complete, that reflecting on them caused the rabbis to think of their own scriptures. For the contextual power of the verse quoted by Rabbi Mesharsheya will have depended in part on his and his interlocutors’ assenting to the verse that precedes it: ‘It is the glory of God to conceal the rationale for things, and the glory of kings to honor the things themselves.’ The associative network behind the conversation of the sages thus sets Jewish God and Roman emperor, world-empire and world-embracing knowledge, in mutual relation. In making of the Roman emperor a Solomonic king, the rabbis constructed themselves as Roman subjects.
I will turn in a moment to the very important questions of what kinds of things the Romans wished to know about the objects of their rule, as well as what the effects were of bringing this knowledge into being in conditions that endowed it with social power. The success of Roman government on many levels rested upon the efficacy of its data collection, including the census, and therefore upon its knowing the discrete persons and contexts over which it ruled in their particularity. Indeed, the long-term survival of Roman power rested to a very large degree on the social effects of this interpellation of peoples and individuals by the actions of government.12
For the moment, however, let me focus on a different aspect of imperial discourse, namely, its tendency to operate through polarities of self and other. Roman laws on jurisdiction, for example, routinely differentiated areas where Roman legal actions might be validly employed (most fundamentally, in Roman courts at Rome), and all other areas. For example, it is very nearly the phrase ‘who there’ by itself that enables scholars to restore the law on a bronze tablet discovered at Veleia as a jurisdictional clause, written in Rome about some non-Roman context. Those words signal the issuing of an instruction to a local magistrate, namely, ‘he who holds jurisdiction there (is quei ibei [ius deicet —]‘ (Roman Statutes no. 29, l. 5).13 In such texts, it is tempting to see the enormous variety of the non-Roman world erased in a juridical lens that distinguished only citizen from alien, not aliens from each other.
The actual practice of government, however, subverted this tendency to distinguish radically between Romans and others in a number of ways. On the one hand, maintaining social order required the administration of justice according to predictable norms, and in many contexts Roman magistrates simply did not know local law. Eliding for the sake of efficiency very complicated practical and theoretical issues about knowledge of law in provincial contexts, let me point out that Roman authors, jurists, and legislators regularly imagined the overcoming of this difficulty in knowing local norms through the use of legal fictions, in which colonized aliens were re-imagined as Romans.14 In the municipal charter written at Rome under the Flavians for use in Spanish municipalities, for example, a clause on civil procedure runs as follows:
Rubric. According to what law notice for the third day may be served, the day may be postponed or have been postponed, a matter may be judged, a case may be at the peril of the iudex, a matter may cease to be under trial:
… if judgment has not taken place within the time laid down in Chapter 12 of the lex Iulia that was recently passed concerning iudicia privata and in the decrees of the senate that relate to that chapter of the statute, so that the matter be no longer under trial; the statute and law and pleading is to be as it would be if (siremps lex ius causaque esto adque uti esset si) a praetor of the Roman people had ordered the matter to be judged in the city of Rome between Roman citizens …
(Lex Flavia municipalis chapter 91)15
The Julian law to which this text refers was a reactionary statute passed by the emperor Augustus, which restricted the use of Roman legal forms to the city of Rome and the first milestone beyond it, and likewise required that, even at Rome, Roman legal forms be employed only in disputes the parties to which were all Roman citizens (Gaius Institutes 4.103–105). At a formal level, the Flavian municipal law makes no revision in the Augustan statute. Indeed, it genuflects before its principles: Roman justice is best administered by a Roman praetor, judging a case between Roman citizens in the city of Rome. But one might also say that the Flavian municipal law preserves the distinction between Rome and elsewhere only to upend it, by means of a fiction that operates on two levels, geographic and social. For it dissolves both distance in space and distinctions in the legal status of persons: disputes between potentially alien citizens of the municipality are to be resolved ‘as if a praetor of the Roman people had ordered the matter to be judged in the city of Rome between Roman citizens.’ Provinces and provincials are thereby assimilated to Rome and Romans.
A similar move is made by the second-century jurist Gaius in his remarks on the religious status of provincial land in Roman public law. The passage runs as follows:
That alone is thought to be sacred, which is consecrated on the authority of the Roman people, either by law or by decree of the Senate. We make things religious in private actions by bearing our dead to particular sites … But on provincial soil it is generally agreed that the soil cannot be religious, since there ownership rests with the Roman people or with Caesar, while we seem to have only possession or use. Nevertheless, even if it is not religious, it is treated as though it were (utique tamen, etiamsi non sit religiosum, pro religioso habetur). Similarly, whatever in the provinces is not consecrated on authority of the Roman people is properly not sacred, but it is nevertheless treated pro sacro, as if it were (item quod in prouinciis non ex auctoritate populi Romani consecratum est, proprie sacrum non est, tamen pro sacro habetur).
(Gaius Institutes 2.5–7a)
As the Flavian municipal law cited the text that it subverted, so here two principles are at stake, both of which the Romans wished to uphold but which the situation brought into tension: a desire to respect the particularities of their own law, which distinguished between the status of land in Italy and land elsewhere; and an equally principled desire to display piety before all forms of the divine. What is more, not only does Gaius cite precisely that distinction between Italian and provincial soil, he neither challenges nor revises it. Rather, by means of a fiction, he simply attributes exactly and precisely the efficacy of ritual action on Italian soil to that conducted on provincial soil. It is tempting to attribute real political meaning to such assimilations of non-Roman things to Roman ones, and no doubt this mattered, up to a point. At the same time, they were also acts of power, which regulated indigenous realities by re-imagining them in Roman garb.
Occasionally, of course, social, material, and ecological realities in provincial landscapes were simply too different, along whatever axis, to be assimilated to Roman taxonomies, and so threatened to escape the hegemonic grasp of imperial ways of knowing.16 But that would have left those realities essentially ungovernable. The linguistic and cognitive work undertaken to perform this feat of imagination is most visible in juristic sources, it being the task of administration specifically, and government more generally, to know the state. We witness an example of this labour in Ulpian’s remarks on the application of the Roman law of wood to the materials ‘used in the place of wood’ around the empire:
The term lignum is a general term but one should distinguish between materia, ‘timber,’ which is one thing, and lignum, ‘firewood,’ which is another. Materia is that which is necessary for building and supporting; lignum is that which has been readied for burning. Is wood firewood or timber, if it has been cut up or not? In his second book Quintus Mucius says that if the ligna (qua ‘firewood’) on a farm has been left as a legacy, trees cut up for timber are not owed … Ofilius in the fifth book of his Classification of Law wrote: if ligna are left to someone as a legacy, all ligna belong to him that are not designated by some other name (quae alio nomine non appellantur), such as twigs, charcoal, and olive pits, which can be used for nothing other than burning, and also balani and any other nuts (sed et balani vel si qui alii nuclei) ….
In certain regions, for example in Egypt, where reeds are used pro ligno, in the place of wood, reeds and papyrus are burned, and these, as well as certain grasses and thorns and briars, are all embraced lignorum appellatione, under the term ‘wood.’ Why the surprise? For they call it xulon, ‘wood,’ and they call the boats xulēgas, ‘wood-hauling’ that bring it apo tōn helōn, from the marshes. In certain provinces they even use cow dung for this purpose ….
Whole cones from the pine are included ligni appellatione, under the term ‘firewood.’
(Ulpian bk. 25 Ad Sabinum fr. 2679 Lenel = Dig. 32.55 & 50.16.167)
To begin with, Ulpian here performs a series of metonymic operations by which things not directly implicated in the normative vocabulary of the law are nevertheless brought under its umbrella: things that are not wood but are used pro ligno, ‘in the place of wood’ (or perhaps, ‘as if they were wood’) are thus described as being included ‘under its name.’ At the same time, even Ulpian, a native of Beirut, shies before the apparent violence of calling marsh grasses wood. His text thus brings to the fore the tension between imperial heterogeneity and metropolitan language that is a structural feature of all imperial epistemes: observe, inter alia, Ulpian’s use of Greek in discussing Egypt, as though marking the foreignness of the phenomenon under study by asserting that it can only be explained through recourse to pseudo-native terminology – pseudo-native, of course, because Greek was only the language of Egypt as the result of earlier imperial action. Consider, too, the means by which papyrus and other reeds are embraced within the law of lignum: they are emphatically not wood but are used in practice, and treated at law, pro ligno, as if they were.
Empires (and states) do not sort, label, and count goods and matériel alone. On the contrary: they map the land and classify people and populations. These are among the most potent forms of state power.17 Even acts of naming have profound effects. ‘Magna Graecia’ and ‘Ionia’, for example, are lexical glosses on an exercise of colonialist power, and the use of those names, then and now, renders the indigenous population alien in its own home. In the Roman case such efforts included the drawing of boundaries, forced relocation of populations, and the constraining of geographic aspects of social and economic conduct.18 Within particular localities, Roman agents or their proxies also censused individuals and surveyed the land. On one level, the effect of such actions was to interpellate individual subjects as objects of governance and subjects of empire, and thus to bring a new and distinctive form of political subjectivity into being.19 On another, these acts by the superordinate polity forced a recalibration in purely local conduct and self-understanding.20 And nearly everywhere in the ancient Mediterranean, Roman action in these domains existed in historical imbrication with those of earlier empires (Mitchell’s is an excellent example of an historical essay with due regard for the longue durée of imperialist power).21
Consider, for example, the interrelated acts of naming performed by the populations of the province of Asia in respect of themselves as a collectivity and by Romans referring to them over the course of the first century bce. The territory from which the Roman province of Asia was carved had a long history as a playground of imperial and colonizing powers, not least Achaemenian and Greek.22 When the Romans created the province of Asia through selective acceptance of the territory that they received in the testament of Attalus of Pergamum, they became sovereign over a territory of great linguistic, social and ecological diversity. That said, awareness of this diversity in all its particularity largely eludes us, in great measure because of our reliance on archaeological and especially epigraphic remains deriving from urban contexts. Those are, of course, the evidences that professional classicists have long esteemed and trained themselves to see. For what it is worth, epigraphic rather than more purely archaeological material is much more likely to be susceptible to indexing against some fine-grained chronology of political affairs, and to the extent that chronology and politics were co-dependent domains of historical enquiry in ancient history, the priorities of epigraphy did in fact serve historical understanding writ large. But the consequence of this modern focus on the remains of poliadic life is that we ‘know’ far more about reactions to the ‘arrival’ of Rome in Greek cities of the coast than in any indigenous community of the interior.23
But it lies in the nature of interaction with a superordinate political entity that the residents of subordinate administrative units must at times collectively address and be addressed by it.24 (The problematic may be so described even with the caveat that no mechanism existed by which anything but a tiny minority might approve the speech directed to the centre on behalf of the whole, or by which speech from on high might come to the awareness of all those whom it notionally addressed.) Such moments may lay bare discrepancies in the classificatory regimes employed by the varied voices among the colonized and that employed in the metropole. It so happens that there survives from first-century bce Asia a range of texts, generated both in Asia and Rome, in which, over time, discrepancies of this kind are both revealed and resolved.
The relevant evidence has been collated and studied three times in recent years.25 Drew-Bear framed the problem in editing and commenting on a decree of the league of Asia, written sometime between Sulla’s reorganization of the province in 85/84 bce (which probably received confirmation at Rome only in 81) and the further reforms made by Lucullus 14 years later. The members of the league refer to themselves in at least four different ways in the surviving lines of the decree, as ‘the league of the Greeks,’ ‘the Greeks,’ ‘the Peoples and Tribes in Asia’ (for which understand, ‘the (Greek) peoples and (non-Greek) tribes’) and ‘the league of the Greeks in Asia’.26 As Drew-Bear observed, following Keil, the collocation of ‘peoples’ and ‘tribes’, and the implicit contrast between them, can be read as embracing but also differentiating Hellenized populations living in cities, in poleis, on the one hand, and the inhabitants of the less Hellenized interior, who did not live in recognizably Greek cities, on the other.27 In so writing, Greeks in Asia obeyed a logic visible elsewhere and indeed encoded in Greek language itself, according to which only those who dwell in poleis can exhibit individual and collective forms of conduct distinctive to true/proper (read: Greek) political life (Ando, contrasting the attribution of cognate words like politikos, politikōs, and politeuō/politeusthai to poliadic contexts with their absence in descriptions of peoples living kata kōmas or kōmēdon, scattered in villages).28
But this is not the only formulation used in documents of the first century bce. On the contrary, not only does one find very early documents referring to ‘the Peoples and Tribes and those individuals adjudged Friends of the Roman People’, but one finds later documents, generated by particular Greek cities, honouring the Romans as benefactors of ‘the Greeks’, ‘the other Greeks’, and ‘the Panhellenes’.29 The first formulation, referring to ‘Friends of the Roman People’, clearly betrays Roman influence. But the others do, too. Indeed, in coming to employ ‘Greek’ to describe all residents of the province and not just those ethnically Greek or dwelling in poleis, Greek usage in Asia gradually aligned with Roman practice, in which by the Augustan period ‘Greek’ was used of the eastern provinces to refer broadly to all those juridically alien in respect to Rome, regardless of ethnicity or, indeed, the self-understanding of those to whom the label was applied.
The politics of the situation are thus complex, involving a Greek colonizing population that used to run, and in many ways still did run, an extractive economy that exploited non-Greek indigenes, whose exploitation was to a point justified, even as their existence was effaced, by a system of moral and social evaluation that bracketed their way of life or, perhaps one should say, the way of life attributed to them, as not worth thinking about. Over them all was suddenly situated a non-Greek suzerain, whose policies and language presupposed a quite different set of priorities and privileged quite distinctive qualities as essential to the classification of persons. The tendencies of Roman government thus ran counter to the ideological predilections of contemporary Greek thought. Despite the occasional allowance by Hellenizing intellectuals that Greekness was a matter purely of self-fashioning, Greek law and language throughout the classical and Hellenistic periods remained highly racialized. On some readings, this schizophrenia in regard to ways of being or becoming Greek played itself out in Greek literature of the Hellenistic and Roman period in the form of an on-going tension between notions of culture and political belonging as inextricably tied to descent and others that viewed Hellenicity as fundamentally a matter of performance.30
But we should not mistake this latter discourse about self-fashioning as intended to reconceptualize culture as simply the product of education, attainable by anyone. If this had been true, all those who spoke Greek might have had some claim to prestige, and that was an outcome that an ancient elite would not have tolerated. What was therefore at stake in claims to the learning, or rather learnedness, of Greekness, was rather an issue of distinction, such that there were Greeks by descent to be sure, but also others, their betters, who performed, exhibited and inhabited a purer form of Greekness. (Re)incarnation of this supposedly purer, ancestral form of contemporary culture was then identified by ideologues as a necessary and perhaps sufficient qualification for elevated social authority. It is the status of this learning as symbolic (in one register) and both useless and expensive (in another) that made it ideally suited for such a role in a colonial economy of social power.31 Indeed, its implication in just this economy is revealed by the conceptual and linguistic transformation of its terms of art effected in the late Hellenistic period in Judaea, in the context of empire. For it is in remembrances of the policy of Antiochus Epiphanes towards the Jews that hellenizō and its cognates begins to be used transitively, indeed, by its victims: one could (forcibly) make another Greek. In some very abstract sense, for the author of II Maccabees, too, Greekness was a matter of fashioning, like changing one’s cloak, itself a common ancient metaphor for cultural bilingualism, except that his people did it at the point of sword (the practice behind the metaphor is illustrated at Seneca, Controversiae 9.3.13, and see Pliny, Ep. 4.11.3; Greek metaballō may be used with many terms, including water, to indicate a change in style of life).
Into this dynamic came the Romans, with their profound uninterest in the essentializing ontology that lay behind Greek (colonial) taxonomies of persons. The power that underlay Roman knowledge of its subjects compelled a transformation in the language Greeks applied to themselves and others. As Ferrary observes, this history runs parallel to developments in Roman Egypt, where, in a process we now understand to be typically Roman, a taxonomy of concrete ontology – namely, a division of the population according to ethnicity – was abstracted and transformed into a purely juridical scheme. That Egyptian history received masterful study by Joseph Mélèze Modrzejewski, albeit not in the terms used above.32 What is more, its social dynamic has received exciting further study by Ari Bryen, who demonstrates how, in the aftermath of the Constitutio Antoniniana, new forms of distinction emerged, drawing on earlier vocabularies, in order to sustain patterns of social differentiation that had been threatened by the sudden imposition of juridical equality on the residents of the empire.33
Apart and together in landscape and memory
Graeco-Roman difference was, of course, a major theme of ancient literature. The most conspicuous topic in this body of material concerns citizenship, which famously drew the attention of Philip V long before Roman conquest of the eastern Mediterranean was assured. Indeed, the practical wisdom and long-term political benefits of Roman willingness to raise aliens to citizenship remained a preoccupation of Greek literature under Roman rule, where it served as one among many causes for which the Greeks blamed themselves for their own subjugation (Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum 543; in later literature see, e.g. Dionysius 1.9.4, 2.16.1, and elsewhere; Aelius Aristides Or. 26.59–63).
Colonialism was another such theme, less often remarked in modern scholarship, but notable nonetheless. Perhaps the locus classicus is Livy’s digression on Empúries (Roman Emporiae), inserted in his narrative of the year 195 bce. According to Graeco-Roman narrative, the settlement ‘began’ as a Greek trading post aloof and apart from its Iberian context (the name, which derives from Greek emporion, erases the site’s pre-Greek past, a problem to which we shall return):
Even then Emporiae consisted of two towns divided by a wall. One was held by Greeks who originated from Phocaea, as did the Massilians; the other town was held by Spaniards … As a third type there were Roman colonists, added by the deified Caesar after the children of Pompey were defeated. Now all are poured into a single body, the Spaniards first and later the Greeks having been taken up into Roman citizenship.
(Livy 34.9.1–10 at 1, 3)
Although Strabo seems to know nothing of the deduction of Roman colonists under Caesar, he does make clear that the exterior walls of the Spanish and Greek towns were coterminous: the wall that divided the two populations was thus interior to what might otherwise have been a single conurbation (Strabo 3.4.8). Livy goes on to explain that the Greeks admitted no Spaniard to their town and themselves only sallied forth in numbers. What is more, the history of the material articulation of the city appears to have followed a pattern structurally identical to that outlined by Livy’s remarks on the patterning of sociability: the Roman grid embraced indigenous incolae from the beginning; only later was the Greek settlement effectively demolished, as part of a wholesale reorganization of the urban grid into a unified whole.34
Aelius Aristides similarly contrasts Athenian practices of domination, principally the imposition of garrisons on subject states, with Roman extension of control through the coopting of local elites (Aelius Aristides Or. 26.52). He offers two criticisms of Athenian practice. First, garrisons were impractical, it being impossible to make them large enough truly and securely to control the populations over which they were stationed. Second, their use created the suspicion that Athens performed everything through force and violence. Athenian practice was thus self-subverting: the garrisons were insufficient to the task and yet their presence attracted hatred. In sum, Athenian practice reaped the evils rather than the goods of empire.
Distinctions in many registers may carry weight in metropolitan discourse. They often prove difficult to sustain in colonial landscapes. This is so not least because, metropolitan narratives to one side, few sites of colonial occupation or imperial action in the age of literacy were uninhabited when occupied or seized. The attractiveness of these already-occupied areas sometimes derived from the simple fact that an earlier population had already identified the most propitious site; in other cases it was due to improvements in the site effected by those inhabitants; and sometimes of course the existence of such a population was a precondition for the trade that motivated the colonialist enterprise; or all of the above. Two questions then arise of salience to the present chapter: First, what did one do with such inhabitants or, perhaps, what would contemporary ideological strictures allow one to remember having done? Second, what representations did the varied discourses of empire permit regarding such interactions as inevitably then took place between the metropolitan diaspora and the indigenes among whom it resided?
It was of course possible for a people to remember itself as having exterminated all humans or even all animal life in territory that it seized, as did the Jews about the lands that their god gave them as their own.35 Narratives of genocide, even prideful ones, likely reveal more about anxieties about purity in post-conquest landscapes, especially when, as in the Jewish case, the conquering population was small in comparison with that from whom it seized property and control. Such narratives to one side, in actual practice, as with the deduction of Roman colonists into Empúries or the foundation of the Greek trading post that preceded it, some accommodation was made with the indigenes who preceded one (for a survey derived largely from literary and epigraphic material, see Brunt).36 At times, it seems possible to detect such accommodation in the archaeological record.37 At others, legal instruments generated at the metropole, or ones metropolitan in form, record the ongoing presence of members of pre-Roman populations in Roman communities. So, for example, the Roman agrarian law of 111 bce refers to members of colonial communities who were not colonists but were nonetheless ‘enrolled among [their] number’ (Roman Statutes no. 2, l. 66); and the cadastral map of Arausio, though inscribed in the Flavian period, appears to distinguish land assigned to veterans, land assigned to other colonists, and land left to the Tricastini, in whose territory the colony had been implanted a hundred years before.38
The physical presence of prior inhabitants, and the need to accommodate them in legal instruments, calls to mind another tension visible in metropolitan literature, to wit, that between official memory and normative (imperial) conceptions of historical time, on the one hand, and historical memory more broadly conceived, on the other. Official forms of memory, like civic dating systems, often represented foundations as having occurred ex nihilo, when in fact they occurred de novo. The encoding of official memory thus represents a secondary act of power, enacting an effacement of a colonial landscape’s prior inhabitants. That said, it was the task of historical narrative – including metropolitan narratives—to describe the contexts of such acts of power. This double function of historical memory produced a sustained tension in Roman historical awareness. On the one hand, the prior existence of some polity in spaces now occupied by a Roman colony was necessarily obscured by the institutions of public memory common to Roman civic life, in which the past before the new beginning became knowledge one must remember to forget. At the same time, the Romans tended to preserve awareness of the pre-colonial past as a fundamental feature of metropolitan knowledge, not least when that past was the context of Republican political action. Hence notices of colonial foundations in Roman authors often quite specifically recall a site’s pre-Roman past at the moment of its erasure.39
As a related matter, the forms of intermingling and integration that must regularly have occurred in colonial contexts receive varied judgement when they are represented in metropolitan literatures, but within that variety there is a discernable trajectory across time. For example, Livy reports on an embassy to the Senate from Spain in 171 bce, claiming to represent a population of offspring born from Spanish women and Roman soldiers:
Another embassy came from Spain, of a new type of person (novi generis hominum). They had been born, they said, from Roman soldiers and Spanish women, between whom there had been no right of marriage; they were more than four thousand persons; and they asked that a town be given to them in which to dwell. The Senate decreed that they should give their own names before (the praetor) Lucius Canuleius and also the names of any person whom they had manumitted. It was decided that they be settled at Carteia by the ocean; the opportunity was granted to any of the Carteians who wished to remain at home, that they should be among the number of colonists, with land assigned to them. The colony was to be of Latin status and called‘of freedmen’.
Livy’s text has received much scrutiny, it being implausible that these were in fact the first children born between Roman soldiers and women with whom they had no right of marriage; and likewise unclear why, or with what force, the colony is called Colony of Freedmen. But it seems likely enough that Rome had not previously been confronted by an embassy from a population of such people, and from outside Italy, to boot; and indeed, the resulting foundation was the first Latin colony outside the peninsula. The persons ‘of a new type’ sprang from illicit unions; they stood outside normative taxonomies of persons; and metropolitan language strained to accommodate them (cf. Livy 34.42.5–6, on the novum ius of Latins conducting themselves as if they were Roman citizens by virtue of enrolling in a Latin colony).
A century or more later, Tacitus wrote his famous epitaph for Cremona, the colony in Cisalpine Gaul founded just prior to the Hannibalic invasion.40 In 69 ce, Cremona became embroiled in the civil wars that erupted after the death of Nero, being held first by troops of Vitellius against those of Otho. Later, troops loyal to Vespasian occupied the city and, motivated by greed and spite, turned on the populace: the entire urban fabric of public and private buildings was destroyed (Tacitus, Histories 3.26–33). ‘Cremona sufficed them for four days; when all its buildings, sacred and profane, settled into flame, the temple of Mefitis alone remained, before the walls, protected either by its location or the god’ (Tacitus Histories 3.33.2).
This was the end of Cremona, in the 286th year since its founding. It was founded when Tiberius Sempronius and Publius Cornelius were consuls, as Hannibal was entering into Italy, as a bulwark against Gauls acting across the Po and if some other force should cross the Alps. Thereafter, thanks to number of colonists, the convenience of the rivers, the richness of its fields and association and intermarriage with indigenous peoples (adnexu conubiisque gentium), it grew rich and flourished, untouched by foreign wars but unlucky in civil ones.
(Tacitus, Histories 3.34.1)
Of course, the incorporation of Cisalpine Gaul into metropolitan discourse and politics advanced much farther, and did so much earlier, than did that of Spain. Indeed, by the time Tacitus wrote, Gaul south of the Alps had long since been reclassified as a region of Italy. Nonetheless, Tacitus preserves an awareness of Cremona’s status as a bulwark of empire against non-Italians across the Po, and so his conjoining of ‘association and intermarriage with indigenous peoples’ alongside other factors as causal in the flourishing of the colony speaks volumes.
To return briefly to the Tricastini: they constitute a particular case of a phenomenon familiar in Roman colonialism but virtually unknown to Greek thought, to wit, a non-poliadic, indigenous population that is ultimately reclassified as metropolitan (for comparative remarks on Greek and Roman anthropologies of colonial contexts see Ando).41 The victims of expropriation of some, at least, of their land at the foundation of Arausio under Caesar, a town of the Tricastini was granted Latin status in the next generation, under Augustus, and so named Augusta Tricastinorum (Pliny Nat. 3.36). A half century or more on, it is granted the status of Roman colony under the Flavians, under the name Colonia Flavia Tricastinorum (Epigraphische Datenbank Heidelberg no. 016699 = L’Année Epigraphique 1962, 143). Not only are its residents granted Roman citizenship, the fiction is implicitly entertained that they were Romans all along, who had emigrated to a colony in subject lands. But their true history abides, preserved in their new Roman name.
Elite cultural production: Which elite? Whose culture?
The remains of ancient cultural production selected for study by present day scholars were overwhelmingly produced by or for local and imperial elites. To what extent were these elites themselves produced and sustained by colonialist dynamics? And what inflection was lent to their tastes by their implication within a world empire? These are of course enormous questions, to which many different answers, and many different kinds of answers, might legitimately be given. Let me attempt to sketch a framework for answering them.
As regards the formation and reproduction of an elite, it is perhaps useful to distinguish between a phase of conquest and consolidation, on the hand, and one of ongoing governance, on the other, which might likewise be distinguished by the contemporary optics of imperialism and colonialism. During the period of conquest, two dynamics obtained that were substantially diminished in the aftermath of the civil wars. First, foreign agents remained surprisingly ill-informed about the realia of Roman politics much longer than one might have expected.42 Second, the instability created by the rise of a new power in the west allowed for the continuance of, and in some respects exacerbated, destructive tendencies towards anarchy and militarist rivalry between factions within polities, between cities and among supra-regional powers.43 As we shall see momentarily, the uncertainties and instabilities arising from Rome’s civil wars made all these tendencies far more poisonous and certainly more fraught. The contestation of hegemony between the great powers of the late Hellenistic Mediterranean, and the subsequent fractious politics internal to late Republican Rome, allowed for a certain form of interstate politics within and between cities at the fringes of empire, not least in peninsular Greece.44 The resolution of the civil wars of the first century bce in monarchy and concord constrained the practice of politics of this kind. But it might also be said to have ushered in a period of stability, and familiar stability at that: the cities of the eastern Mediterranean were practised in the politics of empire and knew how to greet the ruler of the world. A vigorous diplomacy therefore rapidly developed and indeed thrived in the coming centuries, organized around the acquisition and sustaining of privileges within the political economy of empire.45 By contrast, local politics of the sort fostered by uncertainty in geopolitical affairs, e.g. negotiating the advancement of one’s city by playing off rivalries among politicians at Rome, rapidly devolved into the watching of the imperial house and the cultivation of possible heirs to the throne.46
In consequence, although at a formal level Rome reorganized the constitutions of cities under its control as democracies with property qualifications for office-holding (Ando summarizes the evidence and cites relevant bibliography),47 the collapse of ordinary politics and the civil wars of the mid-first-century bce made life for all populations in their path extraordinarily difficult. A symptom, as well as an index of the stresses produced by violent upheaval at the highest level of the Roman elite, was the grotesque elevation in wealth and power bestowed upon the Greek friends of Roman triumvirs. The most famous record of such enactments is likely the dossier of letters and an edict from Octavian to the city of Rhosos concerning its citizen Seleukos: Octavian granted Seleukos Roman citizenship as well as exemption from local taxes and public service, and added the right to take any court case in which he was involved to whatever forum he deemed most favourable. Later documents reveal friction between Seleukos and his former fellow citizens, such that Octavian somewhat peevishly stresses that the people of Rhosos do not understand how great a privilege they suffer, having one of his friends in their midst.48
Very rapidly after he had eliminated his rivals, Octavian moved to impose the rule of law and norms of conduct on many aspects of political, legal and religious life. A signal instance of this was the establishing of rules of jurisdiction that eliminated the kind of space that Octavian and his peers had themselves created and in which Seleukos flourished, rules known from their publication in Cyrene (Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 9, 8). It was of course a space symptomatic of many colonial situations and, indeed, of many political contexts in which obtain vast differentials in power and weak regard for juridical equality even within social ranks. One significant evidence of the success of this and related moves by Augustus and his successors is the tralatician language employed in later grants of citizenship, to the effect that they occur ‘with local law preserved’ – meaning, presumably, that the recipients of such grants remained embedded within and bound by the norms that regulated local social, political and economic life (Inscriptions Antiques du Maroc 94).49
Nearly the totality of the elites now known to us from Roman antiquity were thus created and sustained as elites by the institutions of Roman governance. What is more, an enormous percentage of all authors of surviving literary texts were Roman citizens. This is, of course, but one fact about them, but it merits recollection nonetheless. But even as a fact, it must be qualified, particularly in respect to the western Mediterranean, by the absolutely essential matter of the democratic nature of local office. For in the west in particular, we know that many members of local elites received Roman citizenship as an automatic matter upon completion of high local magistracy, but those persons were elected to office by populations that were perforce overwhelmingly alien. In the west, therefore, the structural difference between imperial and local citizenships in any given context must have calqued particularized local forms of social differentiation.50 The imperial elite was thus to a point created by indigenous subalterns, acting on their own priorities.
I have thus far spoken of the local and the imperial as if these were two distinct worlds, constituting foci for affective attachment for different populations. But as the reference to the extension of metropolitan citizenship to local elites suggests, the two worlds were in fact highly intertwined. Indeed, the gradual extension and ultimate universalization of Roman citizenship is only the most famous mechanism by which the two were brought together, and the ancient discourse on this process, which was sustained virtually wholly by authors descended from aliens, is itself an important index of their conjoining.51 Nor were the civic and the imperial the only planes upon which social ambition and social preeminence might be performed: provincial leagues, and trans-local courts, were important if underexplored domains in which an overall imperial elite of multiple strata was ultimately forged. What is more, as regards the theme of this chapter, the interconnectedness of these strata is best revealed to us through the careful study of the careers and personal connections of the educated, whether of orators who interrupted their star performances to conduct embassies for cities, or those whose performances were themselves disquisitions on the condition of an elite of culture under imperial rule, often with the self-serving aim of justifying their elite status or claiming an exemption from labour or taxes by virtue of their culture.52
The unity of this elite and indeed the unity of imperial culture, such as these were, was nearly wholly the product of human mobility. Not for nothing are narratives of ‘early’ culture contact between Rome and others often focused on ideologically exaggerated and, frankly, slightly improbable tales of intellectual and cognitive dissonance upon the occasion of (first) visits by one party to the other. The embassy of Carneades to Rome is only the most famous of these.53 A full accounting of the movement of intellectuals and its contribution to the formation of fashion is a massive desideratum, but it seems possible even now to say – as perhaps should have been expected all along—that the canons of taste, and in particular of classicism, that come to prominence in the Second Sophistic were largely forged at Rome in the late Republic and only later exported back to the Greek world and peninsular Greece in particular, through the circulation of Greek intellectuals to Rome and back again, on the one hand, and the influence of Roman patrons seeking some imagined other to the present world of contemporary Achaea.54 Much the same can be said of cultural movements in the west, though the work required to vindicate such claims before the flowering of literary Latin in late antique Gaul, Spain and Africa is daunting.55
Conclusion: Languages of power
In conclusion, it might be useful to consider two background conditions of cultural production that exist prior to any approach we might make to the literatures of the Roman period: choice of language and non-participation/non-survival.
The literatures of the Roman Empire that remain visible today in the priorities of contemporary literary scholarship are written in a handful of languages—Latin, Greek, Aramaic, Hebrew, and Demotic. Even these few were not accorded then, and are not accorded now, equal status, whether for the production of literature, the debating of metaphysics, or the articulation of norms. This was and is a matter of power. In the words of Themistius, Latin was the ruling tongue or, as Libanius put it in the same era, it was the language of the powerful (Themistius Oration 6.71c; Libanius Epistulae 668; see also Arrian Periplous 6.2, 10.1; and Gregory Thaumaturgus Address to Origen 1.7–8). What is more, it was well understood in antiquity that language, like customs, law, and even names, belonged to the victors to impose (see, e.g. Servius Commentarii ad Aeneidem 4.618, also ad Aen. 1.6).
As with Latin, so with Greek: it does not matter whether Greek landlords of late antiquity knew Syriac or not. They represent themselves as refusing to learn it and instead forcing others, the managers of their estates, to learn Greek, in order to deliver their commands to those who merely toiled. We are not far from the posturing of Aemilius Paullus, who was fluent in Greek but delivered the terms for the settlement of Macedon in Latin to a wholly Greek audience (Livy 45.29.3). Patterns of structural differentiation qua systems of prestige, including those of language difference, thus required continual reaffirmation through performance. Even in late antiquity, it is only in social spaces that brought speakers of various languages together that we find regular acknowledgement of the linguistic complexity of the eastern Mediterranean (especially in the provision made for polyglot liturgies), and even then, it is only among non Grecolatini (to use Egeria’s term, 47.3–4) that allowance is made that each language might have its own purpose: ‘Greek for song, Latin for battle, Syriac for lamentation, and Hebrew for conversation’ (Sefer Ha-Aggadah 3.3.18, translated by William G. Braude, excerpted from the Esther Rabbah 4:12 and the Palestinian Talmud, Megillah 1:9).
Not to participate in these prestige tongues, whether one opted out or was excluded from appropriate education, was to efface oneself from the domain of the literary. Any number of languages are well represented in epigraphy of the Roman period but have not served as vehicles for the transmission of ‘literature’: Punic and Nabatean are notable examples.56 What is more, whether because specific forms of knowledge were associated with, or cognitively demanded articulation in, particular tongues, or because subaltern knowledge was deemed unworthy of elevation into Latin, information as well as literatures of the pre-Roman past and non-Roman present throughout the western Mediterranean have almost entirely vanished.57 It is of course one of the aims of this volume to expose, critique, and explore just this situation.
This situation undoubtedly has multiple causes, none of them innocent. Two deserve mention here. First, there is the tight nexus of social prestige and the material conditions for the preservation of information: public writing on permanent media, and the transmission of texts on manuscript, were the privilege of the elevated. At every stage of inscription and transmission, the odds were against the preservation of non-Roman texts. The second cause for the effacing of non-Roman cultures is silence, even among indigenes, arising from the iterated, local delegitimation of prior cohomologies of social and cultural authority. As Greg Woolf has written of elites and subalterns as consumers of culture in Gaul, when their relations become clear to us again after the conquest period, the elite produces and consumes as a Roman elite.58 Their failure to claim any attachment to the pre-Roman past was an interested act of self-abnegation in pursuit of distinction over their non-Roman subalterns in the present.
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(1) T. J. Cornell, The Fragments of the Roman Historians. Volume II: Texts and Translations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), pp. 1144–1145. In secondary literature see H. Fuchs, Der geistige Widerstand gegen Roms (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1938), pp. 62–73; J. W. Swain, ‘The Theory of the Four Monarchies: Opposition History Under the Roman Empire.’ Classical Philology 35 (1940): 1–21; and A. Momigliano, On Pagans, Jews, and Christians (Middleton, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1986), pp. 31–57.
(2) G. Hosking, ‘The Freudian Frontier.’ Times Literary Supplement 4797 (1995): 27.
(3) A. J. N. Wilson, Emigration from Italy in the Republican Age of Rome (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1966); W. van Andringa, ‘Observations sur les associations de citoyens romains dans les Trois Gaules.’ Cahiers Glotz 9 (1998): 165–175; W. van Andringa, ‘Cités et communautés d’expatriés installées dans l’empire romain: le cas des cives Romani consistentes.’ In Les communautés religieuses dans le monde gréco-romain, N. Belayche and S. C. Mimouni, eds. (Turnhout: Brepols, 2003), pp. 49–60; N. Purcell, ‘Romans in the Roman World.’ In The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Augustus, K. Galinsky, ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 85–105; W. van Andringa and F. van Haeperen. ‘Le romain et l’ étranger: formes d’intégration des cultes étrangers dans les cités de l’ Empire romain.’ In Les religions orientales dans le monde grec et romain: cent ans après Cumont (1906–2006). Bilan historique et historiographique, Corinne Bonnet, Vinciane Pirenne-Delforge, and Danny Praet, eds. (Brussels and Rome: Institut historique Belge de Rome, 2009), pp. 23–42.
(4) Thesaurus Linguae Latinae s.v. ‘metropolis’; cf. C. Ando, ‘Was Rome a polis?’ Classical Antiquity 18 (1999): 5–34, p. 22.
(5) For surveys see L. Gandhi, Postcolonial Theory: a critical introduction (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998); R. J. C. Young, Postcolonialism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003).
(6) J. Pitts, citing much earlier bibliography in ‘Empire and Legal Universalisms in the Eighteenth Century.’ American Historical Review 117 (2012): 92–121; and on the nature and limits of liberal dissent see S. Muthu, Enlightenment Against Empire (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003).
(7) C. Ando, ‘Imperial Identities.’ In Local Knowledge and Microidentities in the Imperial Greek World. T. Whitmarsh, ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), see pp. 17–21; C. Ando, ‘Die Riten der Anderen.’ Translated by G. F. Chiai, R. Häussler, and C. Kunst. Mediterraneo Antico 15 (2012): 31–50; C. Ando, The Ambitions of Government (Berkeley: University of California Press, in progress); M. Doyle, Empires (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986), p. 130; C. S. Maier, Among Empires. American ascendancy and its predecessors (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2006), see pp. 5–7, 29–36.
(8) For an exemplary study of Persia in this regard, see B. Lincoln, ‘Happiness for Mankind’: Achaemenian religion and the imperial project (Leuven: Peeters, 2012), pp. 107–186.
(9) C. Ando, Law, Language and Empire in the Roman Tradition (Philadelphia: The University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), pp. 64–80.
(10) On which see, e.g. P. Vasunia, The Classics and Colonial India (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013).
(11) E. Saïd, Orientalism (New York: Pantheon Books, 1978); see also D. Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference. 2nd edn (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2007 ).
(12) C. Ando, Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire (Berkeley: The University of California Press, 2000).
(13) M. Crawford, ed. Roman Statutes (London: Institute of Classical Studies, 1996).
(14) See, e.g. Velleius 2.118.1; C. Ando, ‘Law and the Landscape of Empire.’ In Figures d’empire, fragments de mémoire: Pouvoirs (pratiques et discours, images et représentations), et identités (sociales et religeuses) dans le monde romain impérial (Ier s. av. J.-C. – Ve s. ap. J.C.), 25–47. Stéphane Benoist, Anne Daguey-Gagey, and Christine Hoët-van Cauwenberghe, eds. (Paris: Presses Universitaires de Septentrion, 2011); C. Ando, ‘Fact, Fiction and Social Reality in Roman Law.’ In Legal Fictions in Theory and Practice. Maksymilian del Mar and William Twining, eds. (Boston: Springer, 2015).
(15) J. González, ‘The Lex Irnitana: A New Flavian Municipal Law.’ Journal of Roman Studies 76 (1986): 147–243: 179 [Latin], 198 [English].
(16) Chapter 2 of C. Ando, Roman Social Imaginaries. Robson Classical Lectures (University of Toronto Press, 2015, in progress); see also a very different but inspiring essay, C. Nicolet, Financial Documents and Geographical Knowledge in the Roman World (Oxford: Leopard’s Head Press, 1996).
(17) J. C. Scott, Seeing like a State (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1998), pp. 205–218.
(18) Ando, ‘Imperial Identities.’; C. Ando, ‘Mythistory: The Pre-Roman Past in Latin Late Antiquity.’ In Antike Mythologie in christlichen Kontexte der Spätantike—Bilde, Räume, Texte (Hartmut Leppin, ed. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2015), pp. 205–218; Ando, The Ambitions of Government.
(20) O. van Nijf, ‘Being Termessian: Local Knowledge and Identity Politics in a Pisidian City.’ In Local Knowledge and Microidentities in the Imperial Greek World. T. Whitmarsh, ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), pp. 163–188.
(21) S. Mitchell, ‘The Ionians of Paphlagonia.’ In Local Knowledge and Microidentities in the Imperial Greek World. T. Whitmarsh, ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), pp. 86–110.
(22) Providing useful background about the province specifically are S. Mitchell, ‘The Administration of Roman Asia from 133 b.c. to a.d. 250.’ In Lokale Autonomie und römische Ordnungsmacht in den kaiserzeitlichen Provinzen vom 1. bis 3. Jahrhundert, W. Eck, ed. (Munich: R. Oldenbourg, 1999), pp. 17–46; and S. Mitchell, ‘Geography, Politics, and Imperialism in the Asian Customs Law.’ In The Customs Law of Asia, M. Cottier, M. H. Crawford, C.V. Crowther, J.-L. Ferrary, B. M. Levick, O. Salomies and M. Wörrle, eds. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), pp. 65–201; for a more sweeping narrative see S. Mitchell, Anatolia: Land, Men, and Gods in Asia Minor. 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993).
(23) M. Wörrle, ‘Pergamon um 133 v. Chr.’ Chiron 30 (2000): 543–576; C. P. Jones, ‘Events Surrounding the Bequest of Pergamon to Rome and the Revolt of Aristonicus: New Inscriptions from Metropolis.’ Journal of Roman Archaeology 17 (2004): 469–486.
(24) cf. T. Whitmarsh, ‘Thinking local.’ In Local Knowledge and Microidentities in the Imperial Greek World. T. Whitmarsh, ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), pp. 1–16.
(25) T. Drew-Bear, ‘Deux décrets hellénistiques d’Asie Mineure.’ Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 96 (1972): 435–471; J.-L. Ferrary, ‘Rome et la géographie de l’hellénisme: réflexions sur “hellènes” et “panhellènes” dans les inscriptions d’époque romaine.’ In The Greek East in the Roman Context. Proceedings of a colloquium organized by the Finnish Institute at Athens May 21 and 22, 1999, O. Salomies, ed. (Helsinki: Tiedekirja, 2001), pp. 19–35; Ando, ‘Imperial Identities,’ pp. 31–40.
(26) Drew-Bear, ‘Deux décrets hellénistiques’, p. 444. J. Reynolds, Aphrodisias and Rome (London: Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies, 1982): no. 5, ll. 4, 13, 14, 21, 22, 23–24, 24–25, and 28.
(28) C. Ando, ‘The Roman City in the Roman Period.’ In Rome, a City and Its Empire in Perspective: The impact of the Roman World through Fergus Millar’s research (Rome, une cité impériale en jeu: l’impact du monde romain selon Fergus Millar), pp. 109–124. Stéphane Benoist, ed. (Leiden: Brill, 2012).
(30) D. S. Richter, Cosmopolis. Imagining Community in Late Classical Athens and the Early Roman Empire (New York: Oxford University Press, 2011; but cf. C. Ando, A review of Whitmarsh 2001. Classical Philology 99 (2004): 89–98.
(31) T. Schmitz, Bildung und Macht: Zur sozialen und politischen Funktion der zweiten Sophistik in der griechischen Welt der Kaiserzeit (Munich: Beck, 1997); T. Whitmarsh, Greek Literature and the Roman Empire. The Politics of Imitation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 90–130.
(32) J. Mélèze Modrzejewski, ‘Entre la cité et le fisc: le statut grec dans l’Égypte romaine.’ In Symposion 1982. Vorträge zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte (Santander, 1.–4. September 1982), 241–280. F. J. Fernández Nieto, ed. (Cologne: Bohlau, 1989); see also J. Mélèze Modrzejewski, ‘Le statut des hellènes dans l’Égypte lagide: bilan et perspectives de recherches.’ Revue des études grecques 96 (1983): 241–268; C. A. Nelson, Status Declarations in Roman Egypt (Amsterdam: Hakkert, 1979).
(33) A. Bryen, ‘Reading the Citizenship Papyrus (P.Giss. 40).’ In Empire and Citizenship in Europe, 200–1900. C. Ando, ed. Forthcoming.
(34) A. Kaiser, The Urban Dialogue. An analysis of the use of space in the Roman city of Empúries, Spain (Oxford: BAR, 2000); X. Aquilué, P. Castanyer, M. Santos, and J. Tremoleda. ‘Greek Emporion and Its Relationship to Roman Republican Empúries.’ In Early Roman Towns in Hispania Tarraconensis, L. Abad Casal, S. Keay and S. Ramallo Asensio, eds. (Portsmouth: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2006), pp. 18–31.
(35) Deuteronomy 20:10–20; cf. E. Fentress, ‘Saturnia: Figures in a Centuriate Landscape.’ In Splendidissima Civitas. Études d’histoire romaine en hommage à François Jacques, A. Chastagnol, S. Demougin and C. Lepelley, eds. (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 1996), pp. 79–99, 81, n.10; D. Ruscu, ‘The Supposed Extermination of the Dacians: The Literary Tradition.’ In Roman Dacia. The making of a provincial society, W. S. Hanson and I. P. Haynes, eds. (Portsmouth, R.I.: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2004), pp. 75–85.
(36) P. A. Brunt, Italian Manpower 225 bc–ad 14. 2nd edn (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987).
(37) Fentress, ‘Saturnia: Figures in a Centuriate Landscape,’ pp. 82, 84–85.
(38) A. Piganiol, Les documents cadastraux de la colonie romaine d’Orange (Paris: CNRS, 1962), pp. 53–62.
(39) Livy 9.28.7 or 10.1.1–2; Festus s.v. Saticula 458L; Ando, ‘Mythistory: The Pre-Roman Past in Latin Late Antiquity.’
(40) For a history of the region see C. Ando, ‘The Changing Face of Cisalpine Identity.’ In A Companion to Roman Italy. Alison Cooley, ed. (Oxford: Blackwell, 2015).
(43) A. M. Eckstein, Mediterranean Anarchy, Interstate War, and the Rise of Rome (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), pp. 79–117; A. M. Eckstein, Rome Enters the Greek East. From Anarchy to Hierarchy in the Hellenistic Mediterranean, 230–180 BC (Oxford: Blackwell, 2008).
(44) E. Gruen, The Hellenistic World and the Coming of Rome (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), pp. 359–730.
(45) F. Millar, 1984. ‘State and Subject: The Impact of Monarchy.’ In Caesar Augustus. Seven Aspects. F. Millar, and E. Segal, eds. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984), pp. 37–60.
(46) G. W. Bowersock, ‘Augustus and the East: The Problem of the Succession.’ In Caesar Augustus. Seven Aspects. F. Millar, and E. Segal, eds. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984), pp. 169–188.
(47) C. Ando, ‘The Administration of the Provinces.’ In A Companion to the Roman Empire, 177–192. D. S. Potter, ed. (Oxford: Blackwell, 2006), pp. 181–182.
(48) A. Raggi, ‘The Epigraphic Dossier of Seleucus of Rhosos: A Revised Edition.’ Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 147 (2004): 123–138; for the text, see Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum 58, 1733.
(49) For the situation of the newly enfranchised within this system see J. F. Gardner, ‘Making Citizens: The Operation of the Lex Irnitana.’ In Administration, Prosopography and Appointment Policies in the Roman Empire, L. de Blois, ed. (Amsterdam: J. C. Gieben, 2001), pp. 215–229.
(50) C. Ando, ‘Making Romans: Democracy and Social Differentiation under Rome.’ In Imperial Cosmopolitanisms. Global Identities and Imperial Cultures in Ancient Eurasia. Myles Lavan, Richard Payne and John Weisweiler, eds. Forthcoming.
(51) A. N. Sherwin-White, The Roman Citizenship. 2nd edn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1973), pp. 397–468; Ando ‘Imperial Ideology’ pp. 49–70.
(52) A short list of exemplary studies in a vast scholarship would include G. W. Bowersock, Greek Sophists in the Roman Empire (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969); C. P. Jones, The Roman World of Dio Chrysostom (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1978); F. Millar, ‘Empire and City, Augustus to Julian: Obligations, Excuses, and Status.’ Journal of Roman Studies 73 (1983): 76–96; J.-L. Ferrary, Philhellénisme et impérialisme: aspects idéologiques de la conquête romaine du monde hellénistique, de la seconde guerre de Macédoine à la guerre contre Mithridate (Rome: École française de Rome, 1988), pp. 395–494; F. Millar, ‘The Greek East and Roman Law: The Dossier of M. Cn. Licinius Rufinus.’ Journal of Roman Studies 89 (1999): 90–108; and Whitmarsh, Greek Literature and the Roman Empire, pp. 181–246.
(54) C. Ando, Review of Simon Goldhill, ed., Being Greek under Rome: Cultural identity, the Second Sophistic, and the development of empire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001). Phoenix 57 (2003): 355–360; A. J. S. Spawforth, Greece and the Augustan Cultural Revolution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012); see also G. W. Bowersock, Augustus and the Greek World (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1965).
(55) For exemplary studies of this kind focused on the early Principate see G. Woolf, Becoming Roman: The Origins of Provincial Civilization in Gaul (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 169–205; and J. Edmondson, ‘The Virginity of the Soldier Zosimus and Other Family Myths: Terms of Affection Within and Beyond the Family at Augusta Emerita.’ In Lusitania Romana—entre o mito et a realidade, Aleandre de Laborde, ed. (Cascais: Camara Municipal de Cascais, 2009), pp. 249–280.
(56) See in general F. Millar, ‘Local Cultures in the Roman Empire: Libyan, Punic and Latin in Roman Africa.’ Journal of Roman Studies 58 (1968): 126–134; and cf. Fergus Millar, ‘Epigraphy’, in Sources for Ancient History, M. Crawford, ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), pp. 80–136.
(57) G. Woolf, ‘The Uses of Forgetfulness in Roman Gaul.’ In Vergangenheit und Lebenswelt. Soziale Kommunikation, Traditionsbildung und historisches Bewußtsein, H.-J. Gehrke and A. Möller, eds. (Tübingen: Gunter Narr, 1996), pp. 361–381.