3
The blind leading the blind?

Civilian writers and audiences of military manuals in the Roman world

Nadya Williams

In 1616, the otherwise unremarkable Captain John Bingham published what would become for the next four hundred years the definitive translation into English of Aelian’s Tactics (Tactica), originally composed in Greek in the early second century CE.¹ In the preface, Bingham humbly dedicates his translation of the treatise to Charles, Prince of Wales, who would become King Charles I a little less than a decade later, with the hope that Aelian’s nuggets of wisdom would serve him as well as they had served Aelian’s original addressee, the Emperor Hadrian.2

As Bingham himself pointed out in that same preface to his translation of Aelian, the Low Countries had already adopted Aelian as a source of military knowledge, and he did not wish the future King of England to be lacking recourse to such important information himself. Bingham was not exaggerating the perceived value of his subject to his future sovereign. Aelian’s work had indeed gathered popularity in early modern Europe, because of the practical descriptions of the Macedonian army’s drills and formation orders, which could be adapted wholesale by pike-wielding armies as exempla for hand-to-hand combat.

Early modern readers did not seem to appreciate the irony of transmission, for Aelian himself lacked military experience of his own, and his work was largely based on an earlier manual on the same subject by Asclepiodotus. But Aelian was certainly not the only ancient military luddite-turned-writer to be held dear by armies of the Middle Ages and beyond. Among his more popular peers were such writers as Onasander, whose The General (Strategikos) inspired a variety of spinoffs in the Byzantine Empire and was translated widely in Renaissance Europe and beyond, and Vegetius, whose Epitome of Military Science (Epitoma Rei Militaris) has been widely read from the day of its publication to the modern times.³ But while the value of these ancient manuals and their popularity among the military elites throughout the Middle Ages is well established, the same cannot be said of their original audiences. Who read Greek and Roman military manuals originally? A related question is: why did their authors, some of whom (e.g., the philosophers Asclepiodotus and Onasander) lacked military experience themselves, write these military manuals? Did they truly see themselves as teaching real-life generals and soldiers about their craft, or could they have been addressing a less experienced audience? But, if so, cui bono? And did their audiences have the same impression of the value of these works as did the authors?⁴ The remainder of this paper is dedicated to proposing some answers to these questions, not yet considered in modern scholarship from this angle. Specifically, this paper offers a more nuanced response to Brian Campbell’s thoughtful study of the practical uses and influences of military manuals on real generals in the Roman Empire, and to Conor What-ely’s recent work on the purpose of military manuals in Late Antiquity.⁵ While Campbell and Whately have considered military manuals as a single genre en masse, I argue for considering those texts that were not written by authors with personal military experience as a related but separate subgenre of sorts, as their readership and influence were more exclusively civilian in nature. Strikingly, no term for ‘noncombatant’ or ‘civilian’ existed in the ancient Greek or Latin, but ancient authors highlight as irregular military engagements by individuals who were not members of the sanctioned military forces of their city-state or nation. The use of the anachronistic modern term ‘civilian’, therefore, seems justified.⁶ Ultimately, the identity of both the authors and the audiences of these manuals as civilians without military experience separates these works into a different genre from those manuals written by and for military personnel.

Proceeding chronologically through the works of Asclepiodotus, Onasander, and Vegetius as case studies, this paper suggests that these works, written by authors without military experience of their own, had primarily a civilian audience in mind, and despite some authors’ aspiration to practical purpose, these manuals ultimately were received by their original audiences as works of entertainment and personal edification rather than practical training manuals. This ultimately meant a very different impact of these manuals on their audiences than the impact of manuals written by seasoned military generals, such as Frontinus.⁷ And while this perhaps detracts from these manuals’ worth to military historians of the ancient world, their existence is a valuable cultural artifact that shows the existence in the Roman Empire of armchair aficionados whose participation in war did not extend beyond reading about it for pleasure.⁸

Aeneas Tacticus’ military manual on surviving under siege has been described in modern scholarship as the only ancient manual expressly written for civilians.⁹ But while it may indeed be the only ancient manual composed with an exclusively civilian audience in mind, the goal of this paper is to show through an analysis of three other Greek and Roman manuals from the Roman world the tempting possibility of a civilian audience being the ultimate audience of their original authors, even if another audience may have been intended at first by the author. Indeed, I would argue, what makes Aeneas even more unique is that he was a trained military general who chose to address a civilian, rather than a military, audience. While Byzantine and Medieval European readers of all ancient manuals viewed them as authentic guidelines for training troops, those authors of military manuals who had no military experience of their own intended them to serve, rather, as works of entertainment and education for an audience equally far removed from the military sphere, but no less fascinated with it as a result of that distance.10

I

Before proceeding to the ancient manuals themselves, it is important to establish a methodological approach. What makes scholars so certain that Aeneas Tacticus, assumed to be the Stymphalian general mentioned by Xenophon, wrote to educate civilians, rather than fellow generals?¹¹ The answer is based on Aeneas’ subject matter selection and presentation of topics, in combination with the circumstances of the period during which he composed his work.

In 400 BCE, the gastraphetes, a giant belly bow considered to be one of the prototypes of the catapult, entered the world of Greek warfare. Its arrival set a new model for hitting targets from afar. The continuing perfection of such ever-farther-shooting machines over the course of the fourth century BCE revolutionized Greek siege warfare by giving a new advantage to besiegers.¹² While attackers in previous eras largely had to rely on starving out the besieged, the new technology allowed for much more effective (meaning, deadly!) targeting of the people within the besieged city. A side-effect was an involvement of civilians in warfare to a greater degree than ever, at least in times of siege. After all, an arrow or other projectile shot into a besieged city did not discriminate between soldiers and civilians.¹³ Such targeting of the besieged aimed to provoke fear in the civilian populations, with the hope of obtaining a swift surrender.

As a career general, Aeneas Tacticus had lived and fought during this crucial period, thus gaining thorough first-hand experience with siege warfare. Presumed to have been written after his retirement from duty, Aeneas’ How to Survive under Siege (Poliorketica) is filled not only with practical advice, but also with concrete examples from a variety of real sieges throughout the Greek world. Strikingly, the work focuses on the perspective of the besieged city and provides advice not for the besiegers, but specifically for those who might find themselves within a city under siege. His methodical and clear yet succinct advice covers such topics as organizing guard for the city walls and preventing perfidy from within.¹⁴ No less memorable are such scare tactics, aimed to frighten away the besieging force, as getting one’s cattle drunk and sending them out of the city at night, or arming women with pots and pans and stationing them on the city walls in order to make the city’s defense forces look larger than they really are.¹⁵ The practical nature of Aeneas’ advice, combined with his perspective from within the city under siege, readily suggests a civilian audience seeking practical advice. The context of Greek warfare in the fourth century BCE suggests, furthermore, a clear need for such advice. To sum up, while the contents of Aeneas’ work by no means rule out that some military personnel in the fourth century and beyond read it, a civilian audience, including perhaps even women, appears most plausible.¹⁶ And since Aeneas’ work was seen in antiquity to be the beginning of the genre of military didactic literature, its appeal to a particular audience may also have been taken into consideration by subsequent writers in the same genre.¹⁷

Let us apply now these same criteria of subject matter selection and the context of the period in which a treatise was written, in order to consider likely audiences for the military manuals of Asclepiodotus, Onasander, and Vegetius. In addition, when available, I consider the references to these authors in antiquity by others, as this is evidence for at least some of their readership. The selection of these particular authors’ manuals for discussion seems methodologically apt, as they represent several periods of Roman history (Late Republic, Early Empire, and Late Empire). But second, their selection unashamedly privileges manuals that have survived in a more or less complete state and had served as models for later manuals, suggesting a reasonable degree of circulation.¹⁸

II

Sometime in the mid- to late first century BCE, Asclepiodotus, a student of the famed Stoic philosopher Poseidonius of Rhodes, produced The Art of War (Technê Tactica), an exceptionally technical treatise on military training, maneuvering, and tactics. Poseidonius was the Aristotle of his age – a philosopher equally versed in all arts and sciences. It is possible, therefore, that Asclepiodotus’ treatise was based on his teacher’s own manual on the subject, which unfortunately does not survive.19 At the very least, his interest in the topic of the military, with which he had no personal experience, likely derived from his teacher’s encyclopedic approach to knowledge.²⁰

One hopes that Asclepiodotus’ own teaching style (assuming that he followed in his teacher’s steps into the philosophical profession) was less terse and more approachable than his writing style. Not one to mince words, by way of introduction he immediately presents categories of land forces: three types who fight on foot, three types who fight mounted. He provides no description of purpose of his work or any similar address to the reader, until the brief concluding statement at the end of the manual: “These are in brief the principles of the tactician; they mean safety to those who follow them and danger to those who disobey” (XII.11.14).²¹ Two hundred years earlier, when the Hellenistic era armies were still using phalanx tactics, this advice would have been apt indeed. By the Late Roman Republic, however, Asclepiodotus’ subject has been decisively mothballed. Rome had full control over the Greek world, proof that the legion (never mentioned in this treatise) had surpassed the phalanx.22 But while the historical context in which Asclepiodotus was writing rules out the usefulness or practical appeal of the work to real military personnel, the content and its presentation suggest a likely different audience: students of philosophy and history in Rhodes and possibly even in Rome. Two particular features stand out in Asclepiodotus’ style in the manual. First, the rhetorical structure throughout privileges mathematical equations and visuals, to the point of using tripartite or quadripartite structure for various configurations even at the expense of obfuscating understanding. Second, Asclepiodotus’ approach to combining features from all periods and geographical areas of Greek warfare into a single manual results in a chimera-like entity that flamboyantly refuses to be constrained by historicity.

From the opening statement of his work, Asclepiodotus works hard to present all types of categories of military forces, soldiers, and maneuvers in mathematical terms, to the point that mathematical explanations become the defining feature of his rhetoric.²³ For example, in describing the ideal numerical strength of the phalanx, he explains,

Accordingly you should rather select numbers which are evenly divisible by two down to unity, and you will find that most tacticians have made the phalanx to consist of 16,384 hoplites, because that number is divisible by two down to unity…. Let us also assume that the phalanx will consist of this number of men, and the file of sixteen men.

(II.7)²⁴

Not satisfied to stop there, Asclepiodotus provides further mathematical breakdown of this structure of the phalanx:

the union of the two wings is called the phalanx, under the command of the general, comprising 2 wings, 4 corps or half-wings, 8 division, 16 brigades, 32 regiments, 64 battalions, 128 companies, 256 platoons, 512 double-files, and 1024 files.

(II.10)²⁵

This latter description is redundant from a factual standpoint, as it repeats the information provided earlier in II.7. And yet, it allows Asclepiodotus to showcase his mathematical prowess, as he readily multiplies by two increasingly greater numbers. Variations on these examples repeat throughout the manual, such as when Asclepiodotus discusses the structure and organization of the light infantry in VI.1–3.

In addition to presenting ample arithmetical explanations about the phalanx, Asclepiodotus also resorts to geometry to strengthen his case:

The entire army as well as its units is disposed on the basis of a fourfold division, so that of the four half-wings the bravest holds the right of the right wing, the second and third in point of valour the left and right, respectively, of the left wing, and the fourth the left of the right wing. For with the units ordered in this manner the right wing will have the same strength as the left, since, as the geometricians say, the product of the first and the fourth will equal that of the second and third, if the four be proportionate.

(III.1)²⁶

It is significant that Asclepiodotus cites geometricians in this example, rather than military leaders, as the authority on whose word his own argument rests. Geometric considerations further come to the fore in his discussion of the various tactical arrangements of cavalry in battle – from rectangle to wedge to rhomboid (VII.2–9). Indeed, the geometrical descriptions of the arrangements of cavalry in particular make little sense without accompanying visuals, and as the text itself makes clear, Asclepiodotus had intended his text to incorporate detailed diagrams of the described formations.²⁷

As one might expect from a philosopher, Asclepiodotus’ arguments throughout are very logical, albeit dry, and his math impeccable. But while the logic for the arrangement of the phalanx and the number of soldiers therein, to select one example, certainly makes sense on paper, the picture of the phalanx that results would not have been recognisable for any soldier or general of a classical Greek polis, although it perhaps comes the closest to a Hellenistic army. The problem is, of course, real-life considerations. As we consider the calculations for the phalanx provided by Asclepiodotus, we have to keep in mind that a real-life phalanx rarely if ever reached the ideal numerical strength, and generals instead fought wars using the men they had, whatever their number. The same is true of the descriptions of cavalry formation and numerical strengths. And yet, the rhetorical impact of Asclepiodotus’ readiness with numbers has the same effect on the modern-day reader as it likely would have on ancient lay audiences: such facility with citing numbers impresses the audience and makes the author sound more knowledgeable. The perception is, of course, that true experts cite precise numbers and figures, whereas amateurs deal with vagueness. Thus Asclepiodotus’ citation of numbers as facts throughout the manual likely served to reinforce his image as the expert on his topic at least for audiences without much military experience, although it is possible that even readers with experience in the Roman army of Asclepiodotus’ day would have been fooled. After all, the Roman army of the Late Republic did not look at all like the Classical or Hellenistic Greek phalanx.²⁸

But while Asclepiodotus showcases his mathematical facility to great effect, he shows remarkably little interest in historicity. Already in his opening statement, Asclepiodotus notes that warfare comprises two types of forces (land and naval) and, true to his overall trend of presenting all concepts in mathematical terms, continues to present three types of infantry and three types of cavalry. Yet although all categories listed have indeed existed at one time or another in the ancient world, all of them had never coexisted at the same place and time. A particularly salient example of Asclepiodotus’ privileging of rhetoric over historicity is his inclusion of both elephants and chariots in the category of mounted forces: ‘In the same way (as with regard to land forces) there are three branches of the mounted force: the first is cavalry, the second is furnished with chariots, and the third with elephants’ (I.3).29 This inclusion of both chariots and elephants did serve a useful rhetorical purpose, as it allowed Asclepiodotus to present a tripartite division of mounted forces, just as for the land ones. And yet, the mere inclusion of these forces in the list is fraught with historical challenges and seems to have been the result of the author’s determination to entertain his readers. Chariots, in particular, have had little use in Greek warfare since the Bronze Age and thus have rarely seen the light of day at the same time as the hoplite phalanx.³⁰ Elephants, likewise, although likely a fascinating novelty for Asclepiodotus’ audiences, most of whom had never seen one in person, were rarely used by armies in the Greek world.³¹ Asclepiodotus is forced to admit as much himself, when introducing these two types of mounted forces in more detail later in the manual: ‘Although we rarely find any use for chariots and elephants, we shall, nevertheless, set forth their nomenclature to complete this discussion’ (VIII.1).³² Asclepiodotus’ word choice here is apt: it is the terminology related to these categories of mounted forces that interests him, not the tactics proper. And, indeed, having provided nothing more than a list of the names of different subdivisions within units of chariots and elephants, Asclepiodotus rests his case (VIII.1–IX.1). The overall effect is similar to that which the reader gets from the lengthy lists of numbers and geometrical explanations. Put simply, Asclepiodotus’ use of elaborate terminology to describe even the most obscure and rare divisions of military forces presents a wonderful illusion of his own competence and extraordinary knowledge. Anyone without military experience, and thus without the awareness of how impractical and anachronistic much of Asclepiodotus’ coverage was, would have likely been wowed by his rhetorical prowess. But who precisely were his audiences, and were they duly impressed?

As it happens, the few references to Asclepiodotus in antiquity provide us with some insights about his readership. Seneca the Younger, writing in the mid-first century CE, referenced the works of Asclepiodotus five times, albeit none of these references was to the present work. In the meanwhile, Aelian relied heavily on Asclepiodotus in writing his own Tactics in the early second century CE, although, in a funny twist, Aelian never mentioned Asclepiodotus by name, but duly cited Asclepiodotus’ teacher Poseidonius.33

As my modern historian colleagues would say, this is slim pickings, but it is enough of a clue, perhaps, to draw some cautious conclusions about Asclepiodotus’ readership. First, Asclepiodotus was never able to get out of the shadow of his teacher Poseidonius. Indeed, Seneca’s references to Asclepiodotus suggest that Seneca (and presumably others by the mid-first century CE) assumed that Asclepiodotus was largely publishing the research of his own teacher. Furthermore, while Aelian’s military manual bears significant enough resemblance to Asclepiodotus’ work to make a relationship between the two works obvious, Aelian mentions Poseidonius, rather than Asclepiodotus, as his source, suggesting that the two were easily confused, and the credit could more easily be given to the more famous of the two philosophers. At any rate, we see that at least a niche audience of Greek and Roman philosophers were still avidly reading Asclepiodotus throughout the first and early second centuries CE and using his works as a conduit to the teachings of Poseidonius. This suggests, indeed, that as originally conjectured at the beginning of this section, Asclepiodotus likely found a place in the curricula of Greek and Roman philosophical schools. Second, it seems clear that this audience was not relying on Asclepiodotus for practical advice about the waging of war. Indeed, much if not all of this audience never saw war first-hand, since by the first century CE, Rome’s army was fully professionalised.³⁴ Instead, his thoroughly mathematical approach to the description of the phalanx made the work particularly suitable for use in the teaching of philosophy and rhetoric. These audiences likely were not looking for a military manual to read, but were looking to acquire the best education of their day. In a twist of irony, their pursuit of philosophical education engaged them in the study of military science, albeit via this thoroughly transhistorical manual. And perhaps, like for many modern armchair military historians, once they caught the military science ‘bug’, they were eager to read more.

III

Sometime in the mid-first century CE, another little-known career philosopher, Onasander, noted in the Suidas as the author of a commentary on Plato’s Republic, chose to make the same bold disciplinary leap as Asclepiodotus and wrote his own military manual. Onasander’s manual has the special distinction of being the only ancient military manual specifically dealing with war from the perspective of the general. Thus, Roman military generals (meaning, largely, Roman consuls and ex-consuls) ostensibly seem to be his target audience. This theory is further strengthened by his dedication of the work to one Quintus Veranius, consul in 49 CE. And yet, the manual’s elementary and broad presentation of the role of the general in war would certainly not have served to educate any Roman general in military matters. In fact, one presumes that Quintus Veranius himself would have had plenty of corrections to make to the book, had he been allowed.35 So who really was the audience of this manual, and why would anyone have been interested in such a book?³⁶

A careful reading of Onasander’s prologue reveals that while he dedicated the work to Quintus Veranius, the author was hoping for a broader readership among the senatorial class. Since all members of the aristocracy would have hoped to attain the consulship still, and with it the possibility of military leadership, the manual could have served an inspirational role, more than educational. In addition, Onasander’s discussion of qualifications for selection as general gives a hint of yet another possible audience. Overall, Onasander’s work would have served the purpose of entertaining and encouraging Romans with dreams of military leadership, while ironically providing advice that was minimally substantive, and at times misleading or utterly erroneous.³⁷

Unlike Asclepiodotus, who jumps straight into the ‘meat’ of his subject, Ona-sander opens his work with a formal prologue. In it, he firmly roots his work in the genre of technical manuals and explains his target audience and the reasons for addressing it:

It is fitting, I believe, to dedicate monographs on horsemanship, or hunting, or fishing, or farming, to men who are devoted to such pursuits, but a treatise on military science, Quintus Veranius, should be dedicated to Romans, and especially to those of the Romans who have attained senatorial dignity, and who through the wisdom of Augustus Caesar have been raised to the power of consul or general, both by reason of their military training (in which they have had no brief experience) and because of the distinction of their ancestors.

(Prooemium 1)38

The prologue’s reasoning is fascinating, as it shows a potential purpose in writing technical manuals, other than direct instruction of an audience. And, indeed, ancient manuals typically attempt to present at least the illusion of educating their audience. But Onasander proposes the contrary position by suggesting that each type of work ought to be dedicated to those who are the best authorities on the subject at hand – ‘to men who are devoted to such pursuits’. Such reasoning allows him, therefore, to flatter both Quintus Veranius and other potential Roman readers, as he lumps all Romans together into the category of military experts worthy of the dedication of his work.

Onasander’s reasoning for directing his work to those who may already be experts in the subject must have indeed struck even the author himself as somewhat unusual. With an eye for further flattering his readers, he clarifies his dedication:

I have dedicated this treatise primarily to them, not as to men unskilled in generalship, but with especial confidence in this fact, that the ignorant soul is unaware even of that in which another is successful, but knowledge bears additional witness to that which is well done.

(Prooemium 2)39

In other words, in a process of expert circular reasoning, Onasander humbly seeks approval and authority for his work through this dedication to those who are best qualified to judge it by virtue of their military heritage.

The remainder of the prologue shows a greater degree of confidence on Ona-sander’s part that although he is addressing an audience that (he claims) already is expert in the subject, he still has something to teach even them: ‘It remains for me to say with good courage of my work, that it will be a school for good generals, and an object of delight for retired commanders in these times of holy peace’ (Prooemium 4).⁴⁰ Finally, Onasander’s concluding point, that the Roman successes have been not by chance, but the result of having great generals, who are therefore worthy of study, echoes a more famous prologue, that of Polybius:

For who is so worthless or indolent as to not want to know by what means and under what system of polity the Romans in less than fifty-three years have succeeded in subjecting nearly the whole inhabited world to their sole government – a thing unique in history?

(Prooemium 1)41

The Polybian echo was surely not lost on Onasander’s readers, and likely enticed them to expect the manual to use historical exempla as an instructional method. But while Polybius argued that the Romans’ success was the result of their Republican government, Onasander appropriately updates the explanation to the days of the Empire by attributing Roman military successes to great generals, the chief of them, mentioned in the first sentence of the work, being Augustus Caesar himself. Clearly, despite his interest in Plato’s Republic, Onasander was not the gadfly type of a philosopher, but one who saw the benefits of being strongly pro-establishment. Moreover, Onasander’s use of historical exempla turns out to be minimal in the remainder of the manual.

Following the prologue, the structure of Onasander’s manual follows roughly in order of events in a general’s experience: selection of a general and best qualifications for that role; proper procedure and reasoning for declaring war; the process of training troops; fighting in battle, and various scenarios that might come up as part of leading in a battle; consequences of winning a battle, including how to deal with prisoners and burial of the fallen; how to treat cities that surrender; and how to maintain peace after war. But while each topic is logically presented, a lack of historical examples throughout lends it a vague tone, devoid of anchoring in any one place and time. This approach is in sharp contrast to the exempla-based works of writers with military experience who were writing for military audiences, such as Frontinus and Polyaenus.42 Instead of using exempla, however, Onasander privileges logic, an approach that certainly sets his work apart from the military manuals of professionals but also arguably opens the door for more diverse audiences for his work. And, indeed, while certain logically grounded explanations that Onasander provides are contrary to Roman historical practice and show potentially a lack of awareness of how the Roman military actually worked in practice, these explanations use philosophical methods to justify the idealistic picture that he wished to impart to his readers.⁴³

An especially salient example of this possible ignorance of Roman practice occurs in the very first section following the prologue – on the selection of a general. Before proceeding to the description of the responsibilities of the general in various circumstances in which he might find himself in war and in peace, Onasander presents an intriguing picture of the ideal qualifications for a general:

I believe, then, that we must choose a general, not because of noble birth as priests are chosen, nor because of wealth as the superintendents of the gymnasia, but because he is temperate, self-restrained, vigilant, frugal, hardened to labour, alert, free from avarice, neither too young nor too old, indeed a father of children if possible, a ready speaker, and a man with a good reputation.

(I.1)⁴⁴

Onasander elaborates further for why these qualities are indeed ideal for a general, and common sense is certainly on his side. And yet, the inclusion of this section in the manual is surprising, since one would assume that both Onasander, and at the very least his audiences, would have known how Roman generals were appointed. Indeed, if Onasander was hoping that the emperor would read his work, it is possible that he modeled the previous description on Augustus himself, hoping to flatter the princeps, who cultivated a public persona of an ideal general and paragon of familial, civic, and military virtue. But since Roman generals were typically consuls or ex-consuls, they were by default men of a sufficiently noble birth to be members of the senatorial class. In addition, because of the wealth prerequisites for the senatorial class, they literally were millionaires.⁴⁵ As for the remainder of the qualifications, they were certainly regularly violated, albeit sometimes with disastrous results. Indeed, Onasander’s list here would have seemed prophetic to anyone who might have read it in, say, 69 CE, approximately decade or two after Onasander wrote it. All of the failed generals-turned-emperors in the year 69 CE violated one or more of Onasander’s qualifications: Galba was too old, had no children, and was known to be greedy; Otho as well had no children and was in no way to be considered temperate or hardened to labor; and Vitellius had only a very young son and violated every single other qualification on Onasander’s list. By contrast to the other three, Vespasian, who emerged as the last man standing, met many (albeit not all) of Onasander’s qualifications and was indeed a man of neither noble birth nor significant wealth. And yet, the fact that generals like Galba, Otho, and Vitellius existed in Onasander’s day, and were so well placed to launch an imperial bid in 69 CE, is a firm reminder of the ways in which the Roman military appointments were not based on character qualifications, but rather on birth and wealth.

While completely divorced from the reality of how Roman generals were appointed, Onasander’s detailed advice on the qualities essential in a good general reveals his main interest throughout the rest of the manual in the character of the general. This interest, rooted in his philosophical background, would likely have intrigued readers of all levels of military experience.46 In history, on the other hand, Onasander shows about as much interest as Asclepiodotus – meaning, little to none. Sections V–X of the manual, for instance, present tips for the general on how to handle his army during marches, how to set up camp, and how to carry out drills even during peace. All of these topics easily lend themselves to the inclusion of prominent examples from Roman history. Indeed, the approach of Aeneas Tacticus was to include real-life historical examples to accompany each item of advice.⁴⁷ Onasander, however, shows no awareness whatsoever of any specific historical events that could have supported the need to heed his advice, and drily narrates his suggestions with no elaborations.

The ultimate message, to which Onasander returns in the concluding chapter, is that of the need for a man to work on improving and maintaining his good character and reputation: ‘A good man, then, will be not only a brave defender of his fatherland and a competent leader of an army but also for the permanent protection of his own reputation will be a sagacious strategist’ (XLII.26).⁴⁸ With this emphasis on the moral character of the general, Onasander has produced a ‘feel-good’ manual that would have made anyone reading it feel important, and (if he went through the checklist of essential qualifications for a general) could have led many a reader to view himself as a viable potential general, unless he thought hard about how Roman generals actually were appointed. After all, improving one’s character would have been much easier than changing one’s birth and wealth status. And since the author was a respected philosopher, presumably the same individuals who read his philosophical works – meaning, educated aristocracy, broadly defined – might have given his manual a chance.⁴⁹

IV

Sometime in the late fourth or early fifth century CE, one Publius Flavius Vegetius Renatus, also known to have composed a treatise on veterinary science, a subject in which he had extensive first-hand experience, decided to branch out into military writing and wrote a manual on the ideal practices for recruitment and training of the Roman army.⁵⁰ The work, ambitiously dedicated to an unnamed emperor, assumed to be either Theodosius I, Gratian, or Valentinian III, seems to have resonated with its addressee.51 Vegetius proceeded to write a second volume, on the organization of the legion, a third, on military actions in the field, and a fourth on siege warfare and naval warfare. In the prologues to these subsequent books, he noted that it was the success of his first volume that induced the emperor to order him to keep writing on the subject. Vegetius was delighted to oblige. But there appears to have been a discrepancy, at least initially, between what the author had hoped his audience would gain from the work, and the purpose with which the audience itself endowed his work. While the ostensible purpose of the work was to produce a manual of practical advice for the emperor, and especially to encourage the emperor to use more Romans (rather than barbarians) in the army, no actual changes appear to have resulted from Vegetius’ writing. So why did the emperor encourage Vegetius, a man who by his own admission knew much more about horse-breeding than military affairs, so urgently to keep expanding his military treatise?⁵² Conor Whately has recently proposed an intriguing argument for the dual purpose of Vegetius’ manual to entertain and educate the readers of both civilian and military manuals.⁵³ Through a detailed reading of Vegetius’ prologues, I now add to Whately’s argument the possibility that the historical approach of the manual, with its regular contrasts between the army of the Republic and the army of the author’s day, reveals its literary purpose in entertaining and encouraging a civilian aristocracy of the new Christian empire with stories of the past glories of Rome at precisely the time when those glories, and Roman identity as a whole, were threatened more than ever by the changing nature of the late Empire.

Vegetius’ extensive prologues to each volume of his work are striking, and as seen by the lack of any prologue in Asclepiodotus’ manual, for instance, were not necessarily required by the genre. In Vegetius’ work, however, the elaborate prologue to each volume serves to emphasise the role of the emperor as both the encourager and the audience of the work, lending authority to the author’s voice and thus inviting broader readership. Concurrently, Vegetius emphasises his own role as the researcher of the truths of the past, and thus a conduit of these truths to the Romans of his own day. In the process, his prologues echo a different genre – that of historical writing. Thus, in Book I, Vegetius begins by explaining a longstanding tradition of dedicating such works to the emperor, and the worthiness of his recipient:

In ancient times it was the custom to commit to writing one’s studies in the liberal arts and offer them summarised in books to Emperors. For nothing is begun rightly unless after God the Emperor favours it, nor is it appropriate that anyone should have superior or wider knowledge than the Emperor, whose learning can benefit all his subjects.

(I, Preface)⁵⁴

From the opening sentence, the paradoxical nature of Vegetius’ work as rooted in antiquity and yet a product of its own times is clear. Yes, it is a time-honored tradition to dedicate one’s literary labors to the emperor. And yet, as the reference to God reminds, this is a different kind of emperor, and a different, now fully Christian, empire. If the recipient is Theodosius, the dismantling of pagan temples and other final vestiges of traditional Roman religion were still underway at the time of writing.⁵⁵ And even if the recipient is a slightly later emperor, the Theodosian ban on pagan worship was still a recent phenomenon within living memory. As a result, the emperor is second to God (as Vegetius’ statement not so subtly reminds), rather than a god himself. Likewise, Vegetius’ note on the responsibility of the emperor to use his knowledge to benefit his subjects acquires a new nuance in the Christian empire, as the emperor now had to answer to God directly for the well-being of his subjects.⁵⁶ But can a simple bureaucrat like Vegetius have truly aspired to educate the emperor himself? Careful lest he appear overly presumptuous, as Onasander likewise did in the beginning of his own manual, Vegetius also nuances his writings by noting that he means flattery rather than disrespect:

We attempt to show then, by a number of stages and headings, the ancient art of levying and training recruits. Not that those things would appear unfamiliar to you, Invincible Emperor, but so that you may recognize in your spontaneous dispositions for the safety of the State the principles which the builders of the Roman Empire long ago observed, and in this little book find whatever you think needful to affairs of State, which are ever pressing.

(I, Preface)⁵⁷

Vegetius misses no opportunity to highlight the antiquity of his subject, proudly calling it an ancient art. Addressing the emperor as ‘Invincible Emperor’, at the same time, highlights the emperor’s continuation of that ancient art, and his ability to apply it in the present time. After all, the emperor’s task of preserving the safety of the state, Vegetius notes, is equally old, even if some of the challenges the emperor faces are relatively novel.

Growing bolder after the emperor’s kind reception of Book I, in the subsequent two books Vegetius begins by praising a key figure or group from the past, whose military excellence he has researched, and the benefit of whose wisdom he now imparts to his audience. Thus, in his prologue to Book II, Vegetius thanks the emperor for the vote of confidence that his first volume had received, and vows obedience to the emperor’s command to keep writing. He also notes the significance of his own role, for ‘[b]rave deeds belong to a single age; what is written for the state is eternal’ (II.3).⁵⁸ As a writer, in other words, Vegetius turns singular historical events into eternal exempla for edifying his audiences. Then singling out Cato the Elder as a source of key military information for this second book, Vegetius outlines his task:

These men’s recommendations, their precepts, I shall summarise as strictly and faithfully as I am able. For although both a carefully and a neglectfully ordered army cost the same expense, it is to the benefit of not only of present but of future generations also if, thanks to your Majesty’s provision, August Emperor, both the very strongest disposition of arms be restored and the neglect of your predecessors amended.

(II.3)⁵⁹

Vegetius is clear about his own position as a researcher, who will combine the best of the wisdom of earlier Roman military leaders and writers (especially Cato).⁶⁰ He follows this description with the explanation of the benefit of his work to the emperor: maintaining an army is expensive, so one might as well do it well. Furthermore, a well-managed army will benefit subsequent generations of Romans. Last but not least, in a somber but respectful tone Vegetius hints yet again, as at the end of his prologue to the first volume, about the troubles of the Roman Empire in his day, which are separating this empire from its former glory. This remark, however, is carefully couched not as a criticism to mismanagement of military affairs by the current emperor, but rather as the fault of his predecessors. And, of course, by mentioning that the Roman army’s former military strength can be fully restored, Vegetius reminds that military success is indeed part of the identity of the Roman Empire, rather than something new.

In his prologue to Book III, Vegetius goes back yet further in time than the Roman Republic for inspiration, complimenting the Spartans’ dedication to military art and (who knew?) military writings. These are important to study, says Vegetius, because they, along with the Athenians, were ‘masters of the world before the Macedonians’ (III, Preface). The Romans inherited all this knowledge, claims Vegetius, and now he is ensuring that it will continue:

Following these men’s precedents the Romans maintained the principles of warfare in practice and transmitted them in writing. This material, dispersed through various authors and books, Invincible Emperor, you ordered my Mediocrity to summarise, so that neither should boredom arise from excessive detail nor complete confidence be lacking because of brevity.

(III, Preface)⁶¹

Repeating the same themes as in his other prologues, Vegetius notes that it has been a Roman tradition as well to preserve military achievements in writing, so that achievements of the past can become lessons for all time. Vegetius thus places himself into a tradition of military writing that is distinctly Roman as well. At the same time, however, he highlights the two-fold difficulty of his task, which required him to assemble material ‘dispersed through various authors and books’. Research is not easy, after all! To make matters more challenging, he had to present this material in a way most appropriate to his audience, striking just the right balance between boredom from excessive length and confusion from excessive brevity of the work. This final note shows Vegetius’ careful awareness of the difficult balance between entertainment and education, while also highlighting his desire to place his own writing in an older tradition.

In the prologue to the fourth and final volume, on siege warfare, Vegetius deems it appropriate to harken back to the first builders of cities, arguing that the art of city-building (and the accompanying art of governing a state) saw its height in none other than his emperor, to whom the treatise is addressed. Vegetius describes the emperor in the most flattering terms, addressing this complimentary statement to him, among many others: ‘You surpass all Emperors in felicity, moderation, morality, displays of indulgence and love of studies’ (IV, Preface).⁶² It is therefore especially apt, Vegetius argues, that

[t]o complete, then, a work undertaken by command of Your Majesty, I shall summarise in order from various authors the measures by which either our cities should be defended or the enemy’s destroyed. Nor shall I regret my labour since foundations are being laid for the benefit of all.

(IV, Preface)⁶³

This prologue echoes themes from those to the previous volumes. The reader is reminded that Vegetius’ authority as author is based on the emperor’s tasking of Vegetius with writing the manual, and his thorough research of earlier authors. Also, Vegetius reiterates the importance of his work as something that will benefit all, at the same time noting again the challenging nature of his task – it truly is a ‘labour’.

Throughout the prologues to the four volumes, the repeated emphasis on Roman military excellence as an integral part of Roman tradition sets the stage for the manual to connect the historic past to the present of the audience’s day, with the clear aim of using the glorified past to inspire the crumbling present. Vegetius’ admiration for the Roman army of the past is clear throughout his work, and it comes to the fore in the contrasts between the Roman army of the nebulous past and that of the present. As a result, certain historical details find their way into the work, despite their irrelevance for purposes other than historical background. These historical examples, however, are mixed together and removed from their original context. What matters, after all, is not history itself, but its value for the present.⁶⁴ For example, Vegetius includes a lengthy explanation of the armor of the ancients (I.20), a detailed overview of drills from the days of the early Empire (I.27), a thorough overview of the structure and leadership of the early Roman legion (II.6–8), a list of the titles of officers in the Roman fleet (IV.32), as well as an explanation of how Liburnian warships got their name (IV.33). Perhaps nowhere else in the work are Vegetius’ aims in including such historical details as clear as in his conclusion to Book I, where he explains that as the conquerors of the known world, the Romans should study military science as a way to maintain and better understand their own identity.⁶⁵ After all, many great civilizations and conquerors have existed, and still exist, throughout the ancient Mediterranean. Although the Romans have conquered them all, they cannot merely rest on their laurels, as their own past history reveals:

For martial energy has not declined in mankind, nor are the lands exhausted that produced the Spartans, the Athenians, the Marsians, Samnites, Paeligni, the Romans themselves. Were not the Epirotes once very powerful in arms? Did not the Macedonians and Thessalians overcome the Persians and penetrate as far as India on campaign? Clearly the Dacians, Moesians and Thracians have always been warlike, for fables tell us that Mars himself was born among them. But it is tedious if I attempt to list the strength of all the provinces, when they all belong under the sway of the Roman Empire. However, a sense of security born of long peace has diverted mankind partly to the enjoyment of private leisure, partly to civilian careers.

(I.28)⁶⁶

Put simply, studying Roman military excellence is the Roman thing to do, and is part and parcel of the ‘brand’ name of what it means to be Roman. Furthermore, as the darker note on which Vegetius finishes the book hints, the lack of study of military affairs, and the accompanying lack of military training, could only result in disaster for Rome. There is a genuine urgency in maintaining both military knowledge and military training. As Vegetius concludes the book, ‘For it costs less to train one’s own men in arms than to hire foreign mercenaries’.⁶⁷

Vegetius’ extensive prologues and the conclusion to Book I show that he understood a question of relevance that his work might elicit from his audience: why should a Roman emperor and his court decide to devote so much time to reading a military manual that summarizes research on past Roman military operations? After all, the Roman Empire of Vegetius’ day was a completely different Rome, not even located in Rome anymore! Also, Theodosius’ ban on sacrifices was the end of traditional Roman religion, as seen for instance in the new and fully Christianized military oath (II.5). Finally, regardless of whether Theodosius I or Valentinian III was Vegetius’ addressee, the Roman Empire of Vegetius’ day was constantly under attack, including such disasters as the Battle of Adrianople in 378 CE and the sack of Rome in 410 CE.68 But, it appears, this crisis of identity spurred reflective retrospection both on the part of Vegetius and his audiences, emperor and imperial court alike. While the emperor and other readers likely felt rooted in their present troubles and were seeking solutions to them that were current and relevant, Vegetius rather believed that the solutions his audiences actually needed lay in the distant past. Vegetius’ work, rooted so deeply in examining the army of the Roman Republic and early Empire, showed a way to reconcile the new Empire to the old ‘brand’ name of Rome through the study of Roman military excellence as the most valuable part of Roman identity. In Vegetius’ treatise on military art, therefore, entertainment and education married to inspire.

IV

In this paper, I proposed that military manuals were a popular reading and entertainment option for Roman audiences who did not have military experience but were fascinated with military history and the concept of military glory in their nation’s past either from a philosophical perspective or from seeing a necessity to cultivate such an interest as a matter of solidifying their identity as Romans. This interest on the part of the military luddites-turned-writers and their civilian audiences closely connected the manuals and their readers to the much older genre of epic poetry, which likewise presented war in glorifying and exciting terms, providing military heroes whom audiences from all walks of life could admire. The military manuals of the Late Republic and all periods of the Roman Empire glorified historically successful armies – the Macedonian phalanx and the legion of the Roman Republic, in particular – and presented the military maneuvers of these armies as epic subjects for all times. As a result, the content of these manuals, which at times leaves much to be desired from the perspective of historical accuracy, was irrelevant to their purpose of entertaining and inviting interest, so long as the goal of bringing some epic into the mundane has been fulfilled.

It is impossible to know the authors’ motivations, and whether they realized their own inadequacies and lack of informed understanding of military affairs. Indeed, like so many armchair academics of any period, perhaps they believed that they were better informed about the subject of their writing than they actually were. Their adherence to the general rules of the genre of military manuals certainly suggests this possibility. And in this case, it is entirely possible that they were frustrated with the lack of expert readership for their works, especially if, as I argue, the civilian readership relegated their manuals into a different category than the military manuals of the known experts, such as Frontinus. But it is one of the ironies of history that the long-standing popularity of these manuals with medieval and early modern audiences transformed them primarily into works of practical advice. Promoted to the rank of experts by much later readers, Asclepiodotus, Ona-sander, and Vegetius alike would have been overjoyed with this twist indeed.

Notes

1 This was indeed the translation that I found in the stacks of my university! See Aelian, The tactiks of Aelian; or, Art of embattailing an army after ye Grecian manner. Translated by Bingham (1968). This is a reprinting of the original 1616 translation.

2 It is possible that the addressee was Trajan, rather than Hadrian, but the point stands. Charles’ subsequent life would prove that he was in need of a different sort of wisdom, but that is not the subject of the present work.

3 See Roueché (2002) 119 on the popularity of Aelian and Onasander in the Byzantine Empire. Onasander’s work, for instance, influenced the Tactica of Leo VI, Byzantine Emperor from 886 to 912 CE. As for Vegetius, Goffart dubs him “the Bible of warfare throughout the Middle Ages” – cf. Goffart (1977) 65. For a study of Vegetius’ influence on military writing after antiquity, see Allmand (2011). For earlier scholarship, see Schrader (1981) 167–172. Vegetius enjoyed quite the popularity in Medieval France – see Knowles (1956) 452–458. For details on the typical reading list of American and French officers in the early modern period, see Powers (2006) 781–814. On the list Powers identified are Aelian and Vegetius, as well as other Classical military (albeit not strictly didactic) writers, such as Polybius, Caesar, and Quintus Curtius Rufus. Finally, see Bulkeley (1983) 233–257, for an overview of the controversial legacy even in the modern world of Vegetius’ maxim si vis pacem, para bellum.

4 Polybius, at least, was not impressed with historians who wrote generally on military matters, although he does not single out writers of manuals in his disparaging comment (I.4.3).

5 Campbell (1987) 13–29 and Whately (2015) 249–262.

6 For a discussion of definitions and especially how civilians were involved in warfare in the Archaic and Classical Greek world, see Williams (2017) 23–41, and especially 24 on definitions.

7 See Campbell (1987) 20–28 for a summary of ways in which Frontinus’ manual and other similarly practical texts influenced real commanders in the Roman Empire. Also see Chapter 10 for a consideration of how Frontinus viewed the Roman defeat at Cannae as a surprising example of a stratagem in his Stratagems.

8 This would seem to allay (at least some of) the concerns about reading military manuals as providing historical examples for a real general to emulate in actual campaigns, against which Schellenberg in his chapter warns.

9 Early scholarship assumed his targeting of a military audience – see especially Hand-ford (1926) 181–184. See also Oldfather (1923) 8–10 for the diplomatic summary of the work as addressing only the defensive side of siege warfare, without stating that this means largely addressing a civilian audience. For a detailed reasoning, however, for assuming a civilian audience under siege, which also may be dealing with enemies from within, see Whitehead (1990) 17–33. Finally, see Williams (2017) 23–41 for an overview of the growing civilian involvement in warfare in the fourth century BCE, based on the evidence of Aeneas’ manual.

10 For example, see Chapter 14.

11 For a summary of reasons why Aeneas the writer is likely Aeneas the general, see Whitehead (1990) 12–17.

12 Perhaps the best summary of the changes and the rapid evolution of the catapult in the period can be found in Rihll (2007).

13 For more information on the impact of war on civilians, and especially the existence of any formal or informal laws restricting attacks primarily against civilians in Greek warfare, see the debate between Ober (1998) 57–71 and Peter Krentz (2002) 23–39, as well as more recent works of Lanni (2008) 469–489 and Gaca (2010) 117–161. Ober argues that informal laws of war existed from the Archaic Period until the Peloponnesian War, when they were violated repeatedly with no consequences for the offenders. Krentz agrees with the latter part of Ober’s argument but argues that any rules restricting attacks on civilians did not come into existence until 480 BCE. Lanni argues that any laws restricting various aspects of war in Greek warfare, including attacks on civilians, were religious in nature. Gaca, finally, argues that certain aspects of deliberate attacks on civilians, namely andrapodization of women and children, existed in all periods of Greek warfare. Finally, see Garland (2016), for a consideration of the fears of the siege that led the Athenians to abandon their city to the Persians in 480–479 BCE.

14 This last topic has accounted for a significant portion of the scholarship on Aeneas Tacticus. See, for instance, Bengtson (1962) 458–468 and Winterling (1991) 193–229.

15 Aeneas Tacticus 27.14 and 40. For a description of a later cattle-based scare tactic, used by Hannibal against Fabius Cunctator and his army, see Livy 22.17.

16 Literacy rates for women in the Greek world remain a subject of debate, but the portrayal of women engaged in reading in Classical Athenian vase paintings, for instance, shows that at least some of them read. Furthermore, the presence of women in Aeneas’ examples, and his emphasis throughout the manual that the defense of the city requires the entire citizen body acting as one, suggests his envisioning the close involvement of women in the process.

17 Cf. Vela Tejada (2004) 141–143, 146.

18 While we know that a number of manuals had been written between the era of Aeneas Tacticus and that of Asclepiodotus, none survive intact.

19 See, however, Kidd (1988) 31 for the argument that, as we know at least based on the relationship of Asclepiodotus’ work on meteorological phenomena to that of Poseidonius, ‘the Senecan evidence strongly suggests that he wrote his own book(s) on the subject, and did not merely summarize or abridge his master’s work’. The same logic can be applied to Asclepiodotus’ military manual, argues Wrightson (2015) 79.

20 Cf. Vela Tejada (2004) 144–145 on the Sophists’ influence on military writing, and especially the idea that a written book was the best way to preserve thoughts and knowledge permanently. See also Spaulding Jr (1933) 662 for an overview of Asclepiodotus’ style and approach as ‘lifeless theory, with no historical illustrations and no comment from experience’.

21 αὗται διὰ βραχέων αἱ τοῦ τακτικοῦ καθηγήσεις, τοῖς μὲν χρωμένοις σωτηρίαν πορίζουσαι, τοῖς δ̓ ἐναντίοις κινδύνους ἐπάγουσαι.

22 For an argument in favor of the continuing use of phalanx-style tactics by the Roman legion in Late Antiquity, however, see Wheeler (2004) 309–358.

23 Spaulding comments on this phenomenon of philosophers’ fascination with the military arts, especially from a mathematical perspective: “Socrates, soldier and philosopher, could talk soldier language when he wished; later philosophers, not soldiers, felt that to make good their claim to universality for their doctrines, they must treat the military art. The phalanx lent itself well to logical and mathematical treatment, and so we find a long line of writers who have so treated it” (Spaulding 661–662). Spaulding names Asclepiodotus as the first in this subgenre of technical military manuals.

24 δἰ ὃ τοὺς ἀρτιάκις ἀρτίους μᾶλλον ἐκλεκτέον ὡς μέχρι μονάδος διαιρεῖσθαι δυναμένους: καὶ τούς γε πλείονας τῶν τακτικῶν εὑρήσεις πεποιηκότας τὴν φάλαγγα τῶν ὁπλιτῶν μυρίων ἑξακισχιλίων τριακοσίων ὀγδοήκοντα τεσσάρων, ὡς δίχα διαιρουμένην μέχρι μονάδος, ταύτης δὲ ἡμίσειαν τὴν τῶν ψιλῶν. ὑποκείσθω δ̓ οὖν καὶ ἡμῖν τοσούτων ἀνδρῶν εἶναι τὴν φάλαγγα, τὸν δὲ λόχον ἑξκαίδεκα…. ὑποκείσθω δ̓ οὖν καὶ ἡμῖν τοσούτων ἀνδρῶν εἶναι τὴν φάλαγγα, τὸν δὲ λόχον ἑξκαίδεκα. The peculiar choice of the translator’s words, “divisible by two down to unity”, refers to the idea that all numbers are divisible by two with no remainders, down to the last two.

25 ὑποκείσθω δ̓ οὖν καὶ ἡμῖν τοσούτων ἀνδρῶν εἶναι τὴν φάλαγγα, τὸν δὲ λόχον ἑξκαίδεκα.

26 ἥ τε ὅλη φάλαγξ καὶ τὰ μέρη κατὰ τετράδα, ὥστε τῶν τεσσάρων ἀποτομῶν τὴν μὲν ἀρίστην κατ̓ ἀρετὴν τοῦ δεξιοῦ κέρατος τετάχθαι δεξιάν, τὴν δὲ δευτέραν ἀριστερὰν τοῦ λαιοῦ καὶ δεξιὰν τὴν τρίτην, τὴν δὲ τετάρτην τοῦ δεξιοῦ λαιάν. οὕτω γὰρ διατεταγμένων ἴσον εἶναι συμβήσεται κατὰ δύναμιν τὸ δεξιὸν κέρας τῷ λαιῷ: τὸ γὰρ ὑπὸ πρώτου καὶ τετάρτου, φασὶ γεωμέτριοι, ἴσον ἔσται τῷ ὑπὸ δευτέρου καὶ τρίτου, ἐὰν τὰ τέσσαρα ἀνὰ λόγον.

27 E.g., at the end of VII.6 and VII.9.

28 Cf. Lendon (2005) 142 for a discussion of Polybius’ astonishment over the formal severity of Roman military discipline, in contrast to the lack of formal discipline in Hellenistic armies.

29 κατὰ τὰ αὐτὰ δὴ καὶ τῆς ὀχηματικῆς δυνάμεως τρεῖς εἰσὶ διαφοραί: ἡ μὲν γάρ ἐστιν ἱππική, ἡ δὲ δι’ ἁρμάτων ἐπιτελεῖται, ἡ τρίτη δὲ δι’ ἐλεφάντων.

30 Cf. Lendon (2005) 158–159 on the paradox that despite the continuing fascination with Homeric warfare, the one aspect of epic warfare that did not acquire popularity was the use of chariots.

31 For an overview of the uses of war elephants in the Hellenistic period, see Epplett (2007) 209–232.

32 Lendon (2005) 159 considers it important that Asclepiodotus dismisses both chariots and elephants as ‘not naturally suited for fighting’.

33 For possible explanations for Aelian’s omission, see Oldfather (1923) 236 and Spaulding (1933) 662.

34 For information on the rise of the professional army in Rome, see Gabba (1949) 173–209, and its sequel Gabba (1951) 171–272. See also de Blois (2011) 164–180.

35 Campbell notes that the claim to provide practical advice is so common in military manuals as to appear to be almost a stock claim common to didactic manuals. “Moreover, that an author claims to be useful does not mean that others found him so, or that he was much consulted” (Campbell, 19). Ultimately, Campbell argues for the usefulness in real life of manuals written by experienced generals, most notably Frontinus and Arrian. Campbell (1987) 26–27.

36 For a highly skeptical answer to this question, cf. Chapter 2.

37 See Chlup (2014) for the intriguing argument that one of Onasander’s aims in this manual is actually to present a moral argument in defense of Just War. For a recent edition, translation, and commentary on Onasander (in Italian), see Petrocelli (2008).

38 ἱππικῶν μὲν λόγων ἢ κυνηγετικῶν ἢ ἁλιευτικῶν τε αὖ καὶ γεωργικῶν συνταγμάτων προσφώνησιν ἡγοῦμαι πρέπειν ἀνθρώποις, οἷς πόθος ἔχεσθαι τοιῶνδε ἔργων, στρατηγικῆς δὲ περὶ θεωρίας, ὦ Κόϊντε Οὐηράνιε, Ῥωμαίοις καὶ μάλιστα Ῥωμαίων τοῖς τὴν συγκλητικὴν ἀριστοκρατίαν λελογχόσι καὶ κατὰ τὴν Σεβαστοῦ Καίσαρος ἐπιφροσύνην ταῖς τε ὑπάτοις καὶ στρατηγικαῖς ἐξουσίαις κοσμουμένοις διά τε παιδείαν, ἧς οὐκ ἐπ̓ ὀλίγον ἔχουσιν ἐμπειρίαν, καὶ προγόνων ἀξίωσιν.

39 ἀνέθηκα δὲ πρώτοις σφίσι τόνδε τὸν λόγον οὐχ ὡς ἀπείροις στρατηγίας, ἀλλὰ μάλιστα τῇδε θαρρήσας, ᾖ τὸ μὲν ἀμαθὲς τῆς ψυχῆς καὶ τὸ παῤ ἄλλῳ κατορθούμενον ἠγνόησεν, τὸ δὲ ἐν ἐπιστήμῃ τῷ καλῶς ἔχοντι προσεμαρτύρησεν.

40 τὸ δὲ σύνταγμα θαρροῦντί μοι λοιπὸν εἰπεῖν ὡς στρατηγῶν τε ἀγαθῶν ἄσκησις ἔσται παλαιῶν τε ἡγεμόνων κατὰ τὴν σεβαστὴν εἰρήνην ἀνάθημα.

41 τίς γὰρ οὕτως ὑπάρχει φαῦλος ἢ ῥᾴθυμος ἀνθρώπων ὃς οὐκ ἂν βούλοιτο γνῶναι πῶς καὶ τίνι γένει πολιτείας ἐπικρατηθέντα σχεδὸν ἅπαντα τὰ κατὰ τὴν οἰκουμένην οὐχ ὅλοις πεντήκοντα καὶ τρισὶν ἔτεσιν ὑπὸ μίαν ἀρχὴν ἔπεσε τὴν Ῥωμαίων, ὃ πρότερον οὐχ εὑρίσκεται γεγονός.

42 Or, even, Aeneas Tacticus, whose work abounds with historical examples of each issue that he discusses. In Aeneas’ case, these exempla become cautionary tales for those might be inclined to ignore his advice – see note 47 later.

43 In his analysis of the early portions of the manual, Chlup notes that “[t]he early chapters of the Strategikos are superfluous if Onasander’s intention is to provide practical advice on generalship only. Rather, their inclusion and placement early in the treatise is clear evidence that the author seeks to impose on the reader the moral frame of war; all subsequent chapters are meant to be read through the moral filter established here”. Chlup (2014) 49.

44 φημὶ τοίνυν αἱρεῖσθαι τὸν στρατηγὸν οὐ κατὰ γένη κρίνοντας, ὥσπερ τοὺς ἱερέας, οὐδὲ κατ̓ οὐσίας, ὡς τοὺς γυμνασιάρχους, ἀλλὰ σώφρονα, ἐγκρατῆ, νήπτην, λιτόν, διάπονον, νοερόν, ἀφιλάργυρον, μήτε νέον μήτε πρεσβύτερον, ἂν τύχῃ καὶ πατέρα παίδων, ἱκανὸν λέγειν, ἔνδοξον.

45 See Cuomo (2007) 71 for the intriguing argument that Onasander’s unique criteria for selecting a general add up to his seeing the job of the general as a techne. Lendon (2005) 145 likewise describes generalship, especially in the Hellenistic world, as a competitive techne. See also the Introduction to this volume, 4.

46 For an overview of Onasander’s manual as a work more philosophical than military in nature, see Smith (1998) 151–166.

47 Examples include the practices of recruiting trustworthy gatekeepers by Leucon, tyrant of Bosporus (5.2); the need to watch out for plots from within, based on examples from Argos, Heracleia Pontica, Sparta, and Corcyra (11.3–14); and cautionary tales about getting help from allies and mercenaries, based on examples from Chalcedon and Heracleia Pontica (12.3 and 12.5). Also see section XVII, on precautions to take during celebration of festivals in a city under siege. Aeneas provides an example of a problematic situation that arose during a festival in Argos, and an example of the right way to handle such situations at Chios.

48 ἀνὴρ οὖν ἀγαθὸς οὐ μόνον πατρίδος τε καὶ στρατιωτικοῦ πλήθους ἄριστος ἡγεμών, ἀλλὰ καὶ τῆς περὶ αὐτὸν εἰς αἰεὶ εὐδοξίας ἀκινδύνου οὐκ ἀνόητος στρατηγός.

49 See Wheeler (1988) 18, however, for the intriguing theory that Frontinus may have read Onasander for background material on Greek military theory.

50 Cf. Goffart (1977) 89–91 for a summary of what we know about Vegetius from his own writings.

51 See Goffart (1977) 69–87 for an overview of previous scholarly debate on the date of Vegetius, and an argument that internal evidence within the text rules out Theodosius I, and while Valentinian III does not seem to be a perfect fit, Goffart suggests that he is the only alternative remaining. Charles (2007) presents a more involved argument in favor of Valentinian III. See Milner (1993) xxix–xli, however, for an argument in favor of Theodosius I.

52 See Whately (2015) 253, however, for the caveat that such prologues need not necessarily mean that the emperor really read the books, although they certainly did imbue them with an air of authority.

53 Whately (2015) 260–261.

54 antiquis temporibus mos fuit bonarum artium studia mandare litteris atque in libros redacta offerre principibus, quia neque recte aliquid inchoatur, nisi post Deum fauerit imperator, neque quemquam magis decet vel meliora scire vel plura quam principem, cuius doctrina omnibus potest prodesse subiectis.

55 See Alan Cameron’s monumental Cameron (2013) for a study of the gradual process of the dissolving of traditional Roman religion over a long period of time, rather than in one fell swoop.

56 See Goffart (1977) 92–93 on the ways in which Vegetius’ Christian faith has influenced his manual. The rise of new moral judgments in this newly Christian empire perhaps explains some of the more puzzling items of advice that Vegetius provides – for example, Vegetius’ recommendation against recruiting fishermen! Considering the prominence of fishermen among Jesus’ disciples, Vegetius’ view on the subject arguably makes even less sense in a Christian empire than a pagan one. See Charles (2010) 101–120. Also see Bond (2016) 149–150. Bond argues that the bias against fishermen was evident already in the writing of Cicero and continued into Late Antiquity.

57 de dilectu igitur atque exercitatione tironum per quosdam gradus et titulos antiquam consuetudinem conamur ostendere; non quo tibi, imperator invicte, ista videantur incognita, sed ut, quae sponte pro reipublicae salute disponis, agnoscas olim custodisse Romani imperii conditores et in hoc parvo libello, quicquid de maximis rebus semperque necessariis requirendum credis, invenias.

58 This attitude can explain the difficulty that Vegetian scholars have noted with nailing down a precise date for Vegetius’ ‘antiqua legio’ in Book II – cf. Parker (1932) 137–149. If, however, the main point for Vegetius is that any part of the past is valuable for teaching the present, the idea of conflating all of the past into a single “antiqua legio” makes more sense, since the precise date of any one institution is less important for Vegetius than the fact that it existed, and therefore is now valuable for educating the army of the present day.

59 horum instituta, horum praecepta, in quantum valeo, strictim fideliterque signabo. nam cum easdem expensas faciat et diligenter et neglegenter exercitus ordinatus, non solum praesentibus, sed etiam futuris saeculis proficit, si provisione maiestatis tuae, imperator Auguste, et fortissima dispositio reparetur armorum et emendetur dissimulatio praecedentum.

60 See Chapters 11 and 12 for case studies on Vegetius’ view on rules of war and on naval warfare, respectively.

61 horum sequentes instituta Romani Martii operis praecepta et usu retinuerunt et litteris prodiderunt. quae per diversos auctores librosque dispersa, imperator invicte, mediocritatem meam abbreviare iussisti, ne vel fastidium nasceretur ex plurimis vel plenitudo fidei deesset in parvis.

62 cunctos imperatores felicitate moderatione castimonia, exemplis indulgentiae, studio-rum amore praecedis

63 ad complementum igitur operis maiestatis vestrae praeceptione suscepti rationes, quibus vel nostrae civitates defendendae sint vel hostium subruendae, ex diversis auctoribus in ordinem digeram, nec laboris pigebit, cum omnibus profutura condantur.

64 As Goffart aptly summarises Vegetius’ approach to historical examples: ‘Although teaching by the examples of antiquity, Vegetius was more interested in his lessons than in the accuracy of his examples; he chose his past, and he tailored it to his own ends rather than to the satisfaction of future antiquarians’. Goffart (1977) 92.

65 This attitude is reflected elsewhere throughout Vegetius’ text. See, for example, What-ely (2015) 251 for an analysis of Vegetius’ relationship to research sources other than famous Roman generals and writers.

66 neque enim degeneravit in hominibus Martius calor nec effetae sunt terrae, quae Lace-daemonios, quae Athenienses, quae Marsos, quae Samnites, quae Pelignos, quae ipsos progenuere Romanos. nonne Epiri armis plurimum aliquando valuerunt? nonne Macedones ac Thessali superatis Persis usque ad Indiam bellando penetrarunt? Dacos autem et Moesos et Thracas in tantum bellicosos semper fuisse manifestum est, ut ipsum Martem fabulae apud eos natum esse confirment, longum est, si universarum prouinciarum vires enumerare contendam, cum omnes in Romani imperii dicione consistant. sed longae securitas pacis homines partim ad delectationem otii partim ad ciuilia transduxit officia.

67 vilius enim constat erudire armis suos quam alienos mercede conducere.

68 Schrader (1981) 168 assumes that the disaster of Adrianople is what spurred Vegetius to write his treatise.

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