priest of another tribe, the Chatti; and an impressive roster of other Ger-
man leaders, their wives, and children. Only one German, Strabo ex-
plains, found a different place: Segestes, Thusnelda’s father and a Roman
collaborator, “was present at the triumph over his nearest and dearest, as
guest of honor.”4
Tacitus, however, strikes a discordant note, with a characteristically
cynical narrative of the triumph. It is a nice reminder that the very same
ceremony can for some observers be a glorious celebration, for others
a hypocritical sham. Tacitus opens his account of the year 15 with impli-
cations, already, of impropriety: “A triumph was decreed to Germanicus,
while the war was still going on. ”5 Precedents can be found for such a premature anticipation of victory.6 And, in any case, exactly what counted
as the definitive end of a war must often have been harder to deter-
mine at the time than it appears with the benefit of hindsight. In fact,
the declaration of a triumph might more than once have been a use-
ful device for drawing a final line under an uncertainly completed cam-
paign, asserting—rather than merely recognizing—its end. But Tacitus
presents the train of events and the culminating procession as yet an-
other example of the corruption of imperial rule, and in particular of
Tiberius’ jealousy of the dashing young prince and of his attempts to
rein in Germanicus’ success under the veil of empty honor.
“The procession,” he writes, “displayed spoils and captives, replicas
(simulacra) of mountains, of rivers and of battles.” But it was not only
the geographical features on show that were a pretense ( simulcra in the
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1 1 0
pejorative sense). So too the whole victory being celebrated: “Seeing
that he had been forbidden to finish off (conficere) the war, it was taken as finished (pro confecto). ” The very success of the sham spelled danger. “The impressive sight of the general, and his five children who
shared his chariot, riveted the attention of the spectators. But this
concealed an underlying anxiety, as they reflected that popularity had
not turned out well for his father, Drusus, that his uncle Marcellus
had died at an early age despite the passionate support of the plebs, and
that the enthusiasms of the Roman people were short-lived and ill-
omened.”7
Piloty’s painting combines the accounts of Tacitus and Strabo. The
scene on the imperial dais echoes all the Tacitean misgivings. A distinc-
tively clad German, who must be Segestes, can hardly bear to watch as
his family members walk by as captives. Tiberius himself, flanked by his
sinister right-hand man Sejanus, looks decidedly grumpy—if not half
asleep—at having to sit through the lavish celebration, sham or not. (It
is, of course, in the very nature of successful shams that they merge into
what they are pretending—but, at the same time, trying not—to be.)
Only the imperial ladies seem to be having a good time, gawping at the
exotic display.
But, unlike the image conjured by Tacitus, all eyes are not on the tri-
umphing prince. He is only just entering the scene, a small figure in the
background, half in shadow, crammed into the chariot with his five
youngsters. The foreground is dominated instead by the captives listed
by Strabo. The priest Libes is dragged along by a leering Roman soldier
who tugs at the old man’s beard. An assortment of German women look
alternately fearsomely wild or resigned to their fate. But unquestionably
the star of the show is the central, spotlit figure of Thusnelda, captive
wife of the rebel Arminius, with little Thumelicus at her side. She is
passing directly in front of the emperor and cuts a fine contrast with
Tiberius: for it is she who behaves as a proud monarch, tall and un-
bowed; the ruler of the Roman world is hunched up on his dais, with his
minders, merely a bit-part in the grand display. Here the triumphal vic-
tim has become the victor; all eyes are on her.
Captives on Parade
111
Piloty is playing with one of the commonest tropes of nineteenth-
century nationalism, taking the most prominent victims of Roman con-
quest and transforming them into heroes of the nation-states of Europe.
Boudicca, Vercingetorix, Thusnelda, and Arminius (“Herman the Ger-
man”) were all conscripted into the patriotic pantheon of their home
countries in northern Europe. But, knowingly or not, Piloty is also pick-
ing up key themes in Roman commentaries on the celebrations of tri-
umph: that the gaze of the audience was perilously hard to control; that
the general risked being up-staged by his exotic victims; that the noble
(or pitiful) captives might always steal the show. At the center of the pa-
rade lay a dynamic tension—a competition for the eyes of the specta-
tor—between victor and victim (see Frontispiece).
Most modern studies of the triumph have focused on the success-
ful general. This chapter offers a new perspective by concentrating on
the defeated. It aims to explore the victims’ role in the culture of the
triumph: from the (not so) simple facts of their number, identity, and
ultimate fate to the moral lessons they had to teach and their potential
rivalry in the economy of the spectacle with the general himself.
THE VICTIM’S POINT OF VIEW?
The second poem in Ovid’s collection of Amores (Love Poems) written in
the late 20s bce opens with the poet complaining of a sleepless night,
tossing and turning. The diagnosis is soon clear: our poet has become a
victim of the fire-power of Love (“Yes, Cupid’s slender arrows have
lodged in my heart”). Resistance is futile, and indeed will only make
matters worse. So he opts for unconditional surrender and (as we have
already glimpsed in Chapter 2) takes his due place as a captive in Cupid’s
triumphal procession.
So I’m coming clean, Cupid: here I am, your latest victim,
Hands raised in surrender. Do what you like with me.
No need for military action. I want terms, an armistice—
You wouldn’t look good defeating an unarmed foe.
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1 1 2
Put on a wreath of myrtle, yoke up your mother’s pigeons—
Your stepfather himself will lend you a fine
Chariot: mount it, drive in triumph through the cheering
Rabble, skillfully whipping your birds ahead,
With your train of prisoners behind you, besotted youths and
maidens,
Such pomp, such magnificence, your very own,
Triumph: and I’ll be there too, fresh-wounded, your latest
Prisoner—displaying my captive mind—
With Conscience, hands bound behind her, and Modesty, and all
Love’s
Other enemies, whipped into line.
You’ll have them all scared cold, while the populace goes crazy,
Waves to its conquering hero, splits its lungs.
And what an escort—the Blandishment Corps, the Illusion
And Passion Brigade, your regular bodyguard:
These are the troops you employ to conquer men and immortals—
Without them, why, you’re nothing, a snail unshelled.
How proudly your mother will applaud your triumphal progress
From high Olympus, shower roses on your head;
Wings bright-bejewelled, jewels starring your hair, you’ll
Ride in a car of gold, all gold yourself.
What’s more, if I know you, even on this occasion