3

Writing Constantius II

Introduction

The previous chapter discussed a selection of evidence types that to varying degrees were closely aligned with the images and messages commissioned by the imperial government, possibly with direct involvement of the emperor himself but certainly with some awareness of the core ideological concerns conveyed by items bearing his portrait and name. These auto-images stand in contrast to those forms of evidence whose commission, production and promotion resided distantly from the emperor and the imperial government, this distance conveyed by the term hetero-image that Jan Willem Drijvers has pithily defined as “images by others, that is those created from outside the imperial system”.¹ This chapter serves to introduce and discuss a selection of these sources, including panegyrics, historical writings, including the fourth-century epitomators, the historical narrative of Ammianus Marcellinus, in addition to the important evidence from Christian writers across a wide spectrum of genres. In contrast, therefore, to the evidence discussed in the previous chapter, this chapter considers written sources with a focus on the rhetorical strategies utilised by the authors of these sources in their evaluation of the Constantinian monarchy. As noted in the previous chapter, the period from the death of Constantine to the defeat of Magnentius has been judged to lack an authoritative narrative, and the existence of Ammianus Marcellinus’ history (Res Gestae) from the year 353 onwards is viewed as somehow rescuing a period that would otherwise been regarded as deficient because it lacks an authoritative historian (A.H.M. Jones’ judgement holding sway here). However, this is a peculiarly outdated assessment, particularly since the emergence of the “representational turn” in the study of ancient history (see Chapter 1), which views the assigning of an objective or canonical status to a narrative as a stumbling block for fostering critical engagement with the sources. An alternative way of viewing the sources for the reigns of Constantine’s sons, therefore, is to think in terms of a multiplicity of narratives rather than the absence of a single narrative. The sources examined in this chapter reflect a range of contrasting opinions about how imperial authority was exercised between the years 337 and 361 in a wide variety of arenas. Some of these are contemporary, for instance, Athanasius of Alexandria, while others, for example, Ammianus Marcellinus, stand at some distance from the reign of Constantius II and the time of the Constantinian dynasty (Ammianus’ work was written towards the end of the 380s to the early 390s). This chapter is concerned therefore with identifying a selection of the principal characterisations of (predominantly) Constantius in late antique historiography. These fall mainly in the areas of his military record, his imperial style and his involvement in the affairs of the Christian Church. However, as mentioned previously and repeated again in this chapter, a certain permeability exists between genres in ancient literature, specifically the divide between epideictic and historiography, and as a result, this chapter does not adhere strictly to established ideas about genre differentiation. Indeed, the chapter illustrates that in the case of Constantius II, instances of praise and blame frequently bled into historians’ accounts of the emperor, and vice versa on some occasions. As a result of its focus on characterisation as a response to imperial power, this chapter does not claim to offer an exhaustive summary of all ancient historiographical sources that covered the reigns of Constantius and his brothers. Important sources not discussed here but cited elsewhere in this study include the Greek New History of Zosimus from the late fifth century, whose treatment of the Constantinian dynasty in his second and third books derives its value from the fact that it presents details not found elsewhere in the historiographic tradition,² and the thirteenth book of the extensive world history in Greek by John Zonaras, a twelfth-century lawyer, which drew on a range of important fourth- and fifth-century sources, some now lost, which again preserves unique material not found elsewhere.³ While the chapter also considers the portrayal of Constantius in a limited number of the continuators of Eusebius of Caesarea and his Church History, it does not discuss in depth the portrayal of the Constantinian dynasty in the histories of Socrates, Sozomen and Theodoret, which are nevertheless valuable witnesses to the Nicene conceptualisation of Constantius II that continued well into the fifth century.⁴

Panegyrics

To begin a discussion of sources authored by those beyond imperial circles with the evidence of the imperial orations or panegyrics is possibly a controversial one. Panegyrics have historically been viewed as exercises in unrestrained flattery in which the sop of an orator is commanded to appear before the emperor and his advisers and recite a speech dripping with sycophancies, while no one in the audience dare raise a smirk. This caricature of panegyric, first crystallised in the ancient world, is still current and appears today even in studies by commentators who otherwise display a highly nuanced understanding of the ritual performance of imperial orations.⁵ Thus, if there is an example of written evidence that falls within the definition of “auto-image”, surely it would be the imperial oration. However, two factors arising from recent analyses of the corpus of late Roman panegyrics have influenced the inclusion of imperial orations in this chapter. First, while orators were very much “insiders” as part of the educated elite whose future ambitions for their careers were closely aligned to their standing with the imperial court, the evidence from many late antique panegyrics indicates that orators enjoyed considerable licence in presenting the narrative of virtues and achievements that underpinned the praise of the emperor. While it is reasonable to assume that orators were briefed by members of the court about what to include (or exclude) in a speech honouring the emperor, it is also reasonable to conclude that orators behaved creatively in assembling their speeches, guided on the one hand by the conventions of the epideictic tradition but on the other by their own familiarity, interests or concerns relating to specific episodes from an emperor’s life. Second, the result of this relative independence was not, therefore, the slavish delivery of current ideology, but an oration that not infrequently walked the line between hortatory – i.e. offering advice to a ruler on a position – and deliberative – i.e. changing the perspective of an audience on a topic – oratory.⁶

The late Roman context for imperial orations broadly included festivals associated with celebrating key moments in the life of the emperor such as an imperial jubilee, the anniversary of a city’s foundation or a military victory: All events at which the presence of the emperor was celebrated with the delivery of an encomium (“speech of praise”). John Vanderspoel has drawn attention to one of the defining features of these types of events.

Behind the ceremonial of imperial appearances and all that this entailed, the festivals were essentially political events. These were the occasions when ruler and ruled encountered each other politically, the occasions when politics came out of the back rooms into public view, the occasions when ruler and ruled were able to influence each other politically in a public discussion that was far more congenial than the cheers and jeers of claques in the hippodromes and other public venues that sometimes led to mass execution.⁷

At root, therefore, imperial orations were vehicles for the promotion of political relations between the emperor and the populace. They were certainly among the main media for conveying the political ideology(-ies) of the reigning emperor, although they could and frequently did do a great deal more than that. An oration was a highly effective way for a speaker to promote his talent and abilities (exclusively his) to the imperial court. In this sense, therefore, the speaker was no cypher engaged in regurgitating to the emperor what he wanted or expected to hear, but he was a creative agent who worked with the prevailing (occasionally critical) views of the emperor and the ruling house in order to create a portrait of the emperor’s values, virtues and political perspectives in a high-pressured and competitive environment. This element of creativity is evident in the way that orators exercised their own critical judgement in managing the sources for their speech which not infrequently involved drawing on orations delivered and published previously.⁸ Indeed for those orators who performed well, the sky was the proverbial limit. It is very likely that the intellectuals and sophists who would become key figures in mediating imperial authority from the 350s onwards, namely Themistius and Libanius, were elevated to key teaching positions on the back of their performances as orators of imperial speeches.⁹

One way of evaluating panegyrics as sources is to think about them as time-capsules of contemporaneity. The topics expounded by speakers in the imperial orations from the 340s and 350s include some of the most pressing and momentous issues and events of the day. Some panegyrics, however, also adopted a revisionist approach to events occurring some years previously (e.g. Julian’s Orr. 1 and 2). Nonetheless, panegyrics did not shy away from controversial topics (for example, in highlighting military engagements where a Roman victory was contestable), although the panegyrist employed a range of approaches to ensure that the emperor remained a figure worthy of praise throughout the speech irrespective of events. As Gavin Kelly has noted:

[a]n orator did not promise to set out a balanced or dispassionate version of events; and perhaps more important, his listeners did not expect to hear one. Like any sophisticated and highly stylized art form, panegyric ultimately depended for its success on an audience – and an emperor – that was willing to approve a deliberately and knowingly idealized account of the world.¹⁰

Indeed, a pattern is identifiable in the panegyrics delivered during the reigns of Constantine’s successors whereby the surviving orations base their narratives on controversial topics, and where their role involves offering a reinterpretation of events in order to promote the legitimacy and excellence of the emperor: In other words, making “smooth the rough edges” of recent events.¹¹

A brief analysis of two key panegyrical texts illustrates this point. The principal theme of the Greek imperial oration delivered by Themistius before Constantius II in Ancyra (Or. 1) concerns the princely virtue of philanthrōpia as realised in the actions of the emperor.¹² The panegyric has been characterised as a “conjunction of abstract and specific material”¹³ by Alexander Skinner who has argued that the impetus for Themistius was Constantius II’s response to an episode of civil disturbance that occurred in Constantinople during the winter months of 341/342 when the emperor’s magister equitum, Hermogenes,¹⁴ was killed in a riot following his attempt to expel the Nicene bishop of the city, Paul, from his church. It appears that rather than execute the main agitators, Constantius imposed a series of alternative penalties on the parties concerned, including a reduction in the corn allocation for the city. Following the incident, Paul found refuge for a time at the court of Constans in Trier.¹⁵ Indeed, the tindery atmosphere caused by the ecclesiastical factionalism of the time, and the displays of imperial support for individuals associated with the competing factions, is the probable reason why Constans goes unmentioned in Themistius’ speech. According to other sources (Libanius, Or. 59.94–97), sections of the Constantinopolitan senate seem to have disagreed with Constantius’ decision (presumably favouring capital punishment for the instigators). Themistius’ oration refers to Constantius turning his back on the death penalty (Or. 1.14b), seeking instead “an excuse for fair dealing” (Or. 1.16a). Skinner has argued that Themistius’ portrayal of the emperor as a philanthropic ruler guided by clemency was influenced by the historic situation of Constantius choosing not to execute the ring-leaders. Indeed, Skinner’s argument proposes that Themistius’ speech be dated very soon after the event – thereby upending established ideas about a later date for the oration, e.g. dates between 347 and 350. As he suggests, “[d]elivered in 342, probably March, the speech becomes much more than an abstract exercise in praising an emperor. It becomes a practical element in the promotion of Constantius’ decision-making at a time when he faced criticism from eastern magnates”.¹⁶

It is fair to say that few if any of the panegyrics delivered during the 340s–350s represent simply “abstract exercise[s]” in lauding imperial achievements. These years were beset by major upheavals in government, politics and religion, all of which required considered responses, or more correctly reinterpretations, from the point of view of those who had been given the responsibility of delivering an imperial oration. In the early 340s, Themistius was still a reasonably young man. His family background – the son of the notable philosopher, Eugenius – helped to propel him to prominence.¹⁷ His deft handling of so controversial an event as the explosion of violence in Constantinople over the matter of a contested episcopal election,¹⁸ no doubt, contributed substantially to his rise, where he became a figure of considerable importance in the political and cultural ambitions of Constantius II in the east, and in particular for the expansion of the Senate of Constantinople under Constantius.¹⁹

Another key intellectual figure in the history of the Constantinian dynasty was Libanius, a rhetor whose influence on imperial politics in the fourth century was, like Themistius’, characterised by its longevity.²⁰ The imperial oration delivered in Nicomedia by Libanius in honour of both Constantius II and Constans (Or. 59) is a further example of a basilikos logos composed in Greek which has come to represent one of the most important literary sources for the 340s, the time of the Constantinian dyarchy. Its importance derives in large part from the gap it appears to fill as a result of the absence of a historiographical narrative for that decade. While the precise year of its delivery remains contested,²¹ its composition most likely occurred towards the end of 346 or even at some point during 347²² and in a context whereby Libanius promoted a display of imperial unity to the city of Nicomedia – in the territory of Constantius – following the resolution of the public fracture in relations between the two administrative halves of the empire. Neither emperor attended the speech’s delivery in Nicomedia and as such, as Christine Greenlee has noted, “the panegyric was intended for a local audience and reflects imperial ideology in a local context”.²³ Suggestions that the disagreement between the emperors had its origin in the ambitions of Constans who, following the death of Constantine II, had come to oversee a much larger territorial possession than Constantius (stretching from Caerleon to Crete) are certainly plausible: Constans’ involvement in the arrangements for the Council of Serdica in 343²⁴ (an ecumenical project envisaged as outstripping the scale of Constantine’s Nicene council of 325) and his support for leading episcopal figures, including Athanasius of Alexandria and Paul of Constantinople who had previously been exiled by Constantius II, appear to disclose a desire to upset the implicit structures of seniority within the imperial college in his favour²⁵ (see Chapter 5). Returning to late 346, the idea of unity was very much the order of the day, and Libanius’ panegyric is a clear example of the type of message in circulation addressing the ideology of unity at this time,²⁶ and as such it is appropriate to read the circumstances for the delivery of Libanius’ oration as a commemoration of the reestablishment of relations between the rulers.²⁷ In light of the Nicomedian context for the speech, the impetus for the reconciliation derived from the east and Constantius. 346 was indeed an important year for the dynasty. It was the ten-year anniversary of the emperors’ joint reign,²⁸ and the event was marked by the proposal of a joint imperial consulship which Constans in the western provinces appears not to have accepted.²⁹ The iconography of the proposed consulship is reflected on gold medallion issues from Constantius’ mints, recently discussed by Wienand,³⁰ which depict the two emperors nimbate on the reverse in consular togas (Constantius’ seniority is evident in the legend – his name appears first – and the image itself – he appears on the left and is the taller of the two³¹), and by gold issues displaying consular themes from Constans’ mint in Siscia³² – raising the unanswerable question at what point in 346 these latter Siscian commemorative issues were struck.

Libanius’ panegyric is considered noteworthy for a variety of reasons: There is its importance as a source for the period, but also its ambition to praise more than one subject.³³ Furthermore, the orator’s amplification of Constans’ achievements is qualified with a claim that he will “imitate Thucydides” (Or. 59.126), by which Libanius means that he will present a truthful account of the western emperor’s career. In the orator’s commitment to establishing a truthful narrative about Constans, and to make the facts about this emperor known to his audience in the east, is to be seen the permeability of the line separating panegyric from historiography. As Alan Ross has argued, “panegyric, at least in the hands of Libanius, was just as capable of exploiting the close generic relationship with historiography as historiography itself was with panegyric”.³⁴ Practitioners of panegyric were thereby readily prepared to subvert the conventions of their genre and, on occasions, to subvert the status of their subjects, as we discuss below.

The uneasy state of relations between the Constantius and Constans and their respective administrations thus underlie to varying degrees both Themistius’ and Libanius’ speeches from the 340s. With Constans dead at the hands of Magnentius’ agents, the panegyrics of the 350s focus almost exclusively on Constantius and the civil wars that followed the death of his brother, although the memory of Constans and especially the circumstances of his murder became a focal point for the presentation of Constantius’ achievements. Constantius’ suppression of a trio of usurpers during the 350s – the final defeat of Magnentius in September 353, the suppression of the related acclamation of the loyalist Vetranio, Constans’ magister peditum (Master of Infantry), in spring 350, and the suppression of the peculiar incident involving Silvanus, Constantius’ magister peditum in Gaul, in Cologne in late summer 355 – represents the essential themes in these later panegyrics.

Guidance on addressing the attainments of an emperor in the theatre of war in the context of the imperial oration was clear. To paraphrase the second treatise on epideictic rhetoric attributed to Menander Rhetor on the point: Praise of achievements in warfare takes precedence over those achieved in peacetime.³⁵ What was somewhat more equivocal, however, was how to present victories won at the expense of domestic opponents, namely in the context of civil wars. The panegyrics that narrate the events of the early 350s commemorate Constantius’ defeat of usurpers as legitimate military victories. These commemorative sentiments stand in contrast to other literary portrayals from the period of the same conflicts, in which Constantius is severely criticised in particular for his triumphal conduct following the defeat of his domestic opponents (notably but not exclusively, Ammianus, 16.10.1–2). In historiography and poetry – ergo, in genres that were sui generis retrospective – civil war was traditionally condemned and presented as akin to fratricide, and the reputations of generals and emperors who celebrated their successes in civil conflicts were frequently besmirched.³⁶ As we discuss in the following section, such a fate awaited Constantius at the hands of his historians. In the context of panegyric, however, the commemoration of success in civil conflict required a different approach.³⁷ Indeed, it was the panegyrical and monumental precedents created in honour of his father’s campaigns in Italy against Maxentius in 312 that effectively reformulated the semantic meaning of victory in civil war (notably in the panegyric delivered in 313 (12 (9)) and in the friezes portraying smashed Roman military bodies on the Arch of Constantine in Rome, which had been dedicated by the Senate in 315: “For the first time an emperor was explicitly and unreservedly praised for his warlike deeds in battle against enemy Roman soldiers”.³⁸ Thus, in tandem with other publicly commissioned artefacts honouring Constantius’ victories from the time (e.g. the hexametric inscription on the obelisk brought to stand in the spina of the Circus Maximus in late 357–early 358³⁹; see Chapter 8), the panegyrics of the 350s conveyed an imperially derived ideology that portrayed Constantius’ victories over his imperial opponents as legitimate contests over tyranny. However, the narrative complexity afforded by the panegyrical form also meant that additional colour was added to the techniques of legitimation that shaped the victorious party’s commemoration of civil conflict, which we briefly discuss below in the case of two authors, Themistius and Julian.

The Greek panegyrics delivered by Themistius for Constantius during the mid-350s (Orations 2, 3 and 4) were instrumental in conveying the image of the emperor as a triumphal ruler whose status as such derived from his victories over Magnentius and Vetranio, thereby not simply justifying civil war but making Constantius’ success in those conflicts a central plank of the emperor’s public image. The imperial orations of Themistius during this period are therefore important sources of evidence, principally because they adopt a revisionist approach towards Constantius’ victories that was, from the orator’s perspective in Constantinople, a predominantly western affair. As a resident of Constantinople, Themistius was concerned to promote the east’s contribution to defeating Constantius’ challengers. The first of these speeches (Or. 2)⁴⁰ was technically a “speech of gratitude”⁴¹ (gratiarum actio) delivered by Themistius in the closing months of 355, in which he thanked the emperor for adlecting him to the Senate of Constantinople in September of that year.⁴² The speech portrays Constantius II as an emperor guided by philosophy, a response in part to Constantius’ recent letter to the Senate confirming the orator’s adlection in which he heaped praise on Themistius’ commitment to philosophy and his promotion of the subject in the city.⁴³ In the context of the speech’s concern with philosophical rulership, Themistius juxtaposes kingship and tyranny (35c–d) and notes that a king guided by reason is a true philosopher who obtains the respect of his people, in contrast to a tyrant who instils fear in those he rules. Such a ruler is not chosen following a session of heavy drinking, but rather is identified from birth as a result of his rationality and self-sufficiency (36a).⁴⁴ This is an early reference to the claim that Magnentius’ coup followed in the wake of a late night drinking party, where a plan was hatched by Magnentius and his confreres to supplant Constans.⁴⁵ Slanderous or otherwise, Magnentius’ was made to fulfil the role of tyrant, as was Vetranio who in the same speech is identified alongside Magnentius, but whom Constantius by contrast defeats without getting blood on his hands (38b): The first reference to the victory over Vetranio was obtained as a result of Constantius’ oratory that became an important anecdote in historiographical portrayals of Constantius’ civil wars of the 350s. For Themistius, Constantius’ victory over the Illyrian general was by dint of its bloodless character “sacred and pure” and was entirely fitting for a ruler who is also a philosopher (37d).

In Or. 3, Themistius takes these characterisations a step further. The speech was delivered by Themistius in his role as the head of an embassy from Constantinople that was attending Constantius’ victory celebrations in Rome during April–May 357 (although it precedes the earlier Or. 4 from January 357⁴⁶). The delegation’s task was to present crown gold (aurum coronarium) from the city to the emperor in order to mark his triumph.⁴⁷ Or. 3’s peculiarity as a panegyric has been noted on occasions,⁴⁸ principally the extent to which Themistius promoted Constantius’ relationship with Constantinople – specifically, his development of the eastern Senate – seemingly at Rome’s expense, which may be explained by the speech having been revised following its original delivery in spring 357.⁴⁹ Although the shortest of Themistius’ speeches from this period, Oration 3 conveys some of the most provocative images of the civil conflicts against Magnentius and Vetranio.⁵⁰ In his portrayal of Magnentius, Themistius “othered” Constantius’ opponent, a tactic shared by a number of key fourth-century sources which portray Magnentius as a barbarian, thereby stretching the meagre claims that he was raised among barbarians resettled in Gaul referred to the laeti⁵¹ (literally, “the fortunates”, who were anything but⁵²) beyond credibility. The ethnic othering of civil war opponents, either directly or by association, was a familiar strategy in commemorations of civil war victories.⁵³ This was partly intended to make a triumph over “Roman blood” a more palatable affair for the empire’s populace. However, this was only half the story. The conflation of victories won in civil and foreign wars had become a central feature of the way in which triumphal rulership was configured in the later empire and was particularly intrinsic to the landscape of war memories at this point in the fourth century. Themistius’ characterisation of Magnentius as “an avenging and implacable barbarian” (43a) was indeed intended to conjure the image of a foreign enemy threatening the empire’s security, although his claim that as a result of Constantius’ intervention, “the Germans and Iazygi do not luxuriate in the labours of the ancient Romans” (43b)⁵⁴ is sufficiently ambiguous either to suggest a campaign led by the emperor to quell an uprising of Germanic and Sarmatian confederacies, or to defame Magnentius’ recruitment of non-Romans into his army during the revolt of the 350s. Themistius’ broader message was nevertheless clear: Magnentius’ usurpation was an alien threat among many that the solidly Roman Constantius had successfully overcome. Magnentius’ barbarian identity had also, Themistius notes, threatened “the legitimate and unsullied blood line of the kings” (43b): A claim that acquired greater significance in light of the dynastic claims of Constantius’ persona.

Indeed, as we have seen elsewhere, Constantine is never very far away in the promotion of the imperial personae of his filial successors. This is very much the case in Oration 3. In a pair of passages soaked in Constantinian ideology (44a–b, 47a–b), Themistius draws attention to Constantine and Constantius’ care for both Rome and Constantinople: Constantine was the founder of Constantinople, and Constantius fulfilled the founder’s intentions for the city, their benefactions described by Themistius as motivated by a “noble rivalry” (47b) of the kind that the gods had engaged in.

The whole city [Constantinople] was the object of your contest and ambitious rivalry and it is now difficult to determine to who she more justly belongs: to him who sowed the seeds, or him who nurtured and brought them to fruition.⁵⁵

Rome – the host city for Themistius’ embassy – is recalled as a bastion against tyranny: While Constantius freed the city from the tyranny of Magnentius, it was his father who had earlier liberated Rome from “a tyranny that was similar and all but identical in name”, namely Maxentius in 312.

Magnentius, however, does not stand alone in the speech. Vetranio appears albeit briefly with Themistius referring again to Constantius’ “bloodless victory” (45b) over Vetranio (“the old man”: 45b) in the context of highlighting his claim that the emperor’s reign is guided by self-control as advocated by the philosophical life, an illustration first drawn in Or. 2. However, Vetranio is portrayed somewhat differently here than in Or. 2, where he is identified as a tyrant. In Or. 3, Themistius refers to Vetranio as “the man who had insane designs upon the imperial purple” (45c), thereby designating him a usurper but not a full-blown tyrant in the sense of someone who – like Magnentius – committed reckless, violent and criminal acts. This difference suggests that the characterisation of Vetranio in relation to his role as a defeated figure in the civil war was contested and that the parameters for the commemoration of Constantius’ victory were still changing.

In the Greek panegyrics of Julian (Orr. 1 and 2), the portrayal of Constantius’ reign acquires a complexity that goes beyond Themistius’ orations (a feature aided by the fact that Julian’s speeches are among some of the longest extant panegyrics from antiquity). Julian composed his speeches for the emperor after his appointment as Constantius’ Caesar on 6 November 355, a feature of added significance since there is – as Alan Ross has pointed out – “no further examples of members of the imperial house composing panegyrics to one another”.⁵⁶ Julian’s first oration, which was composed (c. 356–357) for the protracted commemorations of Constantius’ victory in the civil war and vicennalia celebrations that culminated in his visit to Rome in April–May 357,⁵⁷ offers important characterisations of both Magnentius and Vetranio, and of the changing portrayal of civil conflict in panegyric more broadly. The second oration, dated to 359, appears “abnormal”⁵⁸ on account of the high proportion of Homeric and Platonic quotations and allusions that appear to interrupt the flow of the oration’s narrative of the emperor’s military achievements, although recent interpretations have perceptively highlighted their role in challenging the configuration of imperial authority under Constantius.⁵⁹ In the case of Or. 1, this also appears like a conventional panegyric of the type indicated by the compositional handbooks of the late antique period; yet, features of the oration have been noted as operating beyond the conventional parameters for speeches of praise.⁶⁰ Notably, and in light of Or. 1’s as a speech commemorating Constantius’ presence in Rome, Julian’s text rehabilitates after some thirty or so long years the memory of Constantius’ mother, Fausta, whose own links with Rome are remembered in order to strengthen the emperor’s, ergo the dynasty’s, associations with the city.⁶¹ Here, Julian is not acting subversively, but performing his role as cipher for Constantius’ reappraisal of hitherto illegitimate members of the Constantinian dynasty for a new age of his rule inaugurated by his vicennalia.

Following Themistius, both of Julian’s orations developed the prevailing characterisation of Magnentius as a barbarian by contributing the details that the general had started life as a slave whose family had been freed by the Constantinian family: “[h]e assassinated his own master [Constans]. For he had actually been a slave of the murdered emperor’s ancestors, a miserable remnant saved from the spoils of Germany” (Or. 1. 34a).⁶² Furthermore, political circumstance, namely the extent to which Vetranio had been a loyalist to the Constantinian cause all along, resulted in a conflicted portrayal of Constans’ general that was to influence later accounts and create a lasting sense of ambiguity about the episode.⁶³ By far, the most striking feature of Julian’s speeches, however, is the promotion of Constantius’ victories in civil wars as equal if not superior to the victories won against foreign enemies. Orations 1 and 2 are fairly late speeches in the cycle of imperial encomia from the 350s: By raising the Persian campaigns of the 340s and the events of the first years of Magnentius’ usurpation, they breach the convention that the delivery of panegyrics is contemporaneous or near-contemporaneous to the events they narrate.⁶⁴ However, Julian’s orations are exceptional witnesses to the cumulative influence of Constantinian propaganda, and the effect of the promotion of Constantius’ success in the civil wars of 350–353, on his imperial image. It is apparent in both orations that the boundary traditionally separating the commemoration of civil war from foreign conflict had been wholly effaced by the time of the emperor’s final years in office. With reference to Or. 1, Alan Ross has argued that Julian presents Constantius’ Persian campaigns (the engagement at Singara in 344 (22d–26a) and the defence of Nisibis in 350 (27a–d)) as preliminaries to the defeat of Magnentius, with the battle of Singara prefiguring the battle of Mursa in 351 (35d–38a), and the siege of Nisibis (27a–d) prefiguring the re-capture of Aquileia in 352 (38c–39d). An audience for the panegyric in the west, probably Italy, very likely determined Julian’s manipulation of his material with his ambition being, “to create an image of Constantius as the successful liberator of the west, through contrast with his comparable if slightly less inglorious activities in the east”.⁶⁵ Julian’s laudatory portrayal of Constantius’ victory at Mursa is uniquely important in light of the fact that the battle soon became for the emperor’s critics an emblem of his mismanagement of the empire (discussed below). Similar prominence is accorded to Mursa in Or. 2, where Constantius’ victory over Magnentius is presented as outshining even its Homeric comparison (55d–62a). It is, however, the orator’s seemingly unconscious mobilisation of civil war victory for political purposes that represents the broader contribution of Julian’s orations to the landscape of war memories that had shaped Constantius’ public image by the end of the 350s. In light of the challenges of convention posed by the promotion of an emperor’s success in civil wars, it is ironic that Constantius’ record of campaigns against Shapur II and the Sasanians was to prove a greater representational challenge for both orators and historians alike.

Historiography: Narratives of Success and Narratives of Failure

Constantius’ prolonged campaigns against Shapur II in northern Mesopotamia presented ancient historians with a series of specific challenges. However, the panegyrists of the emperor’s own time were the first to have been confronted with the issues raised by Roman-Persian relations. These are exemplified by the dilemma of how best to portray the pitched battle fought beyond the walls of Singara in 344 (“the only major battle against the Persians during Constantius’ reign”⁶⁶) according to conventions of panegyric. While victory at Singara was claimed by both the Romans and Sasanians (e.g. Ammianus, 18.5.7), it was the wider awareness of the tactical errors that had led to casualties and losses for Constantius’ army that made the emperor’s misfortunes difficult to overlook, and which, in turn, therefore, risked undermining the amplificatory role of imperial oratory. Indeed, no attempt was made by those panegyrists who offered a narrative of the battle to conceal these details, and instead a virtue was made from the emperor’s failings. While Ross argues that Julian’s portrayal of Singara in Or. 1 differs from Libanius’ account in Or. 59 since Julian equivocates over Constantius’ success while Libanius proposes a characterisation of the battle in the manner of Demosthenes, as greater than the celebrated one between Corinth and Sicoyn (Or. 59.99),⁶⁷ it is also the case that Libanius nevertheless achieves a panegyrical sleight of hand in his portrayal of Constantius at Singara:

At this juncture the emperor won a victory not in the style of the usual victories nor like those that have occurred frequently both in the present age and in the past. Nor was it a victory whose result depended on skill at arms and military equipment, nor one for which there was need of association with others, that could not otherwise had been accomplished. But it was a victory which we are permitted to class as rightly belonging to the victory. What is meant by this? He alone discovered the intention behind what was happening, he alone was not deceived by the purpose of the battle formation and he alone shouted out the order to our troops not to pursue nor to be forced into obvious danger.

(Or. 59.105–106)⁶⁸

Like Libanius (e.g. Or. 59.126),⁶⁹ Julian, in order to uphold his duty as a panegyrist, appropriates a convention from historiography, namely the commitment to “tell the truth” about the fate of Constantius’ army at Singara. This may have been due to a desire on Julian’s part to inform his Italian listeners, an audience probably unfamiliar with Constantius’ record in the east (and in the case of Singara, an event that had occurred over a decade previously), but it is to be suspected that the details of the battle were so well-known that avoiding them altogether was impossible:

But lest anyone should suppose that, while I delight in recalling exploits like these, I avoid mentioning occasions when luck gave the enemy the advantage – or rather it was the nature of the ground with opportunity that turned the scale – and that I do so because they brought us no honour or glory but only disgrace, I will try to give a brief account of those incidents also, not adapting my narrative with an eye to my own interests, but preferring the truth in every case.

(Or. 1.22d–23a)

Constantius’ Persian campaigns are the point of departure for this section on historiography for a number of reasons. First and foremost, Constantius’ relations with the neighbouring Sasanian empire frequently served as a yardstick for judgements about the emperor’s reign in its entirety; and the historiographical portrayal of Constantius as a military figurehead brings to light the complex relationships that existed between different literary genres, in particular the extent to which historiography regarded encomiastic forms as offering the “raw materials” for their own textual depictions of the emperor.

With the latter concern in mind, we begin with the seemingly unusual choice of a funeral oration. Libanius’ funeral speech (epitaphios) for the emperor Julian was composed between 365 and 368,⁷⁰ some considerable time after the emperor’s death on campaign in Mesopotamia during June 363. In his speech of Julian’s life and achievements, Libanius largely abides by the compositional conventions for a funerary oration (e.g. Menander Rhetor, 2.418.5–422.4), particularly the advice that the speaker stick to encomiastic topics.⁷¹ However, Libanius departs from the encomiastic paradigm by focusing for a considerable proportion of the speech on Julian’s military exploits (for example, Julian in Gaul, 36–90). One suspects that among the reasons for Libanius’ choice was the desire to rehabilitate Julian’s reputation as a military commander in light of his failed expedition in Mesopotamia, in particular the need – as far as Libanius was concerned – to exonerate Julian from the responsibility of having left his successor, Jovian, with little choice but to cede to the unfavourable terms demanded by the Sasanians in the wake of Julian’s death.⁷² This was the fault of the new emperor alone, according to Libanius. For the orator, however, his declared objective was to provide a factual account of Julian’s demise since he was aware that what his audience had heard previously “is either nothing at all or else false” (Or. 18.204),⁷³ indicating both the suppression and manipulation of information surrounding the recollection of Julian’s reign in the months and years after his death which Libanius testifies to elsewhere.⁷⁴ Taking a slightly longer view, Libanius diagnosed the decline in Rome’s fortunes in the east as having stemmed not from Julian but Constantius II. His culpability in allowing the Persians to advance to a position of prominence in the region is presented in a “mini-invective” embedded in Or. 18 (204–208), in which Libanius alleges the systematic neglect and incompetence of Constantine’s son towards the eastern frontier. In this regard, Libanius’ oration is an early and important example of the pro-Julianic position adopted by several authors of the period (and beyond), whose defence of the emperor depended in large part on the denigration of his predecessor’s reign. This approach had been adopted by Julian himself as enshrined in his Letter to the Athenians,⁷⁵ a work composed in the summer of 361 and addressed to the council of Athens in which he defended his rebellion against Constantius following his acclamation as Augustus by his troops in Paris in February 360. While Julian’s letter to the Athenian boulē does not take aim at Constantius’ policy towards the Sasanians directly, Julian portrays Constantius as a militarily weak emperor who preferred conciliating barbarians to actually fighting them (Letter 280b),⁷⁶ in contrast to Julian himself who, in a display of self-promotion, enumerates his recent successes as a commander in Gaul.⁷⁷ Julian’s epistolary narrative of his actions in the latter half of the 350s resonates in a number of later sources, including Libanius’ orations (esp. Or. 18), Claudius Mamertinus’ Speech of Thanks to Julian from January 362 and Ammianus Marcellinus’ account of Julian’s confrontation with Constantius in books twenty and twenty-one of his history.

Libanius’ judgement of Constantius II’s management of the Sasanians in Oration 18 is concise and brutal.

… he inherited from his father, a war that required an emperor of daring and an intelligence capable of using his forces to advantage. However, it was just as though he had sworn to act in league with his opponents; he took no thought for capturing anything of theirs or for seeing that they won nothing of his; every year, at the beginning of the summer, they meantime laying siege to his fortresses in early spring, he would lead his army across the Euphrates and halt the best force he had mustered, intent of beating a retreat if the enemy put in an appearance, and though he could almost hear the laments of the beleaguered citizens, he thought it better tactics not to fight or aid any of his own subjects who were in the process of being destroyed. What, then, was the consequence of his dilatoriness? While the enemy was battering down his fortifications, demolishing cities and making off with captives and booty, he would send his forces to inspect the desolation and thank his lucky stars that no worse harm had been done. Then he made his way back through the cities and every day receive a welcome from the populace in terms usual after a victory. Year after year this is what went on: the Persians would cross the river, and he would be thinking about it: they would be attacking the forts, and he would start to move: they would be just about to take them, and he would get the news: they would take them, and he was content not to have fought an engagement. They revelled in their hordes of captives, he in the horse-races: the cities presented their crowns to the Persian, he to his race-drivers. Am I not justified in saying that he was in league with Persia? To permit such goings-on when he could stop them is tantamount to helping with his own hands … The sum of his disgrace is this – that he inherited an army of high morale, schooled to inspire fear into the foe, and accustomed it to feel fear, and by bad training ruined this fine morale.

(Or. 18.206–208)

The passage offers a contrast to Libanius’ description of the eastern army under Julian, particularly his claim that Julian emboldened the army that he had inherited from Constantius to rediscover their courage for his campaign (Or. 18.212), although it is later implied that Julian’s assault on Ctesiphon failed in part due to the residue of ill-discipline in the ranks left over from Constantius’ reign (Or. 18.255). Libanius’ account is evidently a caricature of Constantius’ Persian campaign, especially in its depiction of Constantius as a mere spectator in the destruction of his eastern cities and fortifications. However, its effectiveness as a caricature was the result of the fact that war against Persia remained an ideologically charged affair for Romans, and that the largely defensive nature of Constantius’ campaigning in Rome’s eastern territories failed to live up to the ideologies of victory and triumph that were central to the promotion of the imperial persona.

The notion that a Roman victory over Persia had to be absolute was a central aspect of the hawkish propaganda of the Constantinian period exemplified by the Itinerary of Alexander, a historical epitome⁷⁸ composed c. 340 by Julius Valerius Polemius, ordinary consul of 338 and later comes and courtier of Constantius in the east,⁷⁹ who was also very possibly the translator of the Greek Alexander Romance into Latin.⁸⁰ The Itinerary summarised the military, logistical and historical features of the eastern campaigns of Alexander the Great and Trajan (although only the sections of Alexander survive, which borrow from Arrian’s Anabasis) with the purpose of situating Constantius II in the romantic legacy of imperial entanglements in the east. The Itinerary’s author notes that Constantius is “now the same age” as Alexander when he invaded Persian territory (i.e. c. 22–23 years old).⁸¹ Both Alexander and Trajan were mobilised as exemplary figures in the public promotion of the Constantinian emperors for a variety of reasons but not least because of their association with projects of territorial expansion into the east.⁸² The opening lines of the Itinerary indicate that the commission for the work came from the emperor himself:

… now that you have made a successful start to your Persian campaign and are already girded for the task, I composed an Itinerary of each of the two leaders who achieved glory by an identical exploit, that is to say Alexander the Great and Trajan, I have undertaken the work very gladly and as a labour of love, both because that command of yours actually forces this wish upon me (and it is the work of one who is keyed-up for the task) and because the success of rulers invite participation by their subjects.⁸³

In a further passage, the Itinerary illustrates the ideological importance of victory against Persia as a mark of Roman imperial success and prestige:

For a mind that is thirsting for renown is stimulated by the knowledge that long ago, in a similar venture, fortune favoured the rational planner; especially since the theatre of war in which you are commencing operations is one where the campaigns of generals in the past have raised all the more confident to the heights, and since you are starting your triumphant service by your presence in that very region where each successful general, present in person, added the crowning glory to all that he achieved previously – in order, of course, that in emulating in your youth the achievements of your father’s maturity you may outdo the great deeds of the most famous of all past supreme commanders. I pray that henceforward in the whole course of this your rivalry with them you may never have cause to regret your original plan nor feel any shame for the fortune you encounter. I hardly know, however, of any far greater and more successful accomplishments as examples set before you than those of the two very mighty Constantines (maximis Constantinis), your father and your brother; what is certain is that even though you render the deeds of former times inferior to your own exploits, I believe that those very two – if the dead retain any consciousness – will be rallying to your cause. You have an inherited duty of service against the Persians, to the end that the latter, who have so long trembled at Roman arms, may finally be enrolled by you among our peoples and then be given Roman citizenship among your provinces, where they may learn to be free by the grace of their conquerors; for all in that region hitherto, under the arrogant rule of their kings, count merely as soldiers in time of war, and slaves in peace.⁸⁴

Its problematic reference to the two Constantines aside,⁸⁵ this passages asserts a claim to Persia as a province of the Roman Empire, the naked imperialism of this ambition conflated with the idea of a “war of liberation” waged by Constantius II on behalf of the Persian people who, the author claims, have been reduced to servitude by their entitled monarchs. This assertion is certainly in keeping with the expansionist and universalising rhetoric of the final years of Constantine I’s reign exemplified by Eusebius in his Life of Constantine (e.g. 4.50, 56).⁸⁶ However, while the language and imagery of Persia’s subjugation in the Itinerary reflected the rhetoric that emanated from Constantius and his advisers, it failed to convey the situation “on the ground”, where the idea of an absolute victory over the Sasanians was unlikely to have ever been seriously entertained by the emperor and his most senior commanders. The Itinerary’s purpose was to contribute to the triumphal persona of the emperor at the beginning of a campaigning season, and as such the victories against Persia were “on credit”, having not yet been won: “you [Constantius] … will be fighting for the security of Rome, destined soon to rival [Alexander] in empire at a time of life equal to his; and for this, immortal glory shall go with you”.⁸⁷ Between the romantic optimism of the Itinerary and the critical judgement of Libanius, both caricatures, is the middle ground occupied by the historic reality of Constantius’ Persian campaigns, comprising a series of engagements between the two imperial armies in or around fortified locations in northern Mesopotamia.⁸⁸ In this sense, Libanius’ caricature drew on something that was well-known, namely that on the Roman side the conflicts of the 340s and the late 350s were predominantly defensive affairs (see Chapter 6). As Christopher Lightfoot notes, “Roman policy was founded on [Constantius’] determination to safeguard the existing position in Mesopotamia, which had been won by Galerius’ victory [in 298/299]. Consequently, it was primarily defensive in outlook”.⁸⁹ However, this awareness failed to satisfy the need for spectacular victories with certain episodes which were not spectacularly victorious – for example, the ending of the siege of Nisibis in 346 discussed above – being promoted and celebrated by the imperial government as though they were.⁹⁰

Julian’s brief reign as Augustus (r. 361–363) marked a change of approach towards Persia. Rather than relying on the model of holding out against Sasanian aggression from fortified positions, Julian took his army into Sasanian-held territory, a decision prompted by an increase in successful attacks on Roman frontier cities between 359 and 360. However, the death of Julian on 26 June 363 and the emergency accession of Jovian,⁹¹ an Illyrian primicerius domesticorum (“lieutenant in the corps of the imperial guards”⁹²) as Augustus the following day, heralded a dramatic nose-dive in Rome’s fortunes in the east. With the army stranded many miles from Roman territory (the region of Corduene⁹³), and the advantage clearly with Shapur II, Jovian agreed to a treaty that the Sasanians hoped would reinstate their control over territories surrendered by Narses, the grandfather of Shapur II, in a treaty signed following the victory of the Tetrarch, Galerius Caesar, in 298–299.⁹⁴ The ideology underpinning Sasanian (and, for that matter, Roman) claims to Mesopotamia, Armenia, the “Armenian Marches” and Syria was historically determined and conveyed in a language which evoked ancestral duty and the lawful recovery of stolen property.⁹⁵ While the territories awarded under the terms of the treaty of 363 did not precisely match those ceded in 298/299, and a number of compromises were wrought by the Romans from the Sasanians,⁹⁶ the losses severely reduced Roman power in the regions south of Armenia, the Transtigritane satrapies and in eastern Mesopotamia with the loss of numerous highly important cities and towns, including Nisibis, Singara and Castra Maurorum.⁹⁷

The treaty of 363 had immediate consequences for both parties, but especially for Rome which was faced with resettling the inhabitants of Singara and Nisibis,⁹⁸ displaced under the terms of the treaty, in addition to medium-term consequences that included the diminution of its commercial and political influence in the region.⁹⁹ Of longer-term significance, however, was the ideological crisis that emerged as a result of the loss of such contested territory. The conquest of territory and the expansion of the empire formed the dominant ideology at the heart of Rome’s imperialism,¹⁰⁰ which had been internalised in contemporary political discourse and subsequently regurgitated in historiography in such a way as to convey an “imperialist realism”, the notion that (to paraphrase Mark Fisher’s definition of “Capitalist Realism”) continuous expansion was judged as the only viable course of action for Roman foreign policy to the extent that it was impossible for Romans to imagine any alternative way of framing their sense of imperial identity.¹⁰¹

This sentiment is identifiable in the replies of the historians of the late 360s–early 370s to the disastrous campaign of 363. The concise histories – breviaria – of Eutropius and Festus both claim (incorrectly) that the loss of territory mandated by the terms of the (“shameful”) peace was a unique event in Roman history: “Before [Jovian’s] time this had never happened in practically 1118 years since the Roman empire had been founded”.¹⁰² As Noel Lenski has highlighted, both authors (former Secretaries of State for General Petitions (magistri memoriae))¹⁰³ were influenced in their assessment of Jovian and the treaty of 363 by the demands of their commissioner, namely the emperor Valens (r. 364–378), who, in planning to embark on an invasion of Persian territory following his defeat of the Goths in the summer of 369, sought to promote his venture through the composition of historical narratives covering Rome’s previous military engagements in the east.¹⁰⁴ In an audacious act of self-promotion, he guided his authors to present the failings of his recent predecessors against the Sasanians in anticipation of his own future success which, once achieved, would be better suited to discussion – following the closing remarks of Eutropius (10.18.3) – “in a more elevated style”, an allusion to the composition of panegyric.¹⁰⁵

While most of the ire was reserved by both authors for Jovian’s campaign (Julian was failed by the fates (Eutropius) and fortune (Festus)), Constantius II’s record against Persia is framed as presaging the decline of the empire. In contrast to Festus’ account of Constantius’ campaigns which is confused over both the number of conflicts and the names of the battle-sites, Eutropius’ report is precise and to the point:

[Constantius] suffered many serious setbacks at the hands of the Persians. His towns were often captured, his cities besieged, his armies cut to pieces, and he had no successful engagement with Shapur except that at Singara he lost a certain victory through the headstrong bravery of his soldiers ….¹⁰⁶

So far, so predictable. However, following his account of the battle of Mursa in September 351 between the armies of Magnentius and Constantius, Eutropius notes: “Vast forces of the Roman empire were destroyed in that conflict, forces which were sufficient for any foreign wars (bella externa) and which might have provided many a triumph and much security”.¹⁰⁷ The notion that civil wars were a misuse of military resources that should have instead been utilised to defeat Rome’s foreign enemies and thereby secure the safety of the empire was a commonplace in Roman literature that engaged with the spectre of domestic conflict. In this regard, a number of considerations suggest that Eutropius had Constantius’ failure against Persia in mind rather than some other foreign power, for example, the Germani. First, the historian records that Constantius’ wars against the Rhine barbarians had been salvaged by his Caesar, namely, Julian, who overwhelmed vast numbers of Alamanni (10.14.1) at Strasbourg (Argentoratum) and thereby secured Rome’s fortunes along the Rhine; and second, in the broader historiographical tradition, Persia represented Rome’s archetypical foreign foe whenever a contrast was made in sources between internal and external wars. For instance, the beginning of Lucan’s influential anti-civil war poem (Pharsalia or De bello civili, c. 65 CE)¹⁰⁸ opines that the war between Pompey and Caesar left Babylonia – meaning, Parthia – untouched and so implied a dereliction of duty on the part of these Roman generals:

What madness was this, O citizens! What this excessive freedom with the sword – to offer Latin blood to hated nations? And when proud Babylon was there to be stripped of Ausonian trophies and when Crassus wandered with his ghost unavenged, did you choose to wage wars which would bring no triumphs?¹⁰⁹

The significance of Eutropius’ criticism lies in the alleged connection between Constantius’ failure to temper Sasanian ambitions and the emperor’s conduct of the war against Magnentius. While the components that contributed to Eutropius’ diagnosis of Constantius’ failings comprised commonly held notions about foreign enemies, the security of the empire and the censure of civil conflict, it was his proposal of a causative relationship which influenced subsequent historiographical treatments of the emperor. However, it was a poem – in fact a summary of it by its author – rather than a historical work that should be deemed crucial for understanding the emergence of the revisionist historiography of Constantius’ reign whereby criticism of his civil war against Magnentius became one of its defining features. Faltonia Betitia Proba¹¹⁰ is the author of the Cento,¹¹¹ a poetic reimagining of Christian biblical history drawn from verses of Vergil’s poetry.¹¹² The proem (lines 1–8) of the Cento presents Proba’s confession about her earlier work – which has not survived – in which she narrated an account of a war that occurred a while ago.

In days gone by, of leaders who transgressed sacred treaties of peace,

doomed men caught by a vicious lust for power,

of numerous murders, of the cruel wars of kings,

of kindred battle lines and gleaming shields

stained with patricidal blood, of trophies taken from no enemy,

of bloody triumphs announced by their fame,

of cities so often deprived of countless citizens,

I confess, I wrote of these things. So much for recalling evils!¹¹³

The subject of Proba’s earlier work was civil war.¹¹⁴ This is apparent from the tone and allusions of the Cento’s proem which in places draws on lines from books one and four of Lucan’s Civil War.¹¹⁵ His condemnation of civil war, specifically the lambaste against the squandering of imperial might on civil conflict that should instead have been waged against Rome’s foreign enemies (1:10–12), is utilised by Proba to good effect in order to castigate leaders in recent history: Weapons polluted by parental murders, and trophies taken from those who are not genuine enemies (pollutos caede parentum insignis clipeos nulloque ex hoste tropaea (lines 4–5) evoke Lucan’s challenge to the memorialisation of Caesar and Pompey’s war (1:12) and transposes Lucan’s censure onto a conflict that had occurred, “only a short while ago, when leaders (duces) had transgressed sacred treatises of peace” (iam dudum temerasse duces pia foedera pacis (line 1)).

Additional support for the claim that Proba’s earlier work was about a civil war is provided by Bernard de Montfaucon (d. 1741) who in his Diarium Italicum (p. 36) noted an ascription accompanying Proba’s Cento in a now lost manuscript from the tenth century (the so-called Codex Mutinensis) which read: “Proba, the wife of Adelphius, mother of Olybrius and Alypius, wrote about Constantius’ war against Magnentius, and then also wrote this book”.¹¹⁶ With Montfaucon’s report in mind, the proem’s focus suggests that Proba’s earlier work was a treatment of the conflict between Magnentius and Constantius: If the tone of the lost work is reflected by the Cento’s proem, it was a challenge to the war framed using anti-civil war tropes drawn from early imperial literature – specifically, the “tactless” commemoration of imperial victory in light of the trauma wrought on society by civil conflict. This was no panegyric, but a poem in the manner of Lucan and his treatment of the civil wars of the late Republic.¹¹⁷ As Roger Green notes astutely, “[w]hatever the circumstances and colour of the original poem, neither side is favoured in this summary of it”.¹¹⁸

While the untrammelled lust for power exhibited by both leaders was denounced by Proba, line six of the Cento’s preface suggests that Constantius, the victor in the war, stood especially condemned. This verse – translated by Sigrid Schottenius Cullhed in her recent study on Proba as, “of bloody triumphs announced by their fame” (sanguine conspersos tulerat quos fama triumphos), in contrast to Green’s intentionally paradoxical suggestion, “triumphs which rumour (fama) had it were stained with blood” (“triumphs are usually, indeed always, stained with blood in some sense”¹¹⁹) – is in all likelihood a reference to the triumph staged by Constantius in Rome in the spring of 357 to mark the defeat of Magnentius some four years previously.¹²⁰ While the convention that a general should not stage a triumph following victory in a civil war is attested in Roman literature,¹²¹ the prohibition clearly had little influence on the practices of later Roman emperors.¹²² In the context of the ritual landscape of the fourth century, particularly in the period following the reign of Constantine I, the condemnation of emperors who celebrated a victory gained in a civil war reappeared in the historiographical tradition of the later Roman period in part following the experiences of sections of the aristocracy in the wake of Constantius’ conflict against Magnentius (and which thus stood opposed to the prevailing imperial messages about the war),¹²³ which was also then utilised by authors in order to furnish explanations for the decline of Roman fortunes against the forces of Sasanian Persia during the 360s.

In an important article from 1999, Bruno Bleckmann identified Proba’s lost poem as an example of just such a “senatorial” source whose treatment of the conflict of 350–353 stood in marked contrast to official panegyrical assessments of the war. Bleckmann’s argument that Nicomachus Flavianus’ lost Annales represents the most influential of these critical, senatorial sources on later treatments of the war, in particular his belief that Flavianus’ source lies behind the portrayal of the battle of Mursa in the later accounts of Zosimus and Zonaras, is hypothetical and in light of recent research on pagan historiography by Alan Cameron, appears a less viable explanation that had previously been the case.¹²⁴ Nonetheless, Bleckmann’s thesis advanced the important idea that Proba’s lost work was a formative instance of the anti-civil war sentiment that emerged following Constantius’ reign. Bleckmann notes that the presentation of Proba’s critique via allusions to Lucan was highly significant since he represented the predominant voice of censure against civil war in the Latin tradition.¹²⁵ Bleckmann’s assessment raises a number of other important concerns about the reception of Constantius’ reign. It was the urban senatorial elite which, Bleckmann argues, were among the most seriously traumatised by civil conflict. To paraphrase Bleckmann at this point: Senators, unlike the population at large, were forced into partisan modes of behaviour during such upheavals since it was senators and their families who had to make an unequivocal decision about which side they should take during the civil war based on a calculated guess about which sponsor would best preserve their wealth and position.¹²⁶ It should come as no surprise then that the senatorial depiction of the civil war emerged independently from the court’s presentation of the conflict.¹²⁷

Proba’s own family history highlights the deeply partisan nature of life in Rome during the civil war. Proba’s husband was Clodius Celsinus (signo Adelphius),¹²⁸ who served as Magnentius’ Urban Prefect between 7 June and 18 December 351. A passing reference in Ammianus Marcellinus reveals that Adelphius was charged by a certain Dorus¹²⁹ with a treasonable activity,¹³⁰ thereby providing a likely explanation for his brief time in office.¹³¹ Timothy Barnes’ close reading of the passage in Ammianus has established that Dorus – in his role as centurio rerum nitentium (“centurion guarding the public buildings”: Barnes 2006: 250) served in the office of the urban prefecture at Rome – brought a charge of treason against someone senior to him, evident in Ammianus’ use of altiora, i.e. that Adelphius was aiming at a “higher undertaking” (ut altiora coeptantem).¹³² Following his defeat at Mursa in September 351, Magnentius’ position in eastern Italy and Pannonia grew more precarious, and it is to be suspected that the atmosphere in Rome became even more febrile, partisan and driven by rumours, allegations and counter-allegations (speculatively, Adelphius’ equally short-lived predecessors, Aurelius Celsinus and Celius Probatus,¹³³ may have fallen to similar charges). Alan Cameron argues that the disgraced Prefect was pardoned by Constantius in a display of clemency, and that he survived beyond Magnentius’ death, in opposition to Barnes’ argument that – since Dorus survived and brought a similar charge against Flavius Arbitio in 356, the consul of 355 – Adelphius “succumbed”¹³⁴ following the trial instigated by Dorus’ accusation.¹³⁵ However, in light of the knowledge that sections of the senatorial class who were out of favour with the Magnentian administration governing Rome had departed the city for Pannonia,¹³⁶ it is to be suspected that Adelphius and his family found a welcome and public pardon in Constantius’ territories. Even if the outcome for Proba and her husband was rosy, it does not necessarily follow that Proba’s lost poem was written to praise Constantius or even to “exculpate her husband for his collaboration with the usurper”.¹³⁷ Instead, it may have been a case for her that all parties involved in the war stood condemned and were held jointly responsible for a brutal conflict that destabilised the empire’s western regions for over three and a half years. Proba’s lost work could very well have been composed during Constantius’ reign, or soon after the emperor’s death in light of the argument that the Cento dates from the reign of Julian.¹³⁸ As we saw in the Introduction, the invectives of Christian writers, Athanasius, Hilary and Lucifer, were composed during Constantius’ lifetime, and so it is conceivable that a condemnatory treatment of the war between Constantius and Magnentius was also part of the contemporary landscape of challenges to Constantius. Indeed, the value of the Cento’s proem – leaving to one side the orientation of the lost poem – to the historiographical tradition surrounding Constantius cannot be overstated. Proba’s focus “on the physical and moral evils of war”¹³⁹ represented a definitive rejection of the civil war triumphalism of the Constantinian dynasty first promoted during the reign of Constantine I to mark the defeat of Maxentius in 312.

Thus, by the time the epitomators wrote their condensed narratives under the Valentinian emperors, Constantius had acquired a reputation as an emperor whose reign was dominated by usurpations and civil wars, and who fared unfavourably against foreign enemies. Eutropius’ influential work adopted a discreet position with regard to Constantius’ military record: It was still possible for the author to praise, seemingly without irony, the emperor’s fortunes in civil wars (10.15.2), although he glossed his praise with the observation that this success came at a cost to the empire’s security against its foreign enemies (10.12.1). Such circumspection on this matter is, however, absent from the single most important Latin historical work for the fourth century, the Res Gestae of Ammianus Marcellinus, to which we turn in the following section.

Ammianus Marcellinus

The Theodosian-era historiographical narrative, composed during the early 390s, of the reigns of Constantine’s successors by Ammianus Marcellinus, a former Protector in Constantius’ army,¹⁴⁰ is confined to the final eight years of the reign of Constantius II, from the period immediately following the aftermath of his final defeat of Magnentius at Mons Seleucus (La Bâtie-Montsaléon) in Gaul in August 353 (14.1.1) to the emperor’s death in Mopsucrenae in November 361 and the preparations for his funeral in Constantinople soon afterwards (21.16.1–21).¹⁴¹ Despite being confined to this final decade, Ammianus’ account of Constantius is arguably the most influential ancient narrative of the emperor from the whole of the late antique period. Ammianus’ own biography has come under scrutiny in recent years and certain ideas previously regarded as incontestable regarding his background and identity have either been undercut or problematised by recent commentators.¹⁴² Ammianus offered his readers tantalising detail in the final section of his work (31.16.9) where he refers to himself as Greek and a former solider, although questions remain regarding his home and the nature of his bilingualism.¹⁴³ The writer’s extant coverage of events for his history begins in late summer 353 with the activities of Constantius’ Caesar, Gallus, in Antioch (r. 351–354),¹⁴⁴ and ends with the immediate aftermath of the battle of Adrianople (August 378).¹⁴⁵ His closing comment (sphragis) in the final book of his history (31.16.9) indicates that the work began with the reign of Nerva (r. 96–98 BCE): Therefore, the books covering the end of the first century up to period prior to the final years of Gallus’ life are presumed lost. Considerable debate has attended these lost books and the organisation of the work as a whole.¹⁴⁶ On the issue of the work’s structure, one of the most controversial issues has involved attempts to reconcile the amplitude of coverage for the years in the extant books (books 14–31, totalling eighteen books, for the period 353–378, a mere twenty-five years), with the seeming brevity of the coverage offered by the lost books (books 1–13 covering 96–353, a total of two hundred and fifty-seven years).¹⁴⁷ A recent, ingenious argument by Roger Rees proposes that the lost books of Ammianus never existed at all: According to his argument, with the use of the intertitle XIIII (i.e. book 14) together with numerous cross-references to issues having been discussed in prior books (i.e. before book 14) and the historiographic tone of the sphragis, Ammianus was able to pretend comprehensiveness but begin “where his own knowledge and source material would have been fullest, and his subject matter most relevant to the concerns of the later books”.¹⁴⁸

However we judge the scale of Ammianus’ work, it is the case that the historian’s account of Constantius’ reign is haunted by the aftermath of a tumultuous civil war. Book fourteen begins with a Lucan-like description of an “unendurable campaign” (14.1.1.) and the broken spirits of both warring camps. The broader influence of this malaise is carried over to all the books covering the reign of Constantius and Julian’s caesarship and to the cloying air of suspicion and calumny that Ammianus depicts as afflicting the heart of the imperial administration during this period. Ammianus’ narrative conveys this “atmosphere” through his characterisation of Constantius II and his relationship with his officials and advisers: Thus, Constantius’ suspicious nature was (largely) the result of his advisers who fed his fears regarding rival claimants for the imperial throne. In the case of the usurpation of the Master of Infantry, Silvanus, in Cologne in August 355, the ubiquitous sense of pending betrayal that characterised the emperor’s government forced Silvanus into rebelling despite the fabricated nature of the claims surrounding his loyalty to Constantius (in the words attributed to Silvanus’ domesticus Proculus: “he had attempted his enterprise, not driven on from ambition, but compelled by necessity” (15.6.2)).¹⁴⁹ It was the emperor’s success in quashing dissent (real and imagined) that, according to Ammianus, augmented Constantius’ superior demeanour: “Constantius, elated by this extravagant passion for flattery, and confidently believing that from now on he would be free from every mortal ill, swerved swiftly aside from just conduct (a iustitia declinavit) so immoderately …”.¹⁵⁰

Ammianus himself experienced this febrile atmosphere through his relationship with the figure of Ursicinus, Constantius’ magister equitum during the 350s.¹⁵¹ Deeply attached to his superior officer, according to Ammianus’ narrative, Ursicinus was poorly treated by the emperor: Overlooked for promotion despite his evident talents, and suspected of plotting against the regime despite his constant loyalty and commitment to Constantius’ plans. Ammianus’ portrayal of the emperor is, therefore, susceptible to judgements based on his experience and those of his associates in their interactions with the imperial government. Gavin Kelly notes that this “focalisation” of events through the narrative voice of Ammianus results in a highly partisan account of Constantius’ sole rule.¹⁵² The narrative voices utilised by Ammianus in his work are indeed complex, as recently highlighted by Alan Ross, and the focalisation of events through the narrative voice of Ammianus and other characters establishes a work with a multi-layered narration.¹⁵³ Yet, as John Matthews has argued in his study of the work, Ammianus’ portrayal of the atmosphere of suspicion and the incidents of mistreatment arising from the machinations of the emperor’s court should also be seen to reflect the political climate of the mid-fourth century, a climate that had been indelibly affected by the civil war in the western empire which had been only recently ended.¹⁵⁴ Indeed, Matthews also notes that throughout Ammianus’ work, “factual description and rhetoric are not clearly separable features … he can shift from a rhetorically framed narrative to a moment of personal experience, or a personal observation that gains all the more power from its rhetorical setting”.¹⁵⁵

Ammianus’ censure of Constantius was composed of a combination of factors, including personal animosity arising from the emperor’s treatment of his acquaintances, his admiration for Julian and his professional judgement regarding Constantius’ conduct of wars both civil and foreign. While the censure is cumulative, Ammianus’ overarching criticism was simple: Constantius was not worthy of the office of emperor. Indeed, it was a considered opinion maintained by some, notes Ammianus, that it would have been more in keeping with the dignity of the office for Constantius to have abdicated than to have defended his position so crudely and mercilessly (21.16.12). The pinnacle of Ammianus’ judgement regarding Constantius’ unsuitability to be the emperor is conveyed by the author in an imaginative portrayal of the emperor’s adventus into Rome on 28 April 357 (16.10.1–17) which is perhaps one of the best known literary portrayals (ekphrasis) of an imperial ceremony in ancient literature (discussed in Chapter 8). Here is offered the image of a ruler whose response to the ancient seat of empire, overawed by the spectacle of the city’s historic buildings and precincts as if he was a simple tourist on vacation, is the antithesis of how a truly suitable emperor should behave, as seen, for example, in the intentional comparison drawn by the portrayal of Julian’s arrival in Constantinople in December 361 (Ammianus, 22.2.4–5).¹⁵⁶

A defining feature of Ammianus’ judgement about Constantius II concerns the mobilisation of (according to the historian, largely unjust) charges of treason (maiestas) against individuals suspected of conspiring against him.¹⁵⁷ The figure most prominently associated with the imperial commissions that followed such accusations is the notary Paul nicknamed “the chain” (catena) due to his ability in “weaving coils (nexus) of calumny” around those whom he had suspected of betraying the emperor.¹⁵⁸ According to Ammianus, Paul pursued those suspected of high treason (crimina maiestatis) with a voracious cruelty that frequently involved the imprisonment and torture (on a rack (eculeus)) of the accused. Ammianus is clear that the deployment of such allegations was always political, applied without discrimination against the innocent and guilty alike. Ammianus appears to offer a defence of this position following his account of the trials held at Scythopolis in Palestine in 359 (19.12.1–18) over the affair of the allegedly politicised petitions left for the oracle of the god Besa in the Thebaid when he notes that the “Cornelian Laws”¹⁵⁹ exempted no one from torture in the matter of the emperor’s safety: However, he adds that such practices ought not to been a cause for rejoicing, implying that the Constantinian regime initiated allegations for despotic rather than lawful ends.¹⁶⁰

Much of what Ammianus has to say about Constantius, his government and officials are said as a point of contrast to the style and approach of Julian, his successor: The former “swerved swiftly from the course of justice” (15.1.3) because of his need for constant reassurance and flattery, in contradistinction to the latter whose reign heralded the return of Justice herself to earth (22.10.6: A contemporary claim relayed in guarded terms by Ammianus). Ammianus’ largely negative representation of Constantius also invites further points of contrast to the merits ascribed to other emperors, not just Julian, across his narrative. This critical evaluation of Constantius II is consistently maintained throughout the books covering his reign and is reiterated in the obituary of the emperor following Constantius’ death (21.16.1–21). The necrologies of rulers played an important role in Ammianus’ presentation of emperorship since the author used them to give “his most concentrated statements of the qualities shown by emperors and the expectations held of them”.¹⁶¹ As such, they focus on rulership’s defining features (as determined at the end of the fourth century) and include evaluations of an emperor’s military capabilities, his administrative competence, including the dispensing of justice and care for the provinces, personal habits, imperial court and piety (ergo, religion). In fact, Ammianus’ obituaries of emperors are essentially political caricatures: This is especially the case for the notice on Constantius where Ammianus exploits received ideas about the zeitgeist and conflates them with opinions and rumours about Constantine’s son. Constantius’ virtues are predictably outweighed by his vices. Foremost among his vitia was the zeal that he showed for pursuing those who showed “any indication, however slight or groundless, of an aspiration to the supreme power”, which he did through “endless investigations” (hanc sine fine scrutando) that “made no distinction between right and wrong” (21.16.8). Ammianus repeats Julian’s accusation that Constantius’ appetite for absolute control led him to slaughter his own family¹⁶²: An unequivocal charge about Constantius’ involvement in the dynastic murders of 337 (see Chapter 4). Ammianus repeats his criticisms of Constantius’ decision to triumph following his success in civil wars (cf. 16.10.1–3), which stands in contrast to his record in foreign wars where he suffered numerous setbacks:

It was on this unworthy rather than just or usual ground that in Gaul and Pannonia he erected triumphal arches at great expense commemorating the ruin of the provinces, and added records of his deeds, that men might read of him so long as those monuments could last.

(21.16.15)

The evidence of the Arch of Janus in the Forum Boarium in Rome and its likely links to the reign of Constantius II, lately established by Pedro Mateos, Antonio Pizzo and Ángel Ventura, would appear to substantiate Ammianus’ claim about the rush to monumentalise the emperor’s civil war victories (see Chapter 8).¹⁶³ Thus, Ammianus demonstrates his awareness of the trend that emerged in the work of earlier authors, including Eutropius and Proba that challenged the triumphal image of Constantius founded on his defeat of Magnentius, and that instead proposed a direct link between this victory and the seeming failure of Constantius’ foreign campaigns.

Ammianus’ obituary also alleges that under Constantius the greed of the imperial tax-collectors increased as a result of the emperor’s failure to investigate complaints against them. In tandem with the allegation that the emperor failed to secure the empire from foreign threats is the charge that Constantius did nothing to protect the provinces from corruption. Constantius’ failure to protect the provincials is offered as a point of contrast to the care for the provinces that Ammianus claims on the part of both Julian (21.5.8, 25.4.15) and Valens (31.14.1).¹⁶⁴ In line with the judgement of the epitomators,¹⁶⁵ Constantius is criticised for being uxorious and too susceptible to the advice offered by his eunuch officials and other members of the palatine; again, presenting a further point of contrast to those emperors (Julian, 22.4.1–10; Valentinian I, 30.9.2) who attempted to curb the excesses of courtiers and their excessive influence over governmental affairs.

The most infamous aspect of Constantius’ obituary comprises the comments made by Ammianus about the emperor’s role in the promotion of Christianity across the empire.

The plain and simple religion of the Christians he obscured by a dotard’s superstition, and by subtle and involved discussions about dogma, rather than by seriously trying to make them agree, he aroused many controversies; and as these spread more and more, he fed them with contentious words. And since throngs of bishops hastened hither and thither on the public post-horses to the various synods (as they call them), while he sought to make the whole ritual conform to his own will, he cut the sinews of the courier-service.¹⁶⁶

Much ink has been spilt attempting to understand the meaning of this passage and its broader significance with regard to Ammianus’ attitude towards Christianity. Regardless of how we understand it, either as a pagan intellectual’s objection to the naïveté of the Christian religion,¹⁶⁷ or as criticism of Constantius’ management of ecclesiastical controversies,¹⁶⁸ the passage reveals that Ammianus’ necrology of the emperor is above all a political sketch about the emperor’s judgement framed in part by his decision to patronise Christianity: A religion that although admirable in its essential state was nonetheless ill-suited to promote “the salus of the empire”,¹⁶⁹ and which had been transformed into a divisive force as a result of Constantius’ vanity in promoting himself as an authority in the theological controversies of the period. This may have been done to encourage unity but the opposite outcome prevailed and the empire was hamstrung as a result of the staging of near-constant synods.¹⁷⁰ Where Christianity was concerned, Ammianus made it clear elsewhere that an emperor should be impartial and not take sides.¹⁷¹ Ammianus’ portrayal of Constantius’ engagement as deeply coercive (“he sought to make the whole ritual conform to his will”¹⁷²) betrays the author’s familiarity with the intra-Christian debates of the 350s and early 360s and the factionalism that drove these controversies.¹⁷³ The essential feature of Ammianus’ censure involved exaggerating Constantius’ involvement in church affairs in order to portray the emperor as a tyrant – a new persecuting emperor – who through imperial might force impiety on the servants of the church. Constantius’ Christian opponents extracted considerable polemical capital from their portrayal of the emperor as an overweening interventionist. Presaging and thereby possibly influencing Ammianus’ portrayal, the Nicene-supporting Hilary of Poitiers (see Chapter 1) created a caricature of Constantius as a “teacher of impieties”, who gifted episcopal sees to his favourites, and summoned councils that sought to corrupt attendees with impious teachings.¹⁷⁴ Like Ammianus, Hilary’s vision of the emperor was also political satire based on amplifying episodes of imperial engagement with the church. The full extent of this caricature has only recently come to light following research that has highlighted the limits of Constantius’ direct involvement in church affairs, confined as it was to specific strategies (the management of episcopal appointments to key sees) and restricted to a relatively short period, namely the latter half of the 350s and the events leading up to the Council of Constantinople in 360 at which the Homoian settlement was briefly adopted,¹⁷⁵ i.e. the Christological position which defined the relation between the Son and the Father solely in terms of the one being like (Gk. homoios) the other.¹⁷⁶ The context for Hilary’s sketch of Constantius II is precisely this period, which Barnes has referred to as a time, “when Constantius took an abnormally prominent role in theological debate, a role which had no precedent”.¹⁷⁷ Barnes’ judgement regarding the level of Constantius’ involvement in this period has been tempered somewhat by Diefenbach’s analysis of the crucial events of 359, although both broadly agree that the final half of the 350s witnessed an elevation in imperial involvement in church affairs.

Christian Invective and Church History

In his study from 1993 (Athanasius and Constantius), Barnes noted the contrasting impressions of the fourth century presented on the one hand by Ammianus’ narrative and on the other by the Christian authors of the time. He observed that Ammianus had little or nothing to say about Constantius’ involvement in the ecclesiastical councils of the period (although he lists the principal exceptions), despite purporting to offer “a complete account of the significant political and military activities of the emperor Constantius”.¹⁷⁸ In his study of Ammianus five years later (Ammianus Marcellinus and the Representation of Historical Reality), Barnes followed up the point by noting that his interest in the author had been “further kindled as I came to realize how much the Roman Empire of Ammianus differed from the mid-fourth century world that my researches into the career of Athanasius were revealing to me – a discrepancy that clamored for explanation”.¹⁷⁹ Although Barnes does not rationalise Ammianus’ apparent neglect, the absence of details relating to Constantius II’s engagements with the politics of the fourth-century church may be construed, in the context of Barnes’ observation, as a strategic slight on Ammianus’ part; such a tactic would indeed be very much in line with Ammianus’ broader judgement of Christianity as an immature phenomenon, “a child of strife, culturally raw and unaccomplished”, in the evocative assessment of Roy Rike,¹⁸⁰ and therefore unworthy of more extensive coverage. As Barnes has shown, however, the pejorative nature of Ammianus’ handling of Christianity across his Res Gestae was shaped by a strategy of omission and emphasis: This was determined by his own intellectual prejudices and consolidated by the parameters of the historiographic genre as he practised it, and further defined by the “chronological units” – “the actions of an emperor during his campaigning seasons and the intervening winters” – which maintained the pace of the narrative.¹⁸¹ Additionally, Ammianus was not a “player” in the world of ecclesiastical politics: His knowledge beyond his caricaturing of people and events was limited and he showed little or no inclination to advertise Christian affairs beyond the interests prescribed by his strategy of emphasis and omission.

Athanasius was not a historian in the classicising mould of Ammianus: Rather, he was an apologist for the Nicene settlement who, in promoting his own version of the events of the 330s–360s, drew on a body of material that derived from the imperial office (e.g. letters from emperors) and the church (synodal letters), which he utilised in order to create a jaundiced portrayal of events and relations between the church in the western empire and the emperor. Athanasius’ version of events, in turn, influenced the portrayal of the Constantinian period promoted by the ecclesiastical historians of the later fourth and early fifth centuries.¹⁸² The writings of Athanasius were chronologically closer to events than the three decades that separated Ammianus from his account of Constantius II’s reign, and as such his writings have been called “instant history” by one commentator.¹⁸³ However, according to the generic boundaries of late antique historiography, the contemporary focus for much of Athanasius’ oeuvre means that it has more in common with the epideictic tradition, and his History of the Arians, his most celebrated treatise, has tended to be viewed as an example of invective literature in line with other celebrated instances of Nicene psogoi, including Hilary’s Against Constantius and Lucifer’s The Necessity of Dying. Nevertheless, the History of the Arians illustrates the artificial and porous nature of this generic division, since here Athanasius employed a range of literary and rhetorical techniques that were also utilised by Ammianus in his Res Gestae, including caricature, invented dialogue, and the exaggeration and omission of details and events.

Athanasius’ History of the Arians presents one of the most influential portraits of imperial power as a corrosive influence on Christianity from the entire fourth century. It is, however, a work with a specific context. The condemnation of Athanasius by a number of ecclesiastical councils on the basis of several historic accusations of misconduct by him stretching back to the 330s¹⁸⁴ reached a conclusion in early 356 when Constantius – who was expected (not least, by himself!) to enforce conciliar decisions reached at councils that had met with imperial permission – moved to enforce the order for Athanasius’ deposition issued by the council of Sirmium (351) and upheld by the councils of Arles (353) and Milan (355).¹⁸⁵ Following the seizure of Athanasius’ Alexandrian churches in February 356 by officials of the emperor, the bishop was estranged once again from the city’s Nicene community, which heralded a fresh period of unrest prior to and during the tenure of George of Cappadocia, the replacement for Athanasius. The History was written (late 357) soon after Athanasius lost Alexandria to George, and is one work composed alongside a number of others by him during the period between 356 and 362 in which he sought to exonerate himself while laying blame for his situation at the feet of his opponents, framed as both imperial (the emperor) and ecclesiastical (the episcopal “Arian” faction).¹⁸⁶ Underlying the position of Athanasius in the 350s was a murky Christian factionalism that marked the final years of Constantine I’s reign and the subsequent reigns of his sons when, in the words of Richard Vaggione, “public ecclesiastical identity tended to be expressed in terms of political and theological loyalty to specific bishops”.¹⁸⁷ An adept self-promoter, Athanasius positioned himself at the centre of this sectarian drama. Without the correct measure of critical judgement, it is possible to swallow Athanasius’ version of events given in the History in its entirety. However, recent research by several scholars (notably Barnes, and also David Gwynn¹⁸⁸) has exposed the extent of the distortions and caricatures in Athanasius’ writings, including the exaggerated portrayal of Constantius’ involvement in enforcing conciliar decisions during the tail-end of the decade. The History conveys a simplified presentation of the emperor’s hand in promoting the agenda of the “Arian” faction. Its narrative proposes an imperially driven persecution of Athanasius and his confreres by the “enemies of Christ” (47.2), ergo “Arian” leaning eastern bishops, that was intended to conjure up earlier Christian portrayals of state-sponsored persecution.¹⁸⁹ Constantius is cast in the likeness of the Antichrist (74.1–5). His crimes are manifold, according to Athanasius’ narrative, but the author’s ire is reserved especially for the unholy alliance between the civil authorities, the military and the “Arians” who worked together to defame and exile (and in some cases, physically assault) countless pious (= Nicene) bishops (e.g. 72.1–6): Thus, apostolic authority was duly unpicked, and imperial authority ran unchecked over sacred precedent:

[Constantius] has thought to change laws by annulling the instruction that the Lord gave through the apostles, changing the customs of the church and himself devising a new form of appointments: from other places and fifty stopping posts away, he sends bishops to unwilling congregations, they bring threats and letters to the officials. This was how he sent Gregory from Cappadocia to Alexandria, and also summoned Germinius from Cyzicus to Sirmium and dispatched Cecropius from Laodicaea to Nicomedia.

(74.5)¹⁹⁰

The reality behind the events described in the History was, however, much more complex than the model of imperial interventionism gone awry suggested by Athanasius: In the case of Alexandria between the years 356 and 357 (chs. 47–65), localised civic and ecclesiastic sectarianism melded in response to the presence of imperial agents acting under the authority of the emperor.¹⁹¹ However, Athanasius’ concern about the alliance between imperial power and ecclesiastical authority was not unique: The debate about the role of the emperor in the affairs of the church had been ongoing for some considerable time, and the broader context regarding the influence of the “Constantinian turn” on Christianity had been articulated by several figures not least by Eusebius of Caesarea in his Ecclesiastical History and Life of Constantine.¹⁹² Athanasius’ presentation of recent history, principally the manner and extent of his constructivism with regard to the “Eusebian” (i.e. the faction aligned with Eusebius of Nicomedia) or “Arian” challenge to the integrity of the church, has only lately been fully appreciated. His model of events became a central influence in forging what Thomas C. Ferguson has referred to as “a Nicene version of the fourth century”.¹⁹³ The primary transmitter of Athanasius’ version of the fourth century to the synoptic historians of the time of Theodosius II, including the typecasting of Constantius II as a champion of Arianism, was Rufinus,¹⁹⁴ a Latin writer and translator who continued Eusebius’ History, beginning with the episcopacy of Alexander of Alexandria and the emergence of Arius and ending with the death of Theodosius I in 395 (the work having been composed c. 402–403). Thus, Rufinus’ historiographic interpretation of the presence of “Arianism” in the empire and the role of the emperor in endorsing the faction was drawn from Athanasius but situated in the historiographic model of Eusebius.

Rufinus follows Athanasius in portraying the bishop of Alexandria as the victim of a party of Arian priests who conspired with the emperor in order to promote their own interests that included engineering the downfall of Athanasius. As Athanasius had done in his own apologies, Rufinus’ Constantius is under the sway of heretical clergy, whose links to the emperor’s court, principally their access to Constantius’ eunuch counsellors, meant that they were able to exercise undue influence on the most powerful figure in the empire. Athanasius’ distaste for court eunuchs in his History – their sympathy for the ideas of Arius is attributed to their physical state (“… they, being sterile by nature and having souls that similarly cannot produce virtue, cannot bear to hear anything about a ‘Son’ at all …” (38.1)) – is repeated by Rufinus, who notes that:

Constantius, to be sure, was of royal nature and mind and carefully cultivated those mainstays of his rule, but he was cleverly deceived into supporting perfidy by depraved priests who used the eunuchs, and he eagerly supported their wicked designs.

(10.16)¹⁹⁵

While the emperor is deemed culpable for the descent of the Christian community into fragmentation and chaos (which reached a symbolic nadir at the height of imperial involvement in church affairs during 359 and the council of Ariminum, 10.22), the origin of Constantius’ misdirection is attributed to the hand of an anonymous presbyter sympathetic to Arius who insinuated himself into the imperial family following the death of Helena, when he is said to have consoled Constantia, the half-sister of Constantine and former wife of Licinius, in her grief.¹⁹⁶ On her deathbed, Constantia called for her brother and told him of her concern that his empire was at risk lest the innocent (i.e. Arius) suffer punishment (10.12). Thus, a bond was forged between the presbyter and Constantine over the fate of Arius. Rufinus’ depiction of both the circumstances of presbyter’s involvement with the emperor and his anonymity “softened” the problem that Constantine’s association with Eusebius of Nicomedia,¹⁹⁷ “a strong supporter of Arius’ theology”,¹⁹⁸ presented to Nicene Christians. Constantine entrusted his will to the presbyter who, following Constantine’s death, delivered the testament to the hands of Constantius. According to Rufinus’ narrative, it is the presbyter who safeguards the succession plans of Constantine, for which Constantius in gratitude is bound to the presbyter: “From that time on, having subjugated the emperor to himself, he began to speak about restoring Arius and to urge him to compel the priests who were reluctant to agree” (10.12). And so the course of Constantius’ handling of ecclesiastical affairs was set for the duration of his reign.

Although the story of Constantine’s will be entrusted to Constantius by an Arian presbyter and the former’s indebtedness to the latter was unique to Rufinus, its influence as an explanation for the emperor’s seeming support of the Arian faction in the church during his reign was far-reaching.¹⁹⁹ According to Rufinus’ narrative, Constantius was heir of the emperor who oversaw the Nicene settlement: However, he went awry because he was advised by malign forces (the anonymous presbyter, Eusebius of Nicomedia and the court eunuchs). The simplifying of complex allegiances and events made this version of Constantius’ reign possible. Late antique ecclesiastical historiography was heavily influenced by partisan agendas, whereby allegiance to a particular theological tradition or personality was a central concern for authors.²⁰⁰ As a result, emperors in church histories were more often than not depicted in binary terms – as either good rulers or bad rulers – based on whether or not imperial support had been given to the author’s chosen school or faction (degrees of moralising nuance were also possible on the basis of episodic support).²⁰¹ Rufinus’ commitment to his champion, Athanasius, necessitated the reframing of decisions that adversely affected Athanasius during the reign of Constantine I, for example, his banishment by the Council of Tyre in 335, to the time of Constantius II (10.16–19), and correlatively the transplanting of achievements for the Christian Church in the reign of Constantius to the reign of his father, notably the chronological relocation of the mission to Aksum from Constantius’ time to Constantine I’s reign (10.10; see Chapter 7). In so doing, Rufinus offered two alternative models of imperium and the church: The case of Constantine, who adopted a critical deference to bishops (10.2, 10.5, and Athanasius and his confreres), and Constantius, who eagerly supported the perfidy of the heretics.

Thus, while it is the Nicene portrayal of Constantius II that dominates, this only emerged protractedly, beginning with Athanasius’ rewriting of the recent past, followed by the adoption and adaptation of Athanasius’ interpretation by sympathetic contemporaries (Hilary, Lucifer), and then by the authors of Nicene-leaning ecclesiastical histories from the fifth century. However, it is important to note that prior to the construction of Constantius as an “Arian Emperor”, Christian authors were instrumental in promoting an image of Constantius as the ideal Christian emperor, beloved of God, in a way that consciously reflected the Christian presentation of Constantine I. An excellent example of such a work is the letter addressed to Constantius by Cyril, the bishop of Jerusalem, following his appointment to the Palestinian see.²⁰² Cyril’s missive was composed with the purpose of alerting the emperor to the appearance on 7 May 351 during Pentecost of the celestial cross in the sky above Golgotha: A heavenly sign which, Cyril indicates, stretched as far as the Mount of Olives.²⁰³ The letter is a short yet conceptually rich work, although discussion of the political circumstances of the author as the newly installed bishop of Jerusalem and his relationship with his ostensible patron, the well-connected Acacius, bishop of Caesarea, has dominated scholarly commentary on the letter.²⁰⁴ In light of these evaluations, there should be little doubt that Cyril used the announcement of the apparition as an opportunity to promote himself before Constantius, and to exalt the status of Jerusalem as a place of pilgrimage (rebooted under the Constantinian dynasty²⁰⁵), a sign of the city’s confidence alongside Caesarea, its metropolitan rival.²⁰⁶ The letter, however, is also distinctly panegyrical in a conventional sense,²⁰⁷ albeit with a Christian emphasis according to which it is piety above all that represents the “the chief virtue that an emperor should display”.²⁰⁸ The rich analysis of the text by Mattias Gassman has argued that Cyril’s letter was principally concerned with drawing the emperor’s attention to the eschatological significance of the cross of light as enshrined in the scriptural and theological traditions of the church.²⁰⁹ In the opening sections (§ 2, § 3) of the letter, Cyril encourages Constantius to recognise something that he already knows – as a pious individual – regarding the significance of the luminous heavenly sign:

I do not presume to imagine that I am leading you from ignorance to divine knowledge (theognōsian): your piety equips you to instruct others. My hope is rather that you may be confirmed in the knowledge which you already possess, and that, when you learn how God has honoured the imperial destiny which you have inherited from your ancestors with a wider, heavenly crown, you may now more than ever give fitting thanks to God the universal king, and face your enemies with greater heart when you understand how the miracle which has occurred in your time gives concrete proof that your reign is the object of God’s love.²¹⁰

Like his father Constantine, Cyril notes, Constantius has been given a sign of God’s endorsement of his reign: For Constantine, it was the discovery of “the saving wood of the cross” in Jerusalem; yet, Cyril explains, because Constantius’ piety exceeded his father’s, he has been rewarded with a miracle derived not from the ground, but from the heavens, “the blessed cross … seen flashing like lightning over Jerusalem”. In these passages, Cyril conveys his awareness of the significance of the cross as a militaristic emblem as shaped by Constantinian messaging over the years – emboldening Constantius to “face your enemies with greater heart” – but with its eschatological meaning foregrounded. Thus, the apparition fulfilled the prophecy from Matthew’s Gospel, “then the sign of the Son of Man will appear in the sky” (Mt. 24.30), which, Gassman suggests, may be read as a tacit caution on Cyril’s part that the apparition is a sign of God’s support for the Roman Empire, “but it is also a proof that a greater sign shall appear which might mark [the empire’s] end”.²¹¹ In light of such sentiments, Cyril was evidently engaged in buttressing his own episcopal authority in the letter: However, the letter is an extremely valuable example of the way in which a prominent Christian author fashioned Constantius’ imperial identity at this point in his reign. It provides valuable insight into the Christian fashioning of Constantius’ rulership beyond Nicene invective.

Cyril’s theological identity in the early period of his episcopacy is unclear (unlike in his later years following his alignment with Basil of Ancyra²¹²): While his initial endorsement by Acacius, an opponent of Marcellus of Ancyra,²¹³ suggests that his sympathies did not lie with the proponents of Nicaea, his Catecheses (composed, c. 350²¹⁴) consistently emphasise the eternal generation of the Son²¹⁵; although in this regard, R.P.C. Hanson cautions sagely that Cyril’s catechetical Christology “is a clear piece of evidence that … we must not make the mistake of classifying the doctrine which we can find people professing simply into ‘orthodox’ (i.e. pro-Nicene) and ‘Arian’ (i.e. everything else)”.²¹⁶ The very fact that Cyril’s theological position at this stage in his career appears inscrutable (a sign, following Hanson, of the period’s confusion over theological expression) imbues his letter to the emperor with even more importance: Cyril’s panegyric for Constantius thus cannot simply be reduced to an “Arian” bishop writing in support of his champion.

For the continuators of Eusebius of Caesarea’s model of church history, the depiction of individual emperors became a deeply partisan affair, partly for the reasons discussed above regarding the theological position of the writer, and partly for other reasons. In the case of the apparition of the cross above Jerusalem, the manipulation of Cyril as a source by subsequent Christian authors reveals a great deal about the reception of Constantius’ image in the fourth and fifth centuries. A much-debated church history, possibly from as early as the mid-to-late 360s²¹⁷ which is especially relevant to the question of Constantius’ image, is an anonymous work identified as an “Arian History” or “Homoean History”.²¹⁸ Not extant, the work was first conjured into life by Joseph Bidez as an appendix (# 7) in his edition from 1913 of Philostorgius’ church history (about which, more later). Bidez’s appendix draws extensively on a number of late antique chronicles, including the Greek Chronicon Paschale (from the seventh century), the Chronicle of Theophanes Confessor (also written in Greek, from the ninth century), Jerome’s Latin continuation of Eusebius of Caesarea’s Chronicle, completed in Constantinople c. 380, in addition to a number of Syriac Chronicles.²¹⁹ Several scholars, beginning with the observations of Henry Gwatkin, whose ideas were developed by Pierre Batiffol, judged certain key events and personalities in these chronicles to display “Arian” sympathies. These include, for example, details about Lucian of Antioch,²²⁰ the revered teacher of Arius and Eusebius of Nicomedia, that are not found elsewhere, reports of contact between the Constantinian dynasty and notable “Lucianists”, including Constantine I’s baptism by the Nicomedian Eusebius, and Constantius II’s baptism by Euzoius, bishop of Antioch,²²¹ in addition to numerous references to Constantius’ piety and holiness. As a result, a common source – a history or chronicle (the title varies from commentator to commentator) – of Arian provenance has been proposed. Richard Burgess has also noted the focus on Antioch in many of the references from the Chronicon Paschale and Theophanes’ Chronicle, especially for events prior to 350, therefore suggesting a local Antiochene chronicle which, however, he emphatically distances (correctly to my mind) from the “Arian History” itself.²²² Ferguson’s recent work on the continuators of Eusebius has challenged the designation of “Arian” to this work on the basis that this is a (relatively) late and pejorative label developed by Nicene opponents for non-Nicenes; instead, he has highlighted the emphasis on Lucian and Lucian’s supporters as a more germane way of identifying the author’s theological and political concerns.²²³

With reference to the apparent pro-Constantius agenda of this Arian history, one of its recognised witnesses, the Chronicon Paschale, appropriates Cyril’s account of the cross above Jerusalem and transforms it into an event that heralded both the appointment of Gallus, as Constantius’ Caesar, and the defeat of Magnentius at Mursa. Cyril’s dating of the apparition to the time of Pentecost, specifically 7 May 351, although reproduced by the Chronicon’s source or the chronicler herself, is nevertheless ridden roughshod over.²²⁴ Gallus’ appointment occurred on 15 March 351 (Chron. Pas. s.a. 351), and Magnentius’ defeat at Mursa took place on 28 September 351 (Chron. Pas. s.a. 351): Cyril’s original interpretation of the cross’ appearance as an event highlighting Constantius’ blessedness and the eschatological promise of his reign thereby became associated with two key events from that year. The battlefield appearance of the cross in Pannonia is a clear imitation of Eusebius’ account of the “cross-shaped trophy formed of light” that appeared to Constantine I prior to his campaign against the emperor Maxentius.²²⁵ In light of the way that events unfolded in 351 and the build-up to the clash between the armies of Constantius and Magnentius on the plains of Pannonia,²²⁶ it is unlikely that Cyril would have foreseen the neat mapping of Constantinian iconographic rhetoric onto a specific victory (his wish is for success against the emperor’s enemies).²²⁷ A source considerably earlier than the seventh-century Chronicon Paschale, the church history of Philostorgius (composed c. 425–433)²²⁸ demonstrates, however, the early development of this association in its claim that the cross above Jerusalem was also visible to Constantius’ troops in camp prior to the battle of Mursa.

Philostorgius’ history of the church in twelve books, which “laid under tribute” the anonymous Arian historian,²²⁹ is also no longer extant. It has been reconstructed (again pioneeringly by Bidez) largely from an epitome of the work created by the ninth-century Patriarch of Constantinople, Photius, whose technique of excerption involved the abridgement of passages of varying length from the fifth-century history with, on occasions, critical remarks alleging Philostorgius’ impiety.²³⁰ Other important witnesses to Philostorgius’ history include the Passion of Saint Artemius from the eighth century, and an anonymous Life of Constantine (BHG 365) from the tenth century.²³¹ Philostorgius was an advocate for the theology of two figures who were central to the non-Nicene revival of the 350s and 360s, Aetius and Eunomius: The latter had been bishop of Cyzicus²³² who was exiled during the reign of Valens when he was accused of having offered his support to Procopius,²³³ a member of the Constantinian family who usurped imperium and was executed in 366.²³⁴ Eunomius taught the idea – derived from Aetius – that Christ the Son was different (dissimilar) in ousia from God the Father (the anhomoian or heterousios position), a proposal about Christ’s nature that derived from the notion of God as uniquely ingenerate.²³⁵ Aetius and Eunomius are commonly characterised in scholarship as “Neo-Arians” as a result of their subordinationist presentation of Christ.²³⁶ However, adopting Ferguson’s hermeneutic, it is more accurate to say that Philostorgius regarded both Aetius and Eunomius as heirs to the teachings of Lucian of Antioch. Indeed, according to Philostorgius, Aetius marks a point of departure in the transmission of the Lucianic tradition since as a result of his theological rigour, he broke off contact with those figures – principally Arius and his disciples – who had continued to associate with advocates of homoousios (3.14) despite arguing for a wholly different position.

Philostorgius was writing at the peak of the Theodosian dynasty’s promotion of Nicene orthodoxy, and his attempt to rewrite the history of the church in the fourth century from a position that was sympathetic to his heterousian heroes is genuinely revisionist. In sharp contrast to the judgements of the Nicene-leaning ecclesiastical historians (Socrates, Sozomen, Theodoret), Philostorgius’ understanding of Constantius II’s support for the “Neo-Arian” cause contributed to a largely effusive portrayal of the emperor, although with some significant exceptions. Constantius’ reign is distinguished from its very beginning as blessed as a result of his connections to Eusebius, bishop of Nicomedia, one of the Lucianists singled out for praise by Philostorgius. The ties between Eusebius and Constantius are introduced towards the end of book two of his epitomised history where Philostorgius narrates an account of Constantine I’s death that reveals knowledge of Rufinus’ story of the anonymous presbyter taking charge of Constantine’s will. In Philostorgius’ reinterpretation of the event (2.16), Constantine is poisoned by his brothers, and just prior to his death, the emperor drew up his will in which he indicated his wish that his murderers be punished. The will was then entrusted to Eusebius of Nicomedia, and instructions were given that the first of Constantine’s son to arrive after his death should be the one to fulfil the emperor’s demands. Eusebius foiled an attempt by the brothers to steal the will, and he preserved it intact until Constantius arrived following which he “wasted little time in executing his father’s orders”.²³⁷ Philostorgius’ account serves a similar purpose to Rufinus’ version by offering an explanation for the close ties between the emperor and a prominent figure from the non-Nicene camp, but from the position of the homoian camp in contrast to censorious explanation from the Nicene one. Furthermore, the idea that Constantius II engaged in an act of filial vengeance was evidently intended to exonerate Constantius’ direct involvement in the political assassinations that followed Constantine’s death in the summer of 337, among whose number included the half-brothers of Constantine I (see Chapter 4).

According to Philostorgius (via Photius), the blessed nature of Constantius’ reign is shown by the appearance of the cross above Jerusalem during Pentecost. In contrast to other accounts of the incident, however, Philostorgius appropriates Cyril’s report solely as a triumphal sign of Constantius’ victory over Magnentius, thereby demonstrating an affinity with the fourth-century appropriation of the cross as a triumphal apparition during times of civil war. As a result, all chronological niceties have collapsed: The cross is said to have appeared simultaneously over Jerusalem and the army camp (in Pannonia?). It instilled in Constantius and his men “boundless courage”, while having the opposite effect on Magnentius and his troops (3. 26). Unlike the “Arian”-inspired historiographical model of the mid-fourth century, the cross in Photius’ epitome of Philostorgius did not herald the appointment of Gallus. Nevertheless, Gallus was regarded by the heterousian-leaning historian as a key figure in the backstory of his theological tradition as a result of the Caesar’s support for Aetius. Indeed, for Philostorgius, Gallus rather than Constantius II is the imperial hero of his work. According to the epitome (3.27), Aetius won Gallus’ support (c. 351?²³⁸) with the backing of Leontius, the bishop of Antioch, in the face of opposition from leading easterners, Basil of Ancyra and Eustathius of Sebaste.²³⁹ However, it was the figure of Theophilus who first introduced Gallus to Aetius.²⁴⁰ Theophilus, a native of Divus (the modern-day isle of Socotra)²⁴¹ was appointed bishop by Constantius and led a series of evangelising missions to the area identified by William Frend as, “the Himyarite portion of the Axumite kingdom in southern Arabia”.²⁴² Philostorgius is a unique source for these expeditions (3.4–6).²⁴³ Theophilus was evidently an imperial favourite of both rulers. According to Photius’ epitome, Theophilus served as a mediator between Gallus and Constantius when the former was first appointed as Caesar. At some point, Constantius banished Theophilus (4.1) only to recall him when Eusebia, the emperor’s wife, fell ill and his healing expertise was required at court (4.7). There is a broader discussion of Theophilus in Chapter 7.

For Philostorgius, Gallus was the principal imperial patron of the heterousian cause. As a result, and in stark contrast to the portrayal of Gallus in book fourteen of Ammianus’ history, Philostorgius’ portrayal of the Caesar is a veritable eulogy. The church historian portrays Gallus as a courageous figure whose success in the war against the Persians (3.28) triggered Constantius’ jealousy and led to a plot to depose him spearheaded by two senior members of civil administration, Domitianus,²⁴⁴ Praetorian Prefect of the East, and Montius,²⁴⁵ Quaestor of the Sacred Palace.²⁴⁶ We know about this incident in Antioch from Ammianus, and the roots of the conflict between Domitianus and Gallus lay much deeper than Philostorgius’ narrative suggests.²⁴⁷ Of particular interest in Philostorgius’ account that culminated in the lynching of both men is the role of Constantina (here, Constantia), the wife of Gallus. In contrast to Ammianus, the epitome of Philostorgius portrays Constantina leaping to Gallus’ defence and dragging Montius away with her own hands to the palace soldiers (3.28). It has been noted that Philostorgius was interested in dynastic matters and took particular care to relate details about imperial women not found elsewhere (e.g. Constantina’s role in the promotion of Vetranio, 3.22).²⁴⁸

Following the intrigues and executions in Antioch, the advisers of Constantius, led by Eusebius,²⁴⁹ the emperor’s Grand Chamberlin (praepositus sacri cubiculi),²⁵⁰ conspired against Gallus and engineered his execution (4.1). Despite conceding Constantius’ involvement in the downfall of the Caesar, Philostorgius continued to demonstrate his support for the emperor by claiming that Constantius had first been misled by his advisers and second that he regretted the decision and attempted to stop the murder. However, Eusebius and his party of conspirators intervened to impede the receipt of the emperor’s revised order, and the Caesar was duly killed. Constantius’ manipulation at the hands of Eusebius is a trope first reported by Julian, the half-brother of Gallus, who noted disparagingly that Gallus was killed in order “to gratify a eunuch, a chamberlain who was also his chief cook” [meaning Eusebius].²⁵¹ (A significantly different version of Gallus’ death is related by Ammianus as we see in Chapter 7!) The idea that Constantius repented and changed his mind over his order to kill Gallus is unique to Philostorgius, although it is likely a variation of the idea, also drawn from Julian, that the emperor grew remorseful in his later years as a result of his role in family murders, including the execution of Gallus, which – following “the gossip of the court” – Constantius believed was the reason for the lack of a male heir.²⁵²

Constantius’ habit of being misled by malevolent advisers extended beyond the court and into the affairs of the church. According to Philostorgius, this habit had serious consequences for the security of the empire. Constantius suffered a decline in his fortunes against Sasanian Persia not only because he murdered his own kin but also because he banished leading Lucianists, notably Theophilus, Aetius and Serras, the bishop of Paraetonium in Libya (5.4) following the advice of Basil of Ancyra. The Constantinian dynasty had been instrumental in reframing the long-standing assumption that divine favour was most evidently seen in martial success. From Philostorgius’ vantage point, Constantius’ patronage of Eusebius of Nicomedia and Theophilus (the latter had, in turn, brought Aetius into the imperial fold) had contributed to his military successes. However, Philostorgius (via the epitome) records in detail – albeit in a somewhat confused narrative (4.4–12) – the machinations of the leading homoiousian (“of like essence”) teachers,²⁵³ Basil of Ancyra and Eustathius of Sebaste, against Aetius, Eunomius and Theophilus, and in particular their success in persuading Constantius II to banish them and other advocates of the heterousian cause. Philostorgius emphasises Constantius’ harsh treatment of Aetius, who is condemned by the emperor for having contradicted himself doctrinally (4.12), while the basis for the original charge brought by Basil and Eustathius against him proposed the alleged involvement of the theologian in the actions of Gallus in Antioch. However, even in the dire circumstances of his exile in Amblada (5.2), amidst “barbarous and unfriendly inhabitants” (5.2), Aetius’ prayers saved the Anatolian region from drought and plague. The message was clear: A good man cannot be kept down. In contrast, Constantius’ fortunes waned: He was defeated in battle against the Persians (5.4) and was powerless to prevent the rebellion of his young Caesar, his cousin Julian (6.5) prior to his death in Mopsucrene. Therefore, Philostorgius’ final judgement of the emperor effaces his earlier, positive evaluations: The reign of Constantius may have included some genuine high-points and presented reasons to celebrate, but he still died with the millstone of the “heretical councils” (6.5) of the late 350s around his neck.

With these considerations in mind regarding the portrayal of Constantius II and Constantinian emperorship in epideictic and historiographic sources, we turn in the next chapter to discuss the first of our themes, namely the topic of dynasty, and to excavate the dynastic origins of the reigns of Constantine’s sons.

Notes

1. Drijvers 2018: 239.

2. See esp. Paschoud 1971: ix–xcvi; Ridley 1982: xi–xv; Treadgold 2010: 107–114.

3. See esp. Banchich and Lane 2009: 1–19; Treadgold 2013: 388–399; Neville 2018: 191–199; for Ammianus Marcellinus as a source (via intermediaries!) for Zonaras, see Treadgold 2020.

4. See Hunt 2010; and the important study by Ferguson 2005.

5. Notably Omissi 2018: 62–62, in contrast to the insightful assessment of panegyric elsewhere in his study. Cf. Vanderspoel 2019: 206–207.

6. See most recently Vanderspoel 2019.

7. Vanderspoel 2019: 203.

8. A good example is Libanius’ use of Eusebius of Caesarea’s Life of Constantine in his Or. 59, discussed below; see esp. Greenlee 2017: 44–46.

9. Proposed by Watts 2015: 75–79.

10. Kelly 2015: 220.

11. Omissi 2018: 170.

12. Translation by Heather and Moncur 2001: 78–96.

13. Skinner 2015: 237.

14. PLRE 1: 422 (Hermogenes 1).

15. See Barnes 1993: 212–217; Skinner 2015: 242–243.

16. Skinner 2015: 242.

17. Vanderspoel 1995: 31–49.

18. See the important observation by Skinner 2015: 236: “The violence intruded on the rhythms of urban life and might well have provided the first encounter by the eastern senate, as a corporate body, with Christian ecclesiastical problems”.

19. Vanderspoel 1995: 61–70; Heather and Moncur 2001: 1–42; Moser 2018: 214–276.

20. Most recently see Van Hoof 2014: 7–38.

21. See the summary of the various positions in Malosse 2002; also Malosse 2003: 9.

22. Following the argument of Malosse 2002; and Malosse 2003: 9–10 (although Malosse in both instances is also seduced by the traditional date of 348 for the oration).

23. Greenlee 2020: 144.

24. See esp. Parvis 2006: 179–252.

25. Portmann 1999; Wienand 2015b; Diefenbach 2015.

26. See esp. Greenlee 2020.

27. Following the argument outlined by Portmann 1999.

28. Wienand 2015b: 443–444.

29. See CLRE 226–227 for the evidence of 346.

30. NAC 31, no. 157.

31. Wienand 2015b: 444.

32. RIC 8 Siscia 356, no. 106; and the commentary, RIC 8 341–342.

33. On these points, see esp. Ross 2016b.

34. Ross 2016b: 319.

35. Men. Rhet. 2.372.25–31 (Russell and Wilson 1981: 84–85).

36. On Roman reactions to civil war, see esp. Breed, Damon, Rossi 2010, and in the same volume, Grey 2010.

37. See the comments by Kelly 2015; also Lange 2013.

38. The astute analysis by Wienand 2015a.

39. Varner 2020: 122–126.

40. See the comments by Errington 2000: 868–870.

41. Vanderspoel 1995: 91.

42. Leppin and Portmann 1998: 48;Vanderspoel 1995: 87–94.

43. Heather and Moncur 2001: 108–114.

44. Cf. Leppin and Portmann 1998: 61; and, Vanderspoel 1995: 93.

45. Repeated in Julian, Or. 2. 56d, and embellished in the Epitome de Caesaribus 41.32, and Zosimus 2.42.3.

46. Vanderspoel 1996: 96–97.

47. Or. 3. 40c–d. For details of the gold as tax, see Jones 1964: 430.

48. Cf. Heather and Moncur 2001: 122–123.

49. Vanderspoel 2012: 230–231. The extent of the rivalry between the cities in Or. 3 is downplayed in the analysis of Moser 2018: 299–300.

50. Heather and Moncur 2001: 114–135; Vanderspoel 2012.

51. See the discussion by Drinkwater 2007: 138–145.

52. Halsall 2007: 152–153.

53. See the analysis by Lange 2013.

54. The Iazygi were a Sarmatian tribe; see Istvánovits and Kulcsár 2017: 87–90.

55. Or. 3.47b–c. Translations from Or. 3 are by Heather and Moncur 2001.

56. Ross 2018: 187–188.

57. See esp. Tantillo 1997: 36–40; Ross 2018. Cf. Tougher 2012.

58. So Curta 1995: 188, summarising previous judgements of the work.

59. See esp. Curta 1995; Drake 2012.

60. Notably Tougher 2012.

61. Julian, Or. 1.5 c–d; 9b–d (included here is a reference even to Crispus!); see Tougher 2012: 27–28; Moser 2018: 280–282.

62. Translations from Julian, Or. 1 are by Wright 1913.

63. Carefully analysed by Omissi 2018: 181–190.

64. Ross 2018: 196.

65. Ross 2018: 200.

66. Lightfoot 1981: 43.

67. See Lieu and Montserrat 1996: 208, n. 33.

68. Translations from Or. 59 are by Lieu and Montserrat 1996.

69. See Ross 2016b.

70. On the date of Or. 18, see Wiemer 1995: 256–266; Kelly 2004; and Van Nuffelen 2006.

71. Russell and Wilson 1981: 175.

72. Jovian’s responsibility is raised by Lib. Or. 18.277.

73. Translations from Libanius, Or. 18 are by Norman 2003.

74. For example, Libanius, ep. 1220 (= Norman 1992: no. 120); and ep. 1264 (= Norman 1992: no. 133).

75. See esp. Humphries 2012.

76. For the broader debate regarding Constantius’ policy to the Alamanni during the civil war against Magnentius, see esp. Drinkwater 2007: 201–204.

77. Julian, Letter to the Athenians 280a–d.

78. See Itin. Alex. 2.3: ed. Tabacco 2000; the translations used here are by Davies 1998.

79. As in PLRE 1: 710 (Fl. Polemius 4) and associated by the editors with PLRE 1: 709 (Julius Valerius Polemius 3). Cf. the comments of Lane Fox 1997: 243, n. 24. Also, Tabacco 2000: viii–xxi.

80. The arguments regarding the authorship of the Itinerary are examined in Lane Fox 1997.

81. Itin. Alex. 4.8.

82. On Constantine and Alexander, see Bardill 2012: 11–27, and on Constantine and Trajan, see Lightfoot 1990, and the comments by Barnes 2011: 165–167. On Constantius II and Alexander, see Lane Fox 1997. On Julian and Alexander, see Smith 2011.

83. Itin. Alex. 1.1.

84. Itin. Alex. 2.3–5.

85. Barnes 1985: 135 (also Barnes 2011: 197) argues that the author was unaware of the condemnation of Constantine’s II’s name following his death at the hands of Constans’ army and was therefore unlikely to have been well-connected at court. Cf. Lane Fox 1997: 244–245, who suggests that for Constantius II, his eldest brother may not have been viewed as an enemy in contrast to the position of Constans on Constantine II.

86. Cf. Fowden 1994: 146–147.

87. Itin. Alex. 4.11.

88. See esp. Lightfoot 1981: 39–72.

89. Lightfoot 1981: 39. On Galerius’ victories, see Leadbetter 2009: 89–96.

90. See Wienand 2015b.

91. PLRE 1: 461 (Jovianus 3).

92. Lenski 2002: 15. Also, Drijvers 2018: 244.

93. Amm. Marc. 25.7.8; cf. Matthews 2007: 186.

94. See Dignas and Winter 2007:84–88.

95. For example, the letter of Shapur II to Constantius II (and Constantius’ reply) in Amm. Marc. 17.5.1–10; also, Amm. Marc. 25.7.9. On the context for the letter, see Blockley 1989: 480–481. On the question of the correspondence’s authenticity, see Dignas and Winter 2007: 60, and for a discussion of the political ideology of the Sasanian and Roman territorial claims, Dignas and Winter 2007: 53–62.

96. Described by Amm. Marc. 25.7.5–14; Zosimus 3.31.1–2. See esp. Blockley 1984.

97. See Blockley 1984; Dignas and Winter 2007: 131–134.

98. See the account by Amm. Marc. 25.9.1–11.

99. See the comments by Dignas and Winter 2007: 131–134.

100. Cf. the broader points discussed by Morley 2010: 14–37.

101. Cf. Fisher 2009: 1–11.

102. Eutropius, Breviarium 10.17.2: ed. Bleckmann and Gross 2018. Translations from Eutropius are by Bird 1993. Also, Festus, Breviarium 29.1. On the contradictory nature of Eutropius’ claim, see Lenski 2002: 190.

103. Bird 1993: vii–viii.

104. Lenski 2002: 185–196.

105. Ross 2016b: 295. Also, Bleckmann and Gross 2018: 323–324.

106. Eutropius, Brev. 10.10.1.

107. Eutropius, Brev. 10.12.1.

108. Cullhed 2015: 118–119.

109. Lucan, bell. civ. 1.8–12; trans. Braund 1992.

110. PLRE 1: 732 (Proba 2); see also Salzman 2002: 163–164.

111. Literature on authorship question here.

112. See Clark and Hatch 1981: 97–108.

113. Trans. Cullhed 2015: 193.

114. Cf. Cullhed 2015: 114–123 argues that Proba never wrote the work described in the proem arguing instead that its description serves as a “rhetorical recusatio” (p. 117 f.) intended to denote the change from one poetic genre to another. The historical context for the proem is developed by Matthews 1992 (who nevertheless views Proba as a Constantinian loyalist).

115. See Fassina and Lucarini 2015: 5–6; also, Green 1997: 550. On Lucan’s poem and his conceptualisation of civil war, see esp. Fantham 2010.

116. See the edition of the Cento by Schenkl 1888 (CSEL 16.513): “Proba, uxor Adelphi, mater Olibrii et Aliepii, cum Constantini (sic pro Constantii) bellum adversus Magnentium conscripsisset, conscripsit et hunc librum” (Montfaucon had sufficient historical awareness to correct the error of the copyist over the name of Constantine). See also, Matthews 1992: 279–280.

117. So, Bleckmann 1999a: 70–71. Also, Green 1997: 552–553.

118. Green 1997: 552–553.

119. Green 1997: 551.

120. Cf. Green 1997: 551.

121. For example, and most prominently, Valerius Maximus, Memorable Deeds and Sayings 2.8.7; see Lange 2013.

122. See Lange 2012.

123. See esp. Lange 2012: 31–33.

124. Bleckmann 1999a: 86–91. On the Annales, see now Cameron 2011: 627–690.

125. See esp. Fantham 2010.

126. Bleckmann 1999a: 73–74.

127. Bleckmann 1999a: 74.

128. PLRE 1: 192–193 (Celsinus 6).

129. PLRE 1: 270.

130. Amm. Marc. 16.6.2, where he also indicates that the episode involving Dorus’ charge against Adelphius was raised earlier, i.e. in one of his lost books. Cf. Cameron 2011: 335–336.

131. Chastagnol 1962: 134.

132. Barnes 2006: 251.

133. Chastagnol 1962: 131.

134. Green 2008: 269.

135. Cameron 2011: 336. Barnes 2006. Also see, Green 2008.

136. For example, Julian, Or. 1.38d; Or. 2.97b–c. Cf. the comments by Moser 2018: 279.

137. Moser 2018: 99.

138. See the arguments proposed by Green 1995. Cf. Baker-Brian 2021.

139. Green 1997: 553.

140. See esp. Trombley 1999.

141. Translations from Ammianus are by Rolfe 1935 (bks. 14–19); Rolfe 1940 (bks. 20–26); Rolfe 1939 (bks. 27–31). Amendments to Rolfe’s translation are noted.

142. See esp. Cameron 1964; Fornara 1992a, 1992b; Kelly 2008: 104–158 offers a masterful survey of the evidence and opinions.

143. See the remarks by Cameron 2011: 530–531.

144. On the chronology of book fourteen, see Barnes 1989.

145. Although as Kelly 2008: 109, n. 22 has highlighted, Ammianus’ narrative contains references to personalities and events that postdate the “formal terminus” of the work.

146. The principal arguments are summarised by Rees 2014. See also Matthews 2007: 454–456; Barnes 1998: 20–31; and Cameron 2011: 749–750, for alternative arguments regarding the numeration of Ammianus’ books.

147. The debate is outlined by Barnes 1998: 20–31. Barnes proposes that Ammianus wrote a total of thirty-six books – therefore reflecting the influence of Tacitus and the symmetrical arrangement of historical narrative into hexads. Cf. Cameron 2011: 749–750; and, Rees 2014: 131–132.

148. Rees 2014: 139.

149. Amm. Marc. 15.5.1–34.

150. Amm. Marc. 15.1.3 following the downfall of Gallus in 354.

151. PLRE 1: 985–986 (Ursicinus 2).

152. Kelly 2008: 44–52.

153. Ross 2016a: 29–39.

154. Matthews 2007: 35.

155. Matthews 2007: xii.

156. Ross 2021.

157. See Matthews 2007: 455–456, for perceptive comments concerning Ammianus’ depiction of treason.

158. Amm. Marc. 15.3.4; also, 14.5.8.

159. Cf. Matthews 2007: 213.

160. Amm. Marc. 19.12.18.

161. Matthews 2007: 239.

162. Cf. Julian, Letter to the Athenians 270c–d; see den Boeft, den Hengst, Teitler 1991: 257–258.

163. Mateos, Pizzo and Ventura 2017. Ammianus’ reference to the erection of arches in Gaul and Pannonia very probably refers to Constantius’ victories over Magnentius at Mursa (Pannonia) in September 351 followed by the final defeat of the usurper close to Mons Seleuci (Gaul) in July 353. It was thought that evidence of the triumphal arches of Constantius II had long been lost, but at least two have been identified in recent years, including the attribution of the arch in the Forum Boarium to the Senate during Constantius’ reign. The remains of the so-called “Pagan-gate” (Heidentor) situated close to the Pannonian city of Carnuntum is very likely a Constantius II-era triumphal arch of the tetrapylon/quadrifrons type. It is argued by Jobst 2002 that the Petronell-Carnuntum arch was built to commemorate the emperor’s campaigns against the tribal confederacies of the Quadi, Limigantes and the Sarmatians in Pannonia during the years 357–358, rather than to celebrate a triumph over internal enemies of the state.

164. See esp. den Boeft, den Hengst and Teitler 1991: 268–270.

165. Cf. Eutropius 10.15.2; Epit. de Caes. 42.19; see den Boeft, den Hengst and Teitler 1991: 267–268.

166. Amm. Marc. 21.16.18: Christianam religionem absolutam et simplicem anili superstition confundens, in qua scrutanda perplexius quam componenda gravies excitavit discidia plurima, quae progressa fusius aluit concertatione verborum, ut catervis antistitum iumentis publicis ultro citroque discurrentibus per synodos (quas appellant), dum ritum omnem ad suum trahere conatur arbitrium, rei vehiculariae succideret nervos.

167. Neri 1992.

168. Barnes 1998: 88–90.

169. Rike 1987: 101.

170. Cf. den Boeft, den Hengst, Teitler 1991: 272–274.

171. Amm. Marc. 30.9.5 on Valentinian I: Postremo hoc moderamine principatus inclarvit, quod inter religionum diversitates medius stetit, nec quemquam inquietavit, neque ut hoc colereter, imperavit aut illud: nec interdictis minacibus subiectorum cervicem ad id, quod ipse coluit, inclinabat, sed intemeratas reliquit has partes ut repperit. The passage may be read as a further, tacit condemnation of Constantius II, and an extension of the notice at 21.16.18. See esp. the analysis by Hunt 2007.

172. Cf. den Boeft, den Hengst, Teitler 1991: 273–274, who suggest that ritum omnem applies to the Christian community as a whole.

173. So Barnes 1998: 88–89, although he produces no example to substantiate his point.

174. Exemplified by Hilary, Against Constantius 7; trans. Flower 2016: 121–122. See Diefenbach 2015: 362–364.

175. See esp. Diefenbach 2012, 2015.

176. Cf. Simonetti 1992.

177. Barnes 1993: 169.

178. Barnes 1993: 166.

179. Barnes 1998: vii.

180. Rike 1987: 102.

181. Barnes 1998: 44–45; and for a discussion of Ammianus’ approach, see pp. 43–53.

182. Notably, Ferguson 1995: 57–61.

183. Warmington 1986: 8.

184. Barnes 1993: 19–33.

185. See esp. Barnes 1993: 109–120; Diefenbach 2015: 363–364.

186. Barnes 1993: 121–135.

187. Vaggione 2000: 151.

188. Gwynn 2007.

189. A paradigm discussed in detail by Flower 2013, passim.

190. Translations from the History of the Arians are by Flower 2016: 104–105.

191. See esp. Haas 1997: 280–295.

192. See Ferguson 2005: 15–56.

193. Ferguson 2005: 81.

194. Cf. Leppin 2003: 227–229; Ferguson 2005: 81ff.

195. Translations from Rufinus’ Hist. Eccl. are by Amidon 2007.

196. See Hillner 2017b; also, Tougher 2020.

197. So the assessment of Hunt 2010: 76; also Gwynn 2010: 292.

198. Hanson 1988: 31. On Eusebius of Nicomedia, see Gwynn 2010.

199. Klein 1977: 2–3; Amidon 1997: 49–50; Ferguson 2005: 96–99.

200. See Ferguson 2005: passim.

201. On Rufinus’ evaluation of Constantine and Constantius II, see Ferguson 2005: 96–104.

202. For the date of Cyril’s appointment, see Drijvers 2004: 34–35; cf. Van Nuffelen 2007: 136.

203. Letter to Constantius 4.17–24. On the letter’s title, see Bihain 1973: 286.

204. Humphries 1997: 452–453.

205. Cf. Eusebius, Life of Constantine 3.25–43, and the commentary in Cameron and Hall 1999: 273–294; Gassman 2016: 127.

206. See Drijvers 2004: 29–63.

207. See esp. the comments by Drijvers 2004: 159–163, 2009.

208. Gassman 2016: 133.

209. Gassman 2016.

210. Letter to Constantius 2.8–11; translation by Yarnold 2000: 68–69.

211. Gassman 2016: 131.

212. See Hanson 1988: 412; Van Nuffelen 2007.

213. See Lienhard 1999: 182–186.

214. Hanson 1988: 405.

215. See esp. Hanson 1988: 401–413.

216. Hanson 1988: 403.

217. Barnes 1993: 209; Ferguson 2005: 65, for the claim that the “Arian” history was the first continuation of Eusebius’ Hist. eccl.

218. Batiffol 1895; Gwatkin 1900 (2nd ed.): 219–224; cf. Ferguson 2005: 65, n. 28.

219. Bidez 1913: cli–clxiii; Amidon 2007: 205, n. 1.

220. Williams 2001: 162–167.

221. Concerning whom, see the comments by Ferguson 2005: 72–73.

222. Burgess 1999c: 122–128.

223. Ferguson 2005: 70–74.

224. The task of differentiating this “layering of sources” is discussed by Ferguson 2005: 65.

225. Life of Constantine 1.28–32: See Cameron and Hall 1999: 204–213.

226. See the overview by Šašel 1971: 210–214.

227. Cf. Humphries 1997: 453.

228. Leppin 2001: 112.

229. Amidon 2007: xxiv.

230. Bleckmann 2013: 15–16.

231. Bidez 1981: xii–cv. See also the remarks by Bleckmann 2013: 13–23. On BHG 365, see Lieu 1998.

232. Philostorgius, Hist. eccl. 5.3. On his career, see Hanson 1988: 611–617; and the important study by Vaggione 2000: 201–311.

233. PLRE 1: 742–743; see the remarks by Tougher 2011: 190–191.

234. Philostorgius, Hist. eccl. 9.5–6.

235. See the overview in Hanson 1988: 617–636.

236. See the remarks by Hanson 1988: 598.

237. Philostorgius, Hist. eccl. 2.16. Translations from Philostorgius are by Amidon 2007.

238. See the remarks by Vaggione 2000: 159–160, n. 47.

239. On this episode, see Kopecek 1979: 108–112; cf. Vaggione 2000: 158–161, and the discussion in n. 47.

240. Kopecek 1979: 109; cf. Woods 1993: 609.

241. Prinzivalli 1992: 832.

242. See Woods 1993: 609, for dating considerations of Theophilus’ mission. Also, Amidon 2007: 40, n. 8, for a date c. 350s. Cf. Frend 1989: 82 for the traditional view.

243. On the significance of these expeditions, see now Stevenson 2021: 20–40.

244. PLRE 1: 262 (Domitianus 3).

245. PLRE 1: 535–536 (Montius Magnus 11).

246. Cf. Amm. Marc. 14.7.9–19. See Matthews 2007: 34–35.

247. See esp. the analysis by Woods 1993.

248. See Tougher 2020.

249. PLRE 1: 302–303 (Eusebius 11).

250. Tougher 2018.

251. Julian, Letter to the Athenians 272d; translations from Julian’s Letter are by Wright 1913.

252. Julian, Letter to the Athenians 270d–271a.

253. See Hanson 1988: 348–386, for the period raised by Philostorgius’ narrative.