Echoes of Augustan Symbols
in Virgil’s Aeneid

Paul Blyskal

In his Art of Vergil, Viktor Pöschl writes the following:

The champions of allegorical interpretation of the Aeneid obscure the fact that equations purporting to balance historic and poetic personalities are not only unverifiable but are a priori false—at least as postulated. The mistake is in confusing symbol and Allegorie: a symbol may exist even without reference to what takes shape within it, while the Allegorie exists only through that reference. The symbol permits, even demands, more than one interpretation, the Allegorie shows only one. The nobility and style of the Aeneid exclude the Allegorie that can be completely unlocked with a political or historical key. To resolve the heroic epic into Allegorie, then, is to misunderstand both its validity as an ideal and its artistic character. (p. 21)

For one seeking to study the historical meaning of the Aeneid, this proviso seems to be the most important thing to bear in mind. Much historical research on the Aeneid is based on constructing a political allegorical reading of the poem’s events. Pöschl himself describes a scholar who attempted to allegorize the crimes of Cacus into the proscriptions of Antony. This scholarly process is not exactly “playing fair” with its subject: it takes one of the greatest poems western civilization has produced and fashions it into nothing more than a covert political statement. The futility of such a process is made clear by the fact that proponents of this method are able to make Virgil speak either for or against Augustus, but they can allow him nothing in between. As Pöschl points out, allegory admits only one interpretation; but literary scholars have begun to feel that Virgil’s conception of the times he lived in was anything but simple. In light of these revelations and Pöschl’s advice above, it seems more fruitful to look at the symbols and imagery of Augustus’ time and examine how these symbols are used throughout Virgil. What results from such an analysis is a complex questioning on the part of Virgil which, like the “two voices” of Adam Parry—a public voice foretelling the glory of Rome, a private voice mourning the cost—embraces both pessimism and optimism.

The importance of peace to the Augustan program is attested to by the proud declaration of Augustus in his Res Gestae:

Our ancestors wished that the gateway of Janus Quirinus should be shut whenever victory had secured peace on land and sea throughout the whole empire of the Roman people. From the foundation of the city down to my birth, the tradition is that it was shut only twice, but while I was princeps the senate voted to shut it on three occasions. (Mellor 1998: 359)

Suetonius, in his Twelve Caesars, allows this honor to Augustus (Suetonius 1957: 65). But there is a kind of duality underlying the Augustan imagery of peace. That the gates of war should be shut when the empire is at peace was first established by Numa Pompilius (Mellor 1998: 165). Livy, in recounting the reign of the second king of Rome, seems to be at great pains to delineate the contributions of Numa from the contributions of Romulus. He writes,

Thus by two successive kings the greatness of the State was advanced; by each in a different way, by the one through war, by the other through peace. Romulus reigned thirty-seven years, Numa forty-three. The State was strong and disciplined by the lessons of war and the arts of peace. (Mellor 1998: 167)

In this, one first gets a hint of the duality of imagery. As Suetonius relates, Augustus was considered a second Romulus. Indeed, he almost received the title instead of the one he did receive (augustus, “venerable”) (Suetonius 1957: 57). Augustus himself in the Res Gestae, relates how the senate decided to consecrate the Ara Pacis Augustae in the Campus Martius (Powell 1992: 358). Apart from the irony of an altar of peace being dedicated in a field of Mars, the Campus Martius is also where Romulus received his apotheosis and became Quirinus. In the sources, Augustus becomes both a king of war and a king of peace, a second Romulus and a second Numa. Virgil’s Aeneid similarly depicts this Augustan paradox of peace and war in his descriptions of Romulus.

One of the most resounding and frightening images of the Aeneid— that of Furor impius—appears in the first book, when Jupiter attempts to calm Venus’ fears. He describes how the ages of war will soften into ages of peace. The prophecy culminates in a description of how the gates of War will finally be closed. Virgil juxtaposes this imagery of Numa’s gates with two references to Romulus. He first writes,

regina sacerdos
Marte gravis geminam partu dabit Ilia prolem.
inde lupae fulvo nutricis tegmine laetus
Romulus excipiet gentem et Mavortia condet
moenia Romanosque suo de nomine dicet. (Vir. 1.273-76)

The priestess queen Ilia,
Pregnant by Mars will give birth to twin offspring.
From there Romulus, happy in the tawny hide
Of the she-wolf nurse, will take up the race and found
The walls of Mars, and call the Romans by his name.

Mars is heavily invoked in this scene both as father to Romulus and as owner of the walls which Romulus builds. The entire passage serves to unite the two figures and emphasize Romulus as a warrior-king. After this, Caesar appears, but as Powell observes, the reader is left to wonder which Caesar this is (Julius or Augustus) until one reads that he is ‘spoliis Orientis onustum’[1] Once the reader learns that it is Augustus, Romulus returns like some rex quondam et futurus. This time, however, he is not the son of Mars or the founder of Martian walls; he is rather a bringer of peace—a truly Augustan paradox:

aspera tum positis mitescent saecula bellis:
cana Fides et Vesta, Remo cum fratre Quirinus
iura dabunt; dirae ferro et campagibus artis
claudentur Belli portae; Furor impius intus
saeva sedens super arma et centum vinctus aenis
post tergum nodis fremet horridus ore cruento. (Vir. 1.291-96)

Once wars are put aside, the harsh centuries will soften:
White-haired Faith and Vesta, Remus with his brother Quirinus,
Will give laws; The dread Gates of War will be closed
With close-fitting bolts; within Unholy Rage
Sitting over savage arms and bound behind his back
With a hundred bronze knots, horrifying, will roar with from his bloody maw.

There are two important elements here that suggest darker intentions on Virgil’s part. First, in typical oratorical style, he has noticeably glossed over the tale of Romulus’ killing of Remus and without describing the battle nonetheless describes the reconcilation. Like praeteritio, the effect is to strengthen by understatement that which is left unsaid. In addition, this speech, which is meant to comfort Venus, does not end with a glorious image of peace but rather with the frightening image of Furor impius. His words end abruptly here and he sends Mercury on his tasks. The effect ominously suggests that this demon will not remain bound forever.

Later, in Book VIII, Romulus is described again in the ecphrasis of the shield. There is one significant point to mention on the mixing of imagery of peace and war in the figure of Romulus. When the Romans and Tatius meet to settle the terms of peace, it is described thus:

subitoque novum consurgere bellum
Romulidis Tatioque seni Curibusque severis.
post idem inter se posito certamine reges
armati Iovis ante aram paterasque tenentes
stabant et caesa iungebant foedera porca. (Vir. 8.637-41)
And suddenly (he made) a new war of the sons of Romulus to rise
Against old Tatius and severe Cures.
After this, when conflict was put aside,
Armed kings stood before the altar of Jove
Holding plates between themselves
And with a slaughtered pig ratified their pacts.

The image is striking particularly because it invokes the name of Romulus (Romulides) in describing the Romans right before they make an attempt at peace. As Professor Putnam has suggested, the peace that is established in this scene is uneasy—the peacemakers are described as armati and presumably equally ready to make war as to consecrate a pact. So Virgil portrays this truly Augustan paradox of an age of peace ushered in by a lord of war in these two examples. While Virgil glorifies the peace, he also speaks very carefully about it and in such a way as to hint that it is not always what it seems. He implies that the fragile peace consecrated today may be lost tomorrow—that peace is a fleeting thing and war lurks always on the horizon. This representation of Augustan war and peace symbolism in the Aeneid is linked to the second significant symbol the poem adopts.

Perhaps no symbol argues as powerfully for an age of peace as the symbol of a spared foe. It implies supreme trust on the victor’s part and clearly demonstrates the dissipation of anger and rage. Moreover, as Pompey had demonstrated in his conquest of the pirates in the east, it ultimately ensured smoother transitions of power and surer rule. It was a matter of pride for Augustus that he spared his foes when possible. He writes in the Res Gestae:

I undertook civil and foreign wars by land and sea throughout the whole world, and as victor I spared the lives of all citizens who sought pardon. When foreign nations could safely be pardoned I preferred to preserve rather than destroy them. (Powell 1992: 357)

Augustus himself adds an important series of qualification: he spared every citizen who sought pardon, and as for foreign nations, he did so only if they could safely be pardoned. He seems to be proffering an apology of sorts—explaining that where he did not do what he himself claims he should have done, either the suppliant was not a true citizen (i.e. a rebel), or Augustus was working toward a greater goal—to maintain the safety of the empire. In the end such a carefully qualified argument would have allowed Augustus to spare and not spare as he saw fit. Ultimately the choice lay wholly with Augustus. As imperator, he was sole judge of who was revolting against him (and therefore a rebel) and who was not rebelling (and therefore a citizen); as commander of an army, it was his decision when another nation could be trusted or not. His assertion in the Res Gestae, therefore, ends up suggesting that he made efforts to spare his foe when he deemed it right—
which is little more than any commander could say.

Suetonius offers a somewhat (though not altogether) different picture. In describing the civil wars of Augustus, he writes,

After the second and decisive one [battle] he showed no clemency to his beaten enemies, but sent Brutus’ head to Rome for throwing at the feet of Caesar’s divine image; and insulted the more distinguished of his prisoners. When one of these humbly asked for a decent burial, he got the cold answer: ‘That must be settled with the carrion-birds.’ And when a father and a son pleaded for their lives, Augustus, it is said, told them to decide which of the two should be spared, by casting lots or playing morra. The father sacrificed his life for the son; the son then committed suicide; Augustus watched them both die. (Suetonius 1957: 60)

Yet Suetonius, only several pages later, claims that Augustus was often merciful in the foreign wars he waged: “Such was his reputation for courage and clemency that the very Indians and Scythians—nations of whom we then knew by hearsay alone—voluntarily sent envoys to Rome, pleading for his friendship and that of his people” (Suetonius 1957: 64).” The fact that the two accounts are at odds over exactly when Augustus demonstrated mercy (in the Res Gestae it is to citizens and sometimes to foreigners, but in Suetonius it is to foreigners and only sometimes to citizens) perhaps indicates that the truth lay somewhere in between—and that is how Virgil portrays his complex picture of victors and suppliants in the Aeneid.

The first suppliant in the Aeneid is Juno, whose plea to Aeolus is prefaced, “ad quem tum Iuno supplex his vocibus usa est”[2] To Pöschl’s mind, this opening sequence and the unleashing of the storm provide the basic themes for the remainder of the epic. The restoration of order to a world wherein chaos has been loosed is the goal of Virgil’s art. Significant to this interpretation is the fact that the storm is released by a suppliant figure—especially because the poem will conclude with one as well. Virgil continues a level of wariness for suppliants in Book II where Sinon, though not actually described as supplex, nonetheless asks for mercy from Priam (ll. 134-50). The granting of this request brings about the fall of Troy and the death of its beloved lord. In a pathetic inversion, Priam, the moment before his death recalls the noble actions of Achilles in comparison to those of Pyrrhus:

sed iura fidemque
supplicis erubuit corpusque exsangue sepulcro
reddidit Hectoreum meque in mea regna remisit.

But he respected the laws and trust
Of a suppliant, and returned the body of Hector
Bloodlessly from his tomb and sent me back to my kingdom.

Priam’s lament eloquently sums up much of what Book II conveys as a whole—the passing of a “golden age” and in the replacement of that world, in the “modern day,” the triumph of nefas and ruthlessness. Pyrrhus’ reply culminates in a brief response: “nunc morere” (now die!) which echoes several of the comments Augustus is recorded by Suetonius to have said. Anchises in Book III shows himself to be a part of this old Trojan world—another Priam, so to speak[3]—in his mercy toward the Greek inhabitant of the Cyclops’ island. Anchises’ belief in mercy and compassion is summed up at the end of book six with his famous exhortation: “parcere subiectis et debellare superbos.”[4] This is the first moment where Aeneas is referred to as a Roman and it seems almost to be a passionate plea on Anchises’ part: “Now Aeneas, as a Roman, try to incorporate some of the compassion of the earlier Trojan world into your modern kingdom.” Aeneas does no such thing.

In Book X, Virgil writes of Lucagus’s brother, who after witnessing Lucagus’ death makes the following plea:

‘per te, per qui te talem genuere parentes,
vir Troiane, sine hanc animam et miserere precantis.’
pluribus oranti Aeneas: ‘haud talia dudum
dicta dabas, morere et fratrem ne serere frater.’ (Vir. 10.597-600)

‘By you, by the parents who gave you birth,
Man of Troy, spare this soul and pity me in my prayer.’
To more pleading Aeneas said, ‘Not long ago
You said such things: die and let not brother desert brother.’

Lucagus reminds Aeneas that he is a vir Troianus and that he should follow the exempla of his father and of Priam. This reminds the reader of an older order, where mercy was given freely (perhaps too freely).

The image of prayers for mercy falling on deaf ears is concluded in the final lines of the epic. Turnus asks Aeneas to spare him and Aeneas is caught in hesitation. The scene is rendered thus:

ille humilis supplex oculos dextramque precantem
protendens ‘equidem merui nec deprecor’ inquit;
‘utere sorte tua. Miseri te si qua parentis
tangere cura potest, oro (fuit et tibi talis
Anchises genitor) Dauni miserere senectae (Vir. 12.930-34)

Suppliant, stretching forth his downcast eyes and praying hand,
He said, “Indeed I have deserved it, I do not deprecate,
Use your lot. If any care of a wretched parent
Is able to touch you, I beg (for such a father to you
Anchises was) to pity old Daunus.

At this point, the reader feels he or she has encountered such a scene numerous times before. The reader has seen suppliants raise storms and topple cities, but the reader also remembers the exhortation of Anchises who saw some of these things as well. Turnus was proud, but was brought low. Now Aeneas must spare him if he is to maintain the world whose loss he lamented so bitterly (the world of Troy). In the final moment he sees the belt of Pallas, realizes that this new world is without compassion and that Pallas never received the consideration Aeneas is affording his suppliant. The blade falls and Turnus dies.

This final scene remains enigmatic and its relation to Augustus seems at first equally unclear. Aeneas, a hero who it is safe to say embodies the Augustan spirit and ideals to some degree, does not grant mercy to his suppliant. To fully allegorize Aeneas at this point into Augustus would be a grave mistake; but given the importance of compassion to the reign of Augustus, it is puzzling that the conclusion of this poem does not put forth one final, glorious instance of mercy. In fact, the poem as a whole rarely if ever puts forth a glorious instance of mercy. Anchises fares the best of anyone in Book III, but even he is not rewarded for helping the Greek soldier.

All this evidence indicates that Virgil had a variety of responses to Augustus’ notion of “sparing the suppliant.” Turnus is still a danger to Roman peace—or at least this is what Augustus might have argued had he been placed in Aeneas’ position. Moreover, if the “name of the game” in this new, post-Trojan world is ruthlessness, why should Aeneas consider sparing Turnus? Turnus would not do the same for him. Ironically, the question of Virgil’s concept of Augustus in this scene is resolved by looking away from Augustus for just a moment, and seeing the symbol on a grand scale—as Pöschl suggests. What Virgil has established is a world where it is noble to do one thing, but when the moment actually comes, doing what is “right” requires a suppression of emotion and in that, a denial of one’s own humanity. Perhaps the character of Aeneas came so much to life in Virgil’s mind that in this final moment, where Aeneas should by all rights spare his foe, Virgil found himself unable to write that ending—it just wouldn’t have been true. This grand declaration on Virgil’s part, if applied then to Augustus, suggests that Virgil had a very sophisticated and somewhat cynical view of the Augustan notion of “sparing the suppliant.” He is somewhat hesitant about the possibility of anyone doing what Augustus claims proudly to have done. This supports what the Res Gestae and the Twelve Caesars already seem to suggest—that Augustus had moments where he was merciful and moments where he found compassion a very difficult thing, but he was never fully one or the other.

The way Virgil uses Augustan symbols tends to indicate that the poet was neither writing a rose-colored paean of praise for Rome, nor a scathing condemnation of the rule of the imperator. Instead, it sees Augustus as a powerful and flawed man whose peace can last only so long and whose righteous assertion that he has been a merciful conqueror is an attempt to rationalize and glorify his own past—a past which at times was shameful. In the end, Virgil had loftier goals: in writing his epic, he was seeking to portray the vast range of human experience, of which the experience of Caesar Augustus was only one.

References

Mellor, Ronald. 1998. The Historians of Ancient Rome. New York: Routledge.

Pöschl, Viktor. 1962. The Art of Vergil. Trans. Gerda Seligsson. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

Powell, Anton, ed.. 1992. Roman Poetry and Propaganda in the Age of Augustus. London: Bristol Classical Press.

Suetonius. 1957. The Twelve Caesars. Trans. Robert Graves. London: Penguin Books.

Virgil. 1969. The Aeneid. Ed. R.A.B. Mynors. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

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[1] “burdened with spoils from the East.” See “The Aeneid and the Embarrassment of Augustus” in Powell 1992.

[2] Vir., 1.65, “[Aeolus] to whom then Juno, as a suppliant, used these voices.”

[3] This is suggested by the text itself, for when Aeneas witnesses the murder of Priam, his thoughts immediately turn to Anchises.

[4] Virgil, 6.853, “Spare the suppliant and war-down the proud.”

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