During the Republican Period a number of mining districts were exploited in the territory that the Romans annexed. Mines in conquered countries that had belonged to the former rulers became the property of the Roman people, and others were acquired by confiscation or forced purchase from private owners. But the industry was not entirely a State monopoly: on the contrary, a number of mines remained in private hands, more particularly those yielding the base metals—copper, lead and tin—whereas those that yielded the precious metals—gold and silver—were retained by the State. Under the Empire the mines became a special object of bureaucratic concern: as mineral wealth had been the spoil of conquest, so in due course it became the prize of usurpation.

To the student of the art of imperial Rome, and in particular to the student whose views are founded on the monuments of Rome itself, the age of the Severi is often felt to be one of promise rather than fulfilment. It is not until the latter part of the third century, on the eve of the new age, that the pagan architecture of the imperial capital comes to its final, rich flowering in such monuments as the Aurelian Walls, the Baths of Diocletian, and the Basilica of Maxentius. The Baths of Caracalla, the additions to the Flavian Palace on the Palatine and the vanished Septizonium remind us that in the meanwhile monumental architecture was dormant only; but the centre of interest and of experiment has shifted to more practical fields; and it is rather to the houses and warehouses of Ostia that we have to look for evidence of the continued development of Roman architectural ideas. In the field of sculpture we are somewhat better served.

The Augustan conquest of the Asturias was resisted with all the tenacity native to that region, but under the combined pressure of no less than three legions, this wild and mountainous area of North-Western Spain finally capitulated in c. 25 B.C. On the Roman side the prospect of mineral exploitation was a major motive that demanded at times the presence of both Augustus and Agrippa. The literary references to the Spanish mining-projects that followed the conquest do not specify particular sites, but indicate instead general areas where mining was initiated. Fortunately, however, the gold-rushes of the last century in California and elsewhere reawakened interest in other areas of the world, and particularly this region of Spain, partly as a result of the legendary stories of Roman successes. The prospectors found many traces of those efforts, although in the main unsuccessful themselves. Part at least of what they saw was recorded in the current mining papers and journals of that period, and we are indebted to the work of O. Davies for abstracting and summarizing much of this information, which would otherwise be difficult to assimilate, the sources now being unobtainable or very inaccessible. We may be sure that the twenty or so mines that he noted are an underestimate, and that many more await discovery. Although Davies' list was made over thirty years ago, none of the sites have since been surveyed in any detail and no photographic record exists.

The Roman master who visited the slave-market to buy a new slave had little difficulty in solving the important question of nationality. He could read the label attached to each man, on which name and origin were recorded, or listen to the crier who announced the nationality of every slave in turn, as the law required; and if he feared the ‘tricks of the trade,’ which were innumerable, he could observe for himself whether the appearance and speech of the slave chosen corresponded to the place of origin ascribed to him. Our difficulties in approaching the same problem are much more formidable. A very large number of Roman slaves and freedmen are known to us by name, but of these only a small minority come to us with labels attached in the form of an explicit statement of origin; and though these ‘labelled’ examples have been collected, and form a body of evidence which is not without interest and value, they are too accidental and isolated, and too widely diffused chronologically and otherwise, to bear the weight of very far-reaching conclusions. Are there then any other indications which may throw light upon servile nationality, and help us towards a more vivid and accurate picture of the slave population of the Roman empire?

It is generally recognized that the first cohort of a legion in the Principate was larger than the other nine cohorts. It consisted of five centuries, each double the size of each of the six centuries of cohorts II to X. Literature, epigraphy and archaeology all agree over this point. Vegetius, in the Epitoma rei militaris, probably quoting a third-century source, says that the first cohort was twice as large as each of the other cohorts, but he disagrees with himself over the number of men in the cohort. At one stage (II, 6) he states that the first cohort had 1,105 pedites and 132 equites and was called a cohors miliaria, compared to the 555 pedites and sixty-six equites of each of the other nine cohorts, cohortes quingenariae. But two paragraphs later (II, 8) this number has been reduced to 1,000. This is made up of 400 men in the first century, 200 in the second, 150 in the third and fourth and 100 in the fifth. Although none of Vegetius' figures is to be trusted, his basic point remains—the first cohort of a legion was double in size. This is supported by epigraphic evidence. III, 6178, dated to about A.D. 134, lists, by cohort, the soldiers of legio V Macedonica discharged at one time. The first cohort contains at least forty names, the second seventeen, the third at least fourteen, the fourth at least ten and the ninth at least twelve. A similar situation is found on III, 14507, a laterculus, which is a dedication by veterans of VII Claudia discharged in 195. In this case the first cohort discharged forty-seven men, the second twenty-two and the third eighteen. These two inscriptions point to the fact that the first cohort was about twice as large as each of the other nine. Excavations at Inchtuthil have provided the most eloquent testimony. Here the barracks of the first cohort, ten in number, compared to the six of each of the other nine cohorts, have been revealed, in association with five large centurions' houses, situated next to the headquarters building. This is where it is placed by ‘Hyginus’ in the liber de munitionibus castrorum (3; 4), probably dated to the sole reign of Marcus Aurelius.

The general chronology of the reign of Decius has been described by Arthur Stein in a recent paper, based principally on the evidence of papyri, inscriptions and coins.

Grenfell and Hunt had already pointed out (Ox. Pap. i, 35), in connexion with a papyrus giving a list of emperors from Augustus to Decius with the number of years of each reign, that ‘in reckoning the length of reigns, the months after the last Thoth I (Aug. 29) in an emperor's reign are neglected, since the interval between the death of an emperor and the next Thoth I counted as the 1st year of his successor.’ The latter half of the reign of Decius extended as we shall see for nearly a year after Aug. 29, A.D. 250. As, therefore, he has only two years (α and β) both on the papyri and on the coins of the Alexandrian mint, it follows that his reign in Egypt begins at a date after Aug. 29, 249. In other words, although Decius had been proclaimed emperor by the Pannonian legions at the close of 248 or in the first part of 249, the authority of Philip was maintained in Egypt until his overthrow and death at Verona in the autumn of 249. This is confirmed by the dating of Philip's coins which enter on a seventh year in Egypt and by Pap. Brit. Mus. 950-1 which, however, gives no month.

In the late Republic and early Empire special courts were established by statute, largely by Sulla and Augustus, to deal with the following crimes: treason, adultery, murder, parricide, embezzlement, forgery of wills, public and private violence, corrupt practices in elections, extortion, injury, and interference with the corn-supply. It is commonly thought that at least some of these quaestiones were still active in the Severan period. In a recent article Kunkel granted that the courts for treason, extortion, embezzlement and ambitus (which included bribery at elections) probably lasted for only a short time under the Principate. But he considered that the quaestio or iudicium publicum was nevertheless a living institution in the time of the classical lawyers, and, in particular, that the evidence was good for the continued operation of the quaestio de adulteriis. The case for the existence of the quaestio de adulteriis may well be stronger than the case for the existence of other quaestiones; but it is still weak. In the following pages the thesis will be put forward that all the quaestiones were defunct in the Severan age.

The purpose of this paper is to review discoveries made by air reconnaissance during the five summers 1945-9 in the Roman military districts of Northern Britain. Most of the sites described were revealed by differences in the colour or growth of vegetation above them, and during this period the exceptional drought of 1949 gave unusually clear definition, covering much of the material now under review. The cereal crops in particular responded so sensitively to buried features as to reveal not merely the outline of buildings, but finer details such as buttresses to a wall, or floors in stone or concrete. Even in pasture, the Military Way behind Hadrian's Wall could be seen for miles together as a ribbon of parched grass (pl. v); and, most remarkable of all, the foundation-trenches of timber buildings in the legionary fortress at Inchtuthill appeared as thin green lines in the parched surface (pl. viii, 2). Such conditions occur rarely; but even in a wet summer carefully planned air reconnaissance will afford plenty of information.

I am concerned in this paper with Plutarch's treatment of the story of Coriolanus, not with the historical truth of the legend or with its development before Plutarch's time. I start from the hypothesis that the Life is, in its essentials, a transposition into biographical form of the historical narrative in Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Roman Antiquities, Books V to VIII. This has long been the common view. It was held and defended by Hermann Peter, Mommsen, and Eduard Schwartz. A careful reading of the two texts side by side tempts me to call it certain, so exact and frequent are the echoes. It is at any rate probable enough to justify an attempt to follow out its consequences by treating the differences between Dionysius and Plutarch, in default of other evidence, as Plutarch's constructions, to be explained in terms of his literary purposes and methods. This is what I shall do in the main part of this paper. I preface the details, however, by a few more general considerations.

Because men addressed him as Augustus in view of his claim to honour they revere him with temples and sacrifices over all the islands and continents, in cities and tribes requiting him for the magnitude of his virtue and his benefactions towards them.

This passage from a biography of Augustus by a contemporary writer, Nicolaus of Damascus, gives a rare picture of the way in which the emperor was honoured in his lifetime throughout the provinces of the empire. The temples and sacrifices to which it refers formed part of a nexus of cultic honours, classified by the Greeks as isotheoi timai, honours equivalent to those given to the gods, which also included priests, festivals and games. This form of royal ritual stretched back in the Greek lands three hundred years to the time of Alexander the Great and beyond and constitutes a fundamental aspect of the relationship between subject and ruler in the ancient world.

When reading exempla and applying them to ethical decisions, Romans had to bear in mind the principle of situational variability: whether an action can be judged to be right depends on the circumstances in which it is performed; what is right for one person in a given situation may not be right for another. This principle and its ramifications are articulated by Valerius Maximus, Facta et Dicta Memorabilia. Comparison with Cicero, de Officiis suggests that situation ethics was a key feature of Roman ethics and that, within this framework, exempla may be understood as moral tools mediating between universal and particular.

The towns of the Middle Roman Empire have left an array of grand columned marble architecture that makes classical sites, from Merida to Ephesus, still so imposing for the modern viewer. The great benefactors who paid for this strange marble culture and for everything else thought worthwhile in an ancient city received large public portrait statues set up on tall elegant moulded bases, set either in columned façades or posted around town at focal points of urban life (see below, Figs 1–2). In their method of signification these statue monuments shared more with poster hoardings than the gallery objects we think of as art. That is, they combined a commanding image with a loud complementary text. They were also different from the public statues of our own times in at least three other important respects — in their prominence, in their sheer quantity, and in that they mostly represented living persons. They were not isolated memorials but potent markers in local politics and aristocratic competition. Architectural setting, inscribed base, statue costume, and styled portrait head all combined to make sometimes complex statements about the subject.

The western shore of the Dead Sea, the most remarkable natural feature in Palestine (fig. 4), is a strip of flat or very gently sloping land, mostly barren, its parched surface seamed with a wrinkled pattern of erosion channels. The strip represents in part the old bed of the lake, once larger than now, and in part the spill of detritus from the rocky cliffs which tower above it. These precipitous heights form an almost unbroken wall some 300 ft. high extending from Qumran to Sdom, being patterned in high relief only by the few wadis which bite through them and carry the rare but torrential winter rains. The cliffs themselves are but the floor of the plateau through which the Jordan valley has opened its deep and famous rift, reaching a depth of over a thousand feet below Mediterranean sea-level; and from the plateau itself rises the mountainous, pitiless desert of Judah, stretching to Hebron 21 miles westward and draining eastwards towards the rift-valley. Where the eastward face of the cliffs is cut by water-courses it is carved into promontories, but in the main these constitute an integral part of wide sweeps of hinterland and are not positions of strength. At one point only (fig. 5) do two wadis flow close together and then divide, to tear out deep ravines behind a promontory, and almost to cut it off on the landward side. The spot in question is Masàda (pl. XVI), a lozenge-shaped table-mountain, 730 yds. long and 215 yds. wide overall, lofty, isolated and to all appearance impregnable.

The surviving literary evidence for the lex Pompeia, provincial charter of the joint province of Bithynia-Pontus, is of prime importance for our knowledge of the nature and content of these charters, which established the fundamental organization of a Roman province. Of the charters of other provinces, only the lex Rupilia of Sicily is known in any comparable detail. Our knowledge of Pompey's law, a piece of work which stood the test of time and lasted, with some modification, until the day of Cassius Dio, also affords some reasonable basis for an assessment of his administrative achievement.

The discussion of Pompey's organization of this province has tended to concentrate attention on two traditional questions. Firstly, controversy about the extent of the territory added to Bithynia from the kingdom of Mithridates to form the new province has led to lengthy debate concerning the exact location of the eastern frontier. Secondly, much speculation has centred around the attempt to determine Pompey's ultimate purpose in organizing this area as he did and to accord him appropriate praise or condemnation.

The Maltese islands, Malta, the ancient Melite, Gozo, the ancient Gaulus, and three lesser islets, lie in the centre of the Mediterranean in a significant position. They command the highway of sea-borne traffic between east and west, and they form a link between north and south, between Sicily and Tunis. They are small, indeed; their whole area is about four-fifths that of the Isle of Wight, but they are in their own fashion very fertile, their seas are rich in fish, and their coasts have many harbours. Naturally they have long been inhabited; they have a real and, for certain centuries, a stirring history. Their closest geographical kinship is with Sicily, which is less than sixty miles north of Gozo, and can easily be seen in clear weather from the higher parts of the islands. Hence, perhaps, it was that during seven centuries of the Roman period, just as during five centuries of the middle ages, they were connected especially with Sicily; but their relations with the more distant African coast and with the eastern and western waters of the Mediterranean are too strong to allow them to be called purely Sicilian or even purely European, and they have often owned other allegiance.

Among the many fields of Roman history which Mr. Last has illuminated the later Roman Empire is not the least, and it was he who first encouraged me to embark on its study. I hope, therefore, that he will accept this contribution to the volume dedicated to his honour both as testimony to the wide range of his interests and as a token of personal gratitude.

The problem of capitatio and iugatio has provoked much controversy and many ingenious theories have been propounded for its solution. In the limited space available it would have been impossible to traverse these theories in detail, and I have therefore thought it best simply to set out the evidence and to see how much can be deduced from it. Two general points must be premised. First, the accurate use of technical terms is not to be expected from the draftsmen of the Codes.

No one has done more than Norman Baynes to clarify our thinking on the later Roman Empire and its spiritual atmosphere, to dispel the mirage of ‘Orientalism’, and to emphasize the sober continuity of Roman thought. So he has stressed the emperor's conscious humanity and dependence upon the supernatural as against excessive inferences from the language of ruler-worship. May I offer to him a few remarks on a phenomenon which might seem to tell on the other side, the description of this or that deity as comes Augusti?

(i) Under Commodus we find a coin-type of 186–9, perhaps of about 189, HERCVLI C[OMIT]I. After a considerable interval SOLI (INVICTO) COM(I)TI (AVGVSTI) appears on issues of Gallienus and Probus. Gallienus has also SERAPIDI COMITI AVG and Probus has Minerva (unnamed, but recognizable) as COMES AVG and COMITI PROBI AVG as well as Hercules (unnamed) with the latter legend. The emperors of Gaul employed the legend; Postumus for Hercules, Neptunus, Serapis, and Victoria; Victorinus for Mars and Victoria (both, it seems, unnamed); Tetricus for the same pair, again without names; Tetricus II for Hercules (named), Minerva, and Victoria; Carausius for Neptunus, Apollo, Minerva, Victoria, and Providentia (Apollo alone named); Allectus for Minerva and Victoria (without names). Constantius Chlorus has comes for Minerva and the Dioscuri (no. names). After his death Sol as comes is frequent on the coins of the tetrarchy, and Hercules (named), Mars and Minerva also have the epithet. Sol still appears as comes under Crispus and Constantine II.

Summarizing Polybius' contribution to the study of Roman history, Mommsen paid him the following compliment: ‘His books are like the sun in the field of Roman history; where they begin, the misty veils which still cloak the Samnite and Pyrrhic wars are lifted, where they finish, a new and if possible still more vexatious twilight begins.’ Since Mommsen our understanding of Polybius' methods, his bias and omissions, his ideology and concerns, has progressed immeasurably, thanks largely to the work of Pédech and Walbank. Nevertheless, the idea that the Histories represent, at least in their conception, the illumination of an intrinsic reality persists. Polybius' supposed ‘poor style’ is often treated as in some way an absence of historiographical mediation. In this case, ‘transparency’ in a text, the sensation that it provides unmediated access to what it describes, is achieved not by a smooth and inconspicuous style, but by coarseness. Tarn compared Polybius' work to rescripts and despatches, as if he were only interested in an unobtrusive recording role, and this attitude to the historian, far from being in decline, has received some radical and authoritative support in recent years. One reappraisal of Roman imperialism has argued that Polybius was much closer to the reality of the process than many twentieth-century historians. Another study claims to ‘want to say no more than what Polybius said’. Ultimately, I have no argument with those who stress Polybius' honesty and reliability. More problematic, however, is an attitude to our use of Polybius' history which is often assumed in eulogies of his truthfulness: that when we read Polybius, we are enabled to gaze directly on the landscape of Roman history, a single substantial unitary reality, structured out of objective facts.