A Spanish disquisition

In May 2024, quite out of the blue, I received a message from a Spanish researcher named José Antonio Magdalena Anda, offering me a copy of his 2022 book El emperador Galieno y la supervivencia del Imperio romano (“The emperor Gallienus and the survival of the Roman empire”).

The book duly arrived, a weighty tome of 482 pages based (apparently) on the author’s doctoral thesis submitted to the Universidad Nacional de Educación a Distancia in Spain.

I’m afraid that, sadly, Spanish is not one of my languages, and the book lay unread on my shelf. A year later, my own book about Gallienus appeared: Phantom Horsemen, a considerably slimmer volume than Señor Magdalena’s.

All of this came to mind today, when I discovered that Dr Magdalena had reviewed my book in the Spanish journal Studia Historica, Historia Antigua (Vol. 43, 2025).

An invaluable book

Dr Magdalena is broadly complimentary, favourable even. He uses words like “rigorous” (rigoroso) and “skilful” (hábilmente), and recognizes that Gallienus’ battle cavalry was based on “mere conjecture and a biased interpretation of the few available sources” (meras conjeturas con una interpretación sesgada de las pocas fuentes disponibles).

He concludes his three-page review with the verdict, el libro de Campbell constituye una muy valiosa aportación a los estudios historiográficos sobre Galieno (“Campbell’s book constitutes a very valuable contribution to the historiographical studies of Gallienus”).

He continues: La obra ofrece datos sólidos y argumentos convincentes para avanzar en la investigación histórica, por lo que considero su consulta imprescindible para los especialistas (“The work offers solid data and convincing arguments to advance historical research, which is why I consider it essential for specialists to consult”).

Essential reading? Who wouldn’t be happy with an endorsement like that?

And yet ... Dr Magdalena claims that I have made “certain omissions and glaring errors”. Let’s look at them.

The reform of the legionary command

Dr Magdalena’ criticism centres on the replacement of senatorial legionary legates (the legati legionis) with non-senatorial prefects (praefecti legionis) drawn from the equestrian order. This act was masterminded by Gallienus — so the story goes — and forms a major plank in his supposed military reforms. I have begged to differ.

It is, I think, an important part of my book. Gallienus has been credited, in modern scholarship, with five military reforms. My main purpose was to expose one of these as a fiction — the creation of a battle cavalry —, but the reader is entitled to know that all five are false. Dr Magdalena thinks, on the contrary, that I have gone beyond my remit; that my book has “lost its guiding thread”.

His complaint stems from my statement that, in 1883, the scholar Hermann Schiller cited three prefects supposedly put in charge of legions by Gallienus, and my observation that, to this day, only six such men are known. Dr Magdalena accuses me of “denying the very evidence of the change” (i.e. from legatus to praefectus), citing his own book as proof (but without any page reference — I think it might be the table on p. 280).

It would be instructive to look at those examples of men supposedly installed by Gallienus in pursuit of his alleged reforming agenda (“from 260 onwards”, says Dr Magdalena).

Third-century prefects

Schiller already gave us three men, starting with Valerius Marcellinus in AD 267, although his two other examples fell after Gallienus: Aurelius Superinus (under Gallienus’ successor, Claudius II), and Aelius Paternianus (some decades later, under Diocletian). I pointed out that he could have added Publius Aelius Aelianus (undated under Gallienus). Also Aurelius Frontinus (inscription pictured here), but he is another later example under Claudius II. The sixth man whom I mentioned is Aurelius Montanus, attested in the final months of Gallienus’ reign.

Dr Magdalena has a much longer list, running to seventeen items. From this evidence, he assures us that, under Gallienus, “the change began by affecting six legions stationed on the Danube front and in Africa”, and notes that they are “specifically the legions that remained under Gallienus’ control after the rebellion of Postumus”.

Readers might wonder how on earth I managed to miss seventeen of Gallienus’ legionary prefects. But all is not as it seems. The late Brian Dobson long ago observed that there was a habit, as early as the second century, of shortening the title of the post of praefectus castrorum (legionis) (“prefect of the (legionary) camp”, the legion’s senior equestrian officer) to praefectus legionis. For example, Marcus Porcius Iustus calls himself interchangeably by the two titles in CIL VIII 2587 and AE 1942–43, 37 (AD 180–181).

Several of these praefecti are known to us. One example is Marcus Cocceius Severus, who was promoted from primuspilus legionis VIIII Hispanae (“chief centurion of the Ninth Hispana legion”) to praefectus legionis X Geminae (“prefect of the Tenth Gemina legion”), demonstrating the normal advancement of senior centurions to the post of praefectus castrorum. A similar progression can be seen in the career inscription of Marcus Apicius Tiro, who was primuspilus legionis XXII Primigeniae then praefectus legionis XIII Geminae.

Another man, named simply Donatus, oversaw the completion of a building project at the legionary fortress of Potaissa in AD 257 or 258, during the joint reign of Valerian and Gallienus. Dr Magdalena presents him as the first of his seventeen equestrian legionary commanders. But he was most likely another praefectus castrorum, and cannot, in any case, represent a reform enacted (according to Dr Magdalena) in AD 260.

Also doomed to failure is his contention that the reform extended to the African legion, the Third Augusta, as this is based on a certain Aurelius Syrus, another man who is, in all likelihood, the legion’s praefectus castrorum. (Note that the inscription can only be dated broadly within Gallienus’ sole reign, and not “260–263” as claimed by Dr Magdalena.)

Turning to the others, it is difficult to say for certain, but Marcus Aurelius Dionisius, whose undated sarcophagus came to light in 2010 at the fortress of Aquincum, was probably another praefectus castrorum. Likewise Marcus Aurelius Veteranus, the praefectus legionis XIII G Galleniana who erected an altar to the health gods in deepest Dacia. Although Veteranus wasn’t sure how to spell his legion’s epithet (Gallieniana, “Gallienus’ own”), it at least dates him to some point within Gallienus’ sole reign (and not necessarily “260–262” as claimed by Dr Magdalena).

As for Titus Flavius Victor (Dr Magdalena calls him Victorinus), I deliberately omitted him because the inscription (CIL III 3426, now lost) is known only from a rather unclear sixteenth-century handwritten transcript (from which several letters must be missing). Although it appears to mention a prefect of the Second Adiutrix legion, it is undated (despite Dr Magdalena’s confident dating of “268–269”) and may be much later than Gallienus.

Permanent change or temporary measure?

So far, we have three prefects commanding legions very late in Gallienus’ reign — the three already mentioned in my book: Publius Aelius Aelianus, Valerius Marcellinus, and Aurelius Montanus — and another three who are later than Gallienus — again mentioned in my book: Aurelius Superinus, Aurelius Frontinus (unless he, too, was a praefectus castrorum), and Aelius Paternianus (inscription pictured here). That’s six. Dr Magdalena would like to throw in another four (named above) who, in all likelihood, were actually praefecti castrorum serving under a legatus legionis, and a fifth who remains problematic but is, in any case, likely to be much later than Gallienus. We’re still six short of Dr Magdalena’s seventeen.

Notice, incidentally, that his claim that Gallienus enacted his reform across the legions under his direct control crumbles to dust under this cursory inspection. On the contrary, it looks very much as I stated in my book, that the replacement of senatorial commanders by equestrians was desultory, temporary, ad hoc — a response to unforeseen circumstances, rather than a blanket policy — and certainly not a “military reform”.

It only remains to consider the other six men listed by Dr Magdalena. For one thing, they’re all later, much later, than Gallienus. One of them, Aurelius Victor, belongs to the First Pontica legion, created by Diocletian at some point in the period AD 284–288 and probably (like Severus’ Parthica legions) placed under the command of prefects from the start. It is likely that other legions under Diocletian were similarly placed under the command of praefecti. None of this proves, as Dr Magdalena claims, “the effective removal of senators from legionary command” by Gallienus!

In actual fact, the opposite case is all but proven by five of the six men whom I identified in my book. All of them are scrupulously specific that they are agens vice legati (“acting in place of the legate”). We may definitely draw two conclusions from this. Firstly, these prefects are keen to emphasize that they had been entrusted with additional responsibility, over and above the usual duties of a praefectus castrorum legionis. And secondly, they confirm that this role was usually entrusted to a legatus, in the normal course of events. We may legitimately infer, then, that the legate was absent or otherwise unavailable, necessitating the transfer of his role to the prefect. We may also infer that, once normality had been restored, the command would return to a legate.

This must have been the case right up to the accession of Diocletian in AD 284, since the last known praefectus legionis agens vice legati is Aelius Paternianus (mentioned in my book), who served under Carinus (inscription pictured above, where the emperor’s name has been defaced).

The last legionary legate

On a related point, it is often asserted that (in Dr Magdalena’s words) “the last senatorial legates are dated under Valerian and Gallienus”, providing the oft-quoted terminus of AD 260 for the alleged transfer of all legionary commands to equestrian praefecti.

The same point was made by Byron Waldron, in his recent review of Phantom Horsemen (in Classical Review Vol. 75), where he stated that “Davenport has shown that in the 260s Gallienus ceased to appoint tribuni laticlavii and legati legionis, preferring to appoint equestrians as praefecti legionis”. In support, Waldron cites a lengthy section of Caillan Davenport’s 2019 book A History of the Roman Equestrian Order, specifically pages 534–545, where it is claimed that “no senator is ever again attested as a legionary legate after the reign of Gallienus” (p. 536).

Notice that Davenport commits himself only to the period after the reign of Gallienus. And his discussion is, in any case, marred by his belief in Gallienus’ field army and his assumption that its equestrian officers were earmarked for rapid promotion. Here, it is sufficient to note that there was no field army, and thus, no special promotion of its officers.

Waldron seeks to rebut my thesis, that legati legionis could still be found after the reign of Gallienus, by discrediting the testimony of Aurelius Marcianus, which I cite in my book. This man’s heirs, who erected his tombstone — his wife, his nephew, and his colleagues —, knew that he was serving as stator legati legionis (“groom of the legionary legate”) when he died in AD 270 (long after the time of Gallienus).

Dr Waldron thinks that “the fact that Marcianus had been serving since 244/5 problematises the chronological significance of the title”. (In passing, we may note that Marcianus had not been serving since 244/5 — the inscription is unclear but seems to suggest 12 years’ service, which places his enlistment in AD 258.) But more importantly, Dr Waldron seems to want Marcianus to have been appointed to his post before the reign of Gallienus, and to have retained an outdated and incorrect title when the legate was allegedly removed and replaced with a prefect.

Dr Waldron appeals to the evidence of the Second Parthica Legion, which he describes as “always led by praefecti”. However, its commander under Severus Alexander describes himself as praefectus legionis vice legati (“prefect of the legion in place of the legate”), suggesting that this is another example of an ad hoc temporary measure. (Why would the commander of a legion that was “always led by praefecti” specify that he was deputizing for a legate?) Moreover, inscriptions from around the same time mention a stator legati legionis (“groom of the legionary legate”) and a librarius officii legati legionis (“scribe on the staff of the legionary legate”).

Dr Waldron’s claim is that men who had, once upon a time, been attached to a legate would continue to emphasize that attachment even after the legate had been replaced by a prefect. (Worse than that, men who had only ever been attached to a prefect, he suggests, would nevertheless call themselves the legate’s men.) It sounds far-fetched to me. On the contrary, none of this special pleading can alter the fact that, in AD 270, when Marcianus died, he was serving on the staff of a legionary legate. Not a praefectus legionis, but a legatus legionis. During the reign of Aurelian. So Gallienus had not banned them.

Nevertheless, Dr Magdalena is strictly correct when he writes that “the replacement of the legati by the praefecti is a fact proven epigraphically” — after all, it did happen eventually —, but it is perfectly clear that he is mistaken to date this event to the reign of Gallienus.

It is a pity that researchers are still constrained by their belief in Gallienus’ supposed ban on senatorial legates, since it informs their interpretation of the evidence. Any mention of the staff of a legatus legionis is blindly dated to the pre-Gallienic period, although it is clear that the terminus should actually be AD 284.

Asterix and the game of words

When I was aged 13 or so, I received a rather well-used ex-library copy of Astérix aux Jeux Olympiques at Christmas. (Asterix, the indomitable warrior whose raison d’être is to foil Caesar’s conquest of Gaul in 50 BC, needs no introduction.)

I had already shown an interest in the Romans and the intention was perhaps to encourage me in my French studies. If so, I’m afraid it had an opposite effect, as Goscinny’s French witicisms were beyond my comprehension. (I did enjoy Uderzo’s pictures, though.)

The book, apparently the twelfth to appear in the Astérix series, was published in 1968 to tie in with the Mexico Olympics, and the English translation (which I only acquired many years later) appeared in 1972, on the occasion of the Munich Olympics.

Incidentally, one of the many topical gags that passed me by is the one concerning substance qui donne des forces supplémentaires (“artificial stimulants”), banned at the Olympic Games for the first time in 1968. This neatly ties in with the Gauls’ refusal to take their magic potion and the disqualification of the entire Roman team for trying to use it instead.

Is that name funny?

I remember, firstly, being completely flummoxed by the characters’ names. I realized that Astérix and Obélix were simply the typesetting characters of the same names — they do not change in the translated volumes. Panoramix the druid seemed straightforward (his English name Getafix always struck me as rather near the knuckle, although translator Anthea Bell claimed that it “did not necessarily imply an allusion to drugs”) and it didn’t take me long to decipher Idéfix the dog’s name (one of the few characters whose English name, Dogmatix, actually matches his French one and his canine character).

But I could make neither head nor tail of the chieftain Abraracourcix, which I thought must be something to do with Abracadabra (not, perhaps, part of the everyday French vocabulary) — it turns out to be the French phrase à bras raccourcis (literally “with shortened arms”), which means something like “with fists flying”. The English translators (the talented Anthea Bell along with Derek Hockridge) decided to highlight the chieftain’s physique rather wittily with the name Vitalstatistix. (The German version, Majestix, focuses on the first of the chieftain’s traits: “majestueux, courageux, ombrageux”.)

Nor could I understand the bard’s name Assurancetourix, which was a play on the phrase assurance tous risques, meaning comprehensive car insurance, and nothing to do with music or poetry. By contrast, the far wittier English version, Cacofonix, fits his character as a tone-deaf musician perfectly. (The German version, Troubadix, at least suggests his role as a troubadour.)

Do French puns translate?

Much of the humour was quite incomprehensible to me. The panel depicted here (from Jeux Olympiques p. 17) demonstrates one of Goscinny’s many idiomatic jokes that soared over my teenage head and left me none the wiser.

The bard has decided to compose une marche olympique (“an Olympic march”), setting up a joke based on the French phrase rater une marche (“miss a step”), so that, when the bad-tempered blacksmith (the bard’s usual foil) thumps him, Asterix presumes that he has actually tripped over. But the phrase il dû rater une marche literally means “he must have bungled the march” (i.e. the Olympic march that he was composing).

Bell and Hockridge, always excellent at finding a way to render Goscinny’s humour in English, had the bard deciding to compose “an Olympic hymn” instead, mindful of the fact that the French play on words would not work in English. The two bypassers then ask, “What’s the matter with hymn”, to which the reply is, “I think he’s singing flat”.

Many similar jokes sadly passed me by, such as the greeting Quel bon vent, les enfants?, a French idiom meaning “What brings you here, boys?” (though the literal translation, “What good wind?”, inspired Bell and Hockridge’s version, “What’s in the wind, boys?”).

Can we even understand French humour?

Likewise, when the galley transporting the Gauls to Greece (to take part in the Olympic Games) arrives at Piraeus, the Gauls, in party mood, sing À Lutèce on l’aime bien, Nini Peau d’sanglier! (“We like it in Paris, Nini Boar-skin”), parodying a well-known French bordello song about a prostitute (“Nini Peau d’chien”) in order to create the air of footloose unattached men on vacation.

The English version avoids the slightly unsavoury feel by having the Gauls sing “When father papered the Parthenon”, parodying the comedy music-hall song “When father papered the parlour”, during which all sorts of mishaps ensue, thus suggesting the amateurish unpreparedness of the Gauls.

Later in the volume, the disheartened Romans in charge of their depressed Olympic team sing Ah, le petit vin blanc, qu’on boit sous les colonnes (“Ah, the nice white wine that we drink beneath the columns” — the words of the popular 1940s song are actually sous les tonnelles, “beneath the arbours”), a reference that was naturally unknown to a British teenager. (Bell and Hockridge aptly substituted “There is a taberna in the town ...”.)

Near the start of the book, when the champion Roman athlete runs into Asterix and Obelix in the woods (p. 9), he insults Obelix by calling him Le gros (“fatty”). “Honestly, Asterix, once and for all, do you find me fat?” asks Obelix, to which Asterix replies Tu es un peu bas de poitrine, using an idiom (literally “low in the chest”) that — again, unknown to my teenage self — equates to our euphemism “big-boned”, commonly used to avoid offence. (Later on, the chieftain introduces Astérix and Obélix as le petit, et le grassouillet réjoui — “the little one, and the chubby cheerful one”.)

Equally, on p. 28, when the Roman centurion realizes that the Romans have no chance competing against the Gauls (whom he thinks will use magic potion), he uses the phrase Vous cassez pas la tête, les gars; c’est cuit pour nous (“Don’t break your head, lads; it’s cooked for us”), which, as any French reader would know, means “Don’t bother, guys; it’s over for us”. But I didn’t!

The champion Roman replies du balai (literally, “of the brush”), making a sweeping gesture with his hand that reminds us of the running gag throughout the book, that — as a legionary subject to military fatigues — he always carries a broom and sweeps up wherever he goes (see below). The phrase means something like “let’s clear off” (Bell and Hockridge go for a different pun, with “They’ll make a clean sweep of us!”). Incidentally, I can’t help wondering if Cornedurus wasn’t based on the young Arnold Schwarzenegger, who won the Mr Universe contest in London in 1968.

More funny names

The Roman names in this volume — traditionally adjectives with -us endings — were quite unintelligible to me. I thought I must be missing something in the centurion’s name, Tullius Mordicus, but I was entirely ignorant of the French adverb mordicus, “stubbornly” (and, indeed, the Latin one, “by biting”). I must admit that neither seems a particular apt name for this character.

But the muscular champion athlete whom he looks after has an even more obscure name: Cornedurus, i.e. corne d’urus (“auroch’s horn”). In place of these rather unpromising names, Bell and Hockridge devised the wonderfully memorable Gaius Veriambitius and Gluteus Maximus for the odd couple.

However, I definitely had absolutely no chance with the Roman wrestling champion who appears on p. 30 (aptly named Pugnatius by Bell and Hockridge). His original name, Chaussetrus (i.e. chaussette russe), refers to a Soviet military foot-rag worn instead of a sock!

I also missed the subtle pun on p. 5, where a legionary who has never heard of their champion athlete is criticized: Tu es un bleu, Deprus! (literally, “You are a ‘blue’, Deprus”), using the French idiom for a ‘rookie’. But, of course, the homophonic bleu de Prusse is the colour “Prussian blue”. (This wouldn’t work in English, but Bell and Hockridge manage to retain the colour-based pun with “You’re pretty green, Bilius”, alluding to the phrase “bilious green”, a Dickensian favourite.)

By chance, this was the first Astérix volume to feature Agecanonix, 93-year old veteran of Gergovia and Alesia. I could see that his name had something to do with age, but I wasn’t sure what. It is, in fact, a play on the phrase âge canonique, meaning “venerable age” (perhaps implying the age of retirement?), which is neatly captured by the English version, Geriatrix. (I love the fact that, in the German version, he is Methusalix.) However, elsewhere, it seems that Goscinny simply made up amusing names that might apply to any Gaul.

Or to any Greek, for that matter. Once the Gauls are in Greece, their guide, Mixomatos (the French for myxomatosis, renamed Diabetes in the English version), shows them around Athens, recommending various establishments run by his cousins (a joke at the expense of Greek nepotism) — the chariot service of Scarfas (“Scarface”, renamed Kudos in English), the bureau de change of Calvados (which Bell and Hockridge changed to Makalos, with its punning financial overtones), the hotel of Plexiglas (whom Bell and Hockridge renamed Phallintodiseus, a comment on the condition of some holiday accommodation). Finally, (in the panel depicted below) he directs them to the restaurant of yet another cousin Fécarabos (an almost indecipherable reference to “fairy Carabosse”, the evil sprite from the ballet Sleeping Beauty, and better renamed Thermos in the English version).

There is some more witty repartee as one Gaul remarks (above) that his amphora is non-returnable; “keep it”, comes the reply, “it will make a nice souvenir”. This, at least, was recognizable to my teenaged brain. (Note, in passing, the decorated amphora, based on the well-known Munich example in which the man (Oedipus) is seated and the sphinx stands to address him.)

English puns work just as well

But I completely missed the puns about the rich diet of the Roman team versus the austere diet of the dedicated Greek athletes: their coach offers the excuse that the Romans are des décadents (“decadent”), so the Greek athletes threaten décader as well (perhaps “to become decadent”, a verb invented by Goscinny). In their 1972 version, Bell and Hockridge extend the pun by having the Romans “declining” (as in The Decline and Fall of Rome), so that the Greek athletes could “decline to eat this muck!”

The Greek athletes, who are supposed to be on a diet of figs, olives, raw meat, and water, demand increasingly inappropriate foodstuffs: Des brochettes! Du vin! (“kebabs, wine”) and finally un boeuf burdigalais — this is another tricky one: un boeuf is an ox, while the adjective Burdigalais refers to Bordeaux, so it may be a reference to the regional dish known as boeuf Bordelaise, a stew cooked in a rich red wine sauce. (Bell and Hockridge went with “How about a mammoth steak?”)

The French puns — all unrecognized by a barely Francophone teen — tumble over each other in their sheer quantity. When the Greek official visits the Roman team, who have given themselves over to licentious feasting, Tullius Mordicus announces, couchez-vous à table, mon vieux. Lá oú il y en a pour une trentaine (“Sit down at table, old chap! There’s space for 30”), alluding to the Sacha Distel hit song, Quand il y en a pour deux, il y en a pour trois (“If there’s space for two, there’s space for three”).

Most disappointingly, I missed the succession of clever puns that accompany the entry of the various Greek teams, none of which I understood at the time.

Le défilé des Thermopyles (literally “the procession of Thermopylae”, referring to the athletes from that town) is also a pun on the Pass (défilé) of Thermopylae, scene of the famous battle in 480 BC.

Ceux de Samothrace, sûrs de la victoire (“Those of Samothrace, certain of victory”) is only funny if you’ve heard of the Louvre’s famous winged statue known as La Victoire de Samothrace, while Goscinny shows pure genius with ceux de Milo sont venus aussi (“Those of Melos have come also”), a reference to the Louvre’s armless statue known as La Vénus de Milo. Next, Ceux de Cythère viennent de débarquer (“Those of Cythera have just disembarked”) surely alludes to the painting Embarquement pour Cythère by the French artist Watteau, while ceux de Marathon arrivent en courant (“Those of Marathon arrive running”) is an obvious reference to the race of the same name.

Ceux de Macédoine sont très mélangés (“Those of Macedonia are very mixed”) recalls “Macedoine”, the mix of finely diced vegetables that was standard fare in school dinners of the 1970s, and les Spartiates sont pieds nus (“The Spartans are barefoot”) must be poking fun at chaussures Spartiates, a type of French strappy sandal. Finally, the sole member of the Rhodian team, a giant boxer, is introduced as un colosse, alluding to one of the famous “Seven Wonders of the Ancient World”, the Colossus of Rhodes.

In their English-language version, Bell and Hockridge managed their own spin on two of these puns — “The men from Thermopylae are the first to pass by” and “The Marathon team has had to come a long distance” — and added some of their own (amongst which “the competitors from Attica are mysteriously eleusive” is particularly highbrow, in its reference to the Eleusynian Mysteries). Of course, they retained the Colossus from Rhodes!

Meet the authors

The book ends on a happy note, as always. Asterix wins the palm of victory but gratiously presents it to the Roman champion Cornedurus, so that he can save face at Rome.

After an interval of fifty years, I’m only sorry that I missed so much of Goscinny’s wit. I was even unaware that the volume includes a rare self-portrait, in the bas-relief frieze behind two Greek administrators (depicted here). At the time, I did not read Ancient Greek, so I had no idea that the characters are labelled Goscinny (on the left, saying “Despot!”) and Uderzo (on the right, saying “Tyrant!”).