Not recommended

I have been reading Birgitta Hoffmann’s The Roman Invasion of Britain. Archaeology Versus History (2013), which was reissued as an eBook in 2019. It isn’t an easy read. For one thing, English doesn’t appear to be the author’s first language; and for another, the Pen & Sword Books editor has turned a blind eye to grammar and punctuation, so that some sentences must be re-read before the meaning becomes apparent.

The English is often stilted (e.g. translations “for” ancient sources, costs “born” by individuals), obvious mistakes have not been corrected (e.g. a reference to “the capture of Claudius” is clearly meant to be Caratacus; a reference to action by “the Roman Empire” clearly means the Roman army; Suetonius is credited with biographies of “the Emperors from Caesar to Trajan”), and infelicities abound (most noticeably chopping and changing between past and present tenses). But, copy-editing apart, is Dr Hoffmann’s argument sound?

When is a solution a ‘valid’ one?

Dr Hoffmann’s purpose seems to be to cast doubt on everything recorded by the ancient literary sources. “Most of the so-called facts of the history of Roman Britain cannot be independently confirmed and are thus open to source criticism as well as general doubts as to their veracity.” Archaeology doesn’t get let off lightly either. “The best any researcher can hope for in reconstructing the past is a ‘valid’ interpretation.” But what constitutes validity?

Here is an example. In the context of the Claudian invasion, Dr Hoffmann refers to “a number of troops that can swim in armour through rivers” and complains that everyone assumes that they were Batavians although “Cassius Dio does not mention them: the troops that do the swimming are called Keltoi (Celts), a cultural attribution that is rather doubtful for the Germanic Batavians, but also a name that is not used in the official naming of these units”.

In the process, she claims that “E. Cary’s Loeb translation actually calls them Germans (which is not in the original Latin)” — except that, firstly, Cassius Dio was writing in Greek, and secondly, he customarily uses the word Κελτοί (Keltoi) to indicate the peoples around and beyond the Rhine; in other words, the Germans. (The passage is Dio’s Roman History 60.20.2, if you wish to look it up, and I would recommend Mark Hassall’s 1970 paper on “Batavians and the Roman Conquest of Britain” for a much clearer discussion of this episode: Britannia Vol. 1, pp. 131-6.)

Having recommended that we strive for validity (defined as “any statement that takes account of all pieces of evidence as they are known at the time”), she suggests that the swimming troops “may actually have been British troops fighting on the Roman side. There is little to refute the argument” — what about the fact that Dio calls them Germans, and emphatically calls the Britons Βρεττανοί (Brettanoi) — “but equally little to support it. Our sources are just not good enough to come to a decision, but it remains a valid solution”. No, I’m afraid it simply doesn’t.

An ancient Baedeker?

A recurring theme is Dr Hoffmann’s criticism of geographical vagueness in the ancient sources (a vagueness that’s surely quite understandable, in the absence of major towns or landmarks for a Roman audience to latch on to). Again in the context of the Claudian invasion, she is affronted that “of all these achievements [attributed to Vespasian by the biographer Suetonius], only the Isle of Wight can be identified on a map. (...) Other desirable topographical information is lacking or abbreviated.” Then, regarding Tacitus: “he certainly has the tendency of focusing on people rather than events or places, and his geographical details, in keeping with historical traditions in Rome, are sketchy, as they were deemed of little interest to the readership.”

And yet, when Pliny the Elder writes about the vicinitas silvae Calidoniae (“neighbourhood of the Caledonian forest”), Dr Hoffmann feels that this is a sufficiently detailed geographical marker to indicate the edge of the Highland massif, since (she claims) the word silva (Latin for a wood or forest; see Oxford Latin Dictionary entry, pictured here) “can also mean mountain range.” No, I’m afraid it simply can’t. (The Pliny reference is Natural History 4.16/102.)

References?

Finally, regarding this book’s usefulness as a reference work, Dr Hoffmann’s approach to her sources can only be described as casual. She uses phrases like “several recent suggestions ...” or “there have been numerous proposals”, with no further clues.

The bibliography is a little random and not entirely error-free (e.g. she has listed several “Hodgson 2009”s without differentiation). And in a book intended for Anglophone readers (and presumably archaeologists, at that), it is frankly absurd to send them to an obscure German edition of Tacitus (Wilhelm Bötticher’s nineteenth-century edition, revised in 1985 by Andreas Schäfer), particulary when the point at issue (the emendation of Annals 12.31 from castris Antonam to the universally accepted cis Trisantonam) was the work of an English scholar. (I say obscure, because — although it is listed as the sole German “scholarly translation” in a German-language reference work, Der Neue Pauly’s 2007 survey of ancient authors — it did not merit inclusion in Herbert Benario’s “Recent Work on Tacitus: 1984-1993”.)

It’s difficult to know who the target readership is. Someone who knows what “Arretine Samian” or an “Alexandrinian diobol” (sic) is. But equally someone who won’t mind that Hoffmann has confused Hyginus (author of Fortifying a Roman Camp) with the surveyor of the same name. Or who won’t notice that, when she insists that Dio’s use of τριχῆ (trichê, “triply”) is “unusual (...) a term that comes from epical and poetical Greek and is certainly not a technical term”, she is wrong (the term is happily used by Herodotus and Xenophon, even Arrian — what better endorsement could there be?). Finally, it is peculiar to see Sir Ronald Syme’s classic work of 1958, the two-volume Tacitus, referenced as “Syme 1963”.

Postscript

Besides the generally poor editing, my enthusiasm for Dr Hoffmann’s book was further dampened by the fact that an unknown quantity of text was evidently missing from Chapter 1 (pictured here, along with an example of the shoddy copyediting).

When I contacted the publisher, I was offered a replacement copy at the knockdown price of £8.00. Needless to say, I did not dignify their impertinence with a response.

Slave soldiers or free men?

I have been reading what would now be classed as “an old book” — it was published in 1981 —, though it has never been superseded and appears still to be considered the last word on its subject: Die germanische Leibwache der römischen Kaiser des julisch-claudischen Hauses by the late Heinz Bellen.

The subject is the Germani corporis custodes, or “German bodyguards”, who appear to have provided close personal security for the Julio-Claudian dynasty; that is, the five emperors from Augustus to Nero, from 27 BC (though Augustus seems to have owned them already before he became emperor) until AD 68.

A quick bibliographic search revealed that few authors have revisited the subject since 1981. Besides Lawrence Keppie’s enthusiastically welcoming review (in The Journal of Roman Studies 72, 1982) and Michael P. Speidel’s generally positive assessment (in Germania 62, 1984), almost no scholars have addressed the subject in English, although Alexandra Busch includes a discussion of the bodyguard in her Militär in Rom (Wiesbaden 2011) and Maria Carmen D’Onza published a beautifully illustrated article on “Germanische Bodyguards” in Antike Welt 4 (2016).

One aspect in all of their discussions surprised me, as I have always agreed with Mommsen that the Germani were slaves owned by the emperor. All of the above-named scholars go through various contortions to try and deny this. Bellen even suggests that they had taken slave names to blend in at Rome! Others have been content to state that the Germani were free foreigners who adopted a Greek or Latin name because their own name was difficult to pronounce. On the contrary, as far as I am concerned, the proof stares at us from their gravestones.

Let us consider the gravestone of Phoebus (CIL VI, 8808 = ILS 1728 = Bellen No. 21), illustrated above. Although it is a little more verbose than most of the other 20-odd examples, nevertheless, the first four lines conform to the standard pattern adopted by the bodyguards: Phoebus / Neronis Claud(i) / Caesaris Aug(usti) / corp(oris) cust(os) (“Phoebus, (property) of the emperor Nero Claudius Caesar, a bodyguard”).

The important points to note are (a) the man’s single name, and (b) the statement of imperial ownership. Free men typically included a statement of paternity, like the tombstone of Verzo (AE 1990, 205), an exotically-named sailor on the liburnian Triton in the Ravenna fleet, which gives his father’s name as Themus. No free man would ever be referred to by a single name only.

By contrast, slaves are always referred to by a single name, followed by a statement of imperial ownership. The tombstone of Fronto (CIL V, 2386) is typical, in this respect: Fronto / Ti(beri) Claudi Caesaris / Aug(usti) Germanici / dispe(n)sator / lintianus (“Fronto, (property) of the emperor Tiberius Claudius Caesar Germanicus, a linen-weaving superintendent” — reading lintianus as an error for lintiarius).

Whatever else they might have been (and our evidence is severely limited), the Germani corporis custodes were imperial slaves belonging to the household of the reigning emperor. As such, they served until they died or until their master chose to grant them freedom, when they could return home.

Roman spelling again

There are several Roman inscriptions that mention the Ninth Legion. I was able to include images of a few of them in my book The Fate of the Ninth. But one — a rather beautiful metre-wide marble slab — remained unavailable to me. This is the memorial set up by Gaius Julius Erucianus Crispus “to his excellent friend” Lucius Aemilius Karus.

The inscription (shown above) has long been known, and appeared in the usual epigraphic compendiums as far back as Gruter (1603). It is most conveniently consulted in Dessau’s Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae (1892) as no. 1077.

One vitriolic Amazon reviewer has written, “PS It’s Carus not Karus, the Romans didn’t use Ks — a rather unprofessional mistake”. Perhaps if he’s looking in on my “pretty nasty blog site” (another quote from his rather bitter review), he’ll see that he was wrong, because it’s perfectly clear from the above image that this particular Roman preferred to spell his cognomen Karus, not Carus (on the first line).

Nor was he alone. For example, a grave-marker from Ostia carries the name of Publius Nonius Karus, who lived for only 8 years, 9 months, and a few days (AE 1971, 70). There are other instances of the same spelling and the same distinctive letter-shape.

No Roman was ever called Caius

I have been reading Robert Harris’ Cicero trilogy with great enjoyment. However, one thing jars. Men whose praenomen (“first name”) was Gaius are routinely called “Caius”. For example, in Lustrum (the book that I’m currently reading), Cicero’s consular colleague in 63 BC is named “Caius Antonius Hybrida”.
Of course, this problem does not belong exclusively to Harris. Other authors are in the habit of rendering the praenomen Gaius as “Caius”. The reason is a simple misunderstanding.

The Latin language derived from Etruscan, which had no letter B, D, or G. For example, the word magistratus (“magistrate”) is rendered as macistratus on early Roman inscriptions (e.g. CIL IX, 782 = Dessau, ILS 4912; or CIL VI, 1300 = ILS 65, pictured below — note also “Cartacinienses” for the people of Carthage on line 9).

Consequently, the praenomen Gaius had to be represented as “Caius” and was abbreviated with the letter C. This rule persisted down through the ages, so that, even with the introduction of the Latin alphabet (with its B, D, and G), the letter C was retained as the abbreviation for Gaius. Similarly, Cn. remained the abbreviation for Gnaeus.

The problem has perhaps been exacerbated by the epigraphic convention that calls for the expansion of the abbreviation C. in Roman inscriptions as “C(aius)”, instead of pointing out that it simply stands for the praenomen Gaius.

In fact, the historian A.R. Birley once suggested that epigraphers should employ the convention “C. (Gaius)” to indicate this (L’Antiquité classique Vol. 70, 2001). He called for the banishment of “Caius” and “Cnaeus”, and pointed out, quite correctly, that the Greek writers of the Roman era employed the word Γαίος (not Καίος) for Gaius (thus indicating the correct pronunciation).

So let us have no more Caiuses and Cnaeuses! No Roman was ever called by those names.

Limits of Empire, Limits of Patience

Today, a review of Simon and Jonathan Forty’s Limits of Empire. Rome’s Borders (2021) dropped into my mailbox, and I wondered if the reviewer and I had read the same book. I certainly didn’t feel that “This book is a nice addition to the literature aimed at a general readership”. However, I must admit that I read it on my vintage black-and-white Kindle, whereas I see (from Google Books) that the 200-page hardback is lavishly illustrated with 350 photographs (many of them from the wonderful collection of Carole Raddato, misspelled “Raddoto” here).

This no doubt swayed the reviewer, who emphasizes the “numerous high-quality pictures and maps which enable the reader to engage with the analysis of evidence more closely” (what analysis of evidence?). In the end, he recommends the book to “those who have no insightful knowledge and familiarity with the history of the Roman frontiers”. On the other hand, those who have such knowledge, he concedes, “might find glitches in it”. This is surely a worrying attitude for any educator to adopt. And I’m not sure that Casemate Publishers should be let off with typographical errors, even if “some of [them] are entirely forgivable”. (I wonder what the reviewer considers to be a “forgivable” error? The “African deserts of Arabia”, perhaps? Or the absence of a warning on the “mosaic from Mogontiacum [showing] the Capricorn symbol of legio XXII Primigenia” that it’s modern?)

The book is clearly intended for the coffee table, so I really shouldn’t be surprised by such gaucheries as “We are lucky that the Romans loved building as much as they liked fighting”; or such platitudes as “the largest collection of written information we have of the Roman world is in their books and letters”; or such banalities as “watchtowers, forts small and large, legionary fortresses: these all have a military purpose as well as potentially providing a customs barrier”. (However, I did enjoy the unintended comedy of aerial photography “unearthing otherwise hidden locations”.) Virtually every statement is qualified and vague; “potentially”, “mostly”, and “usually” conceal the authors’ unfamiliarity with the subject.

Errors abound — my goodness, there are so many —, but it is probably as tiresome to read about them as it is to record them. It’s just a pity that Casemate Publishers think so little of their readers as to sell them a book that is most certainly not “an ideal introduction to the Limesforschung”.

True and false at Mons Graupius, Part One

I recently came across the “Romans vs Caledonians” podcast, recorded (in two parts) on 5 September 2021 by Dr Andrew Tibbs. He is there introduced as “an expert on the Romans in Scotland”, no doubt on the basis of his book, Beyond the Empire. A Guide to the Roman Remains in Scotland (Marlborough 2019) and his Durham University doctoral thesis on An Examination of the Location, Intervisibility, Orientation & Interconnectivity of Flavian Fortifications in Roman Scotland (submitted in 2021, but embargoed until 2024, so unavailable). We have seen (in an earlier post) that his book is somewhat unreliable, so I was intrigued to see if the podcast was any better.

It is billed as a discussion of the Battle of Mons Graupius, an event that forms the climax to the vita Iulii Agricolae (“Life of Julius Agricola”) written by the historian Tacitus in AD 98 (the year after he held the consulship), so Dr Tibbs devotes the first 30 minutes or so (Part One of his podcast) to that work. Unfortunately, his knowledge of the Agricola (as it’s known for short) is rather wobbly.

Mainly, he is unwilling to accept that the Agricola is a biography, as this would imply a degree of accuracy that he believes is absent: “I would never really, I think, personally describe it as a biography”, he says. “It is probably best described as, like a play or a film — it’s the edited highlights. You have a beginning, a middle, and an end. You have a big climax, a dénouement. You have an afterthought. So, you know, this is a film of his life, just written down without the pictures. It has elements of truth, it probably has elements of fiction, it’s a bloomin’ good read”. Colourful stuff. But is it accurate?

The “Ninth Legion disaster”

We can agree, of course, that the Agricola is “a good read”, but Dr Tibbs’ claim that “it probably has elements of fiction” really needs to be substantiated. Which parts are fiction?

Dr Tibbs highlights the episode of the night attack on the Ninth Legion, which occurred in the campaigning season prior to the one that saw the Battle of Mons Graupius. Tacitus records that “the enemy massed for a night attack on the Ninth Legion, as being by far the weakest in numbers” (Agr. 26.1: hosti ... universi nonam legionem ut maxime invalidam nocte adgressi). Having sprung the attack, “fighting was already going on inside the camp itself when Agricola, who had learned of the enemy’s route from his scouts and was following close on their tracks, ordered the most mobile of his cavalry and infantry to charge the combatants from the rear” (Agr. 26.2: iamque in ipsis castris pugnabatur, cum Agricola iter hostium ab exploratoribus edoctus et vestigiis insecutus, velocissimos equitum peditumque adsultare tergis pugnantium iubet). As day dawned, Tacitus writes, “finally the enemy were driven back before the rival efforts of two armies, the one wanting to show that it had come to the rescue, the other that it had not needed help” (Agr. 26.3: donec pulsi hostes, utroque exercitu certante, his, ut tulisse opem, illis, ne eguisse auxilio viderentur).

Dr Tibbs wishes to sow the seeds of doubt here. He says that we don’t even know whether the Ninth Legion were occupying a camp or a fort (but Tacitus says it’s a camp) and confusingly claims that “it’s very difficult to prove that they were at this particular site”. (Which site?) He claims that the ramparts were breached (“if defences are breached, and that’s what we’re getting from Tacitus that that’s what happens, they’re going to knock down these ramparts”), but it seems that the enemy entered by the gates. Tacitus actually writes that “they cut down the sentries and burst into the sleeping camp, creating panic” (Agr. 26.1: inter somnum ac trepidationem caesis vigilibus inrupere), and as if to confirm that they had entered by the gates, Tacitus writes that they tried to get back out that way: “they ventured on a break out and a fierce battle followed in the narrow passage of the gates” (Agr. 26.3: ultro quin etiam erupere, et fuit atrox in ipsis portarum angustiis proelium). Finally, Dr Tibbs despairs of ever finding the evidence of the breached ramparts or burned debris that might prove the story and concedes that it is, after all, a movie. The entire episode is dismissed. “So, something may have happened”, he concludes. “The Ninth Legion — the indication is from the literary evidence it was already depleted, because it had been involved in the Boudican Revolt some twenty-odd years before — 15, 20 years beforehand — so it’s difficult to know what was happening. Was this just a rubbish legion that Tacitus decided, right, I need a story, you’re the guys that are going to be, you know. We need to look at it like you would a film”.

The “pantomime villain”

Tacitus writes that, among the Caledonians, a certain Calgacus was “outstanding among their many leaders for his valour and nobility” (Agr. 29.4: inter pluris duces virtute et genere praestans nomine Calgacus), but Dr Tibbs dismisses him as “a storytelling tool”. Clearly, the Caledonian forces required a leader, and it is curious that Tacitus was able to concoct such a bafflingly Celtic name, if he was completely fictional. Nevertheless, for Dr Tibbs, he is “the big pantomime villain that comes in and says, ‘oh, I hate the Romans’.” We can all agree that Tacitus must have composed the speech that he attributes to Calgacus, but Dr Tibbs doubts the man’s very existence: “did he exist?” he asks, before concluding that “We've no evidence. There’s very little there to imply that there was that sort of figure”.

I’m not sure that this level of textual criticism, even combined with cinematographic techniques, will help us find Mons Graupius, but perhaps all will be revealed in Part Two of Dr Tibbs’ podcast.

A gem of a treatise

Deploying a Roman Army, my book on Arrian’s Ektaxis kat’ Alanôn (“Deployment Against the Alans”), was recently reviewed in Ancient Warfare magazine (Vol. XVI, Issue 1) by the editor, Murray Dahm, who noted that “the Array Against the Alans” (as he prefers to call it) “has been dealt with in these pages before (see AW 13.4)”.
Sure enough, in that very issue from 2020 (pictured here), anonymous contributor “Tacticus” presented his take on Arrian’s treatise.

Tacticus paints a rather pessimistic picture of the Ektaxis, and overstates the translator’s challenge by claiming that the manuscript is “riddled with lacunae (gaps)” and that “various modern translators fill these gaps with whatever they think might have been there”. This is a parody of the true state of affairs. He provides no bibliography and, although he credits no source for his information, some of the errors he has made suggest that his knowledge of the Ektaxis comes, at least partly, from the deeply flawed précis that Anthony Dent published in History Today in 1974. Unfortunately, this means that his explanation of Arrian’s treatise falls prey to some of the usual misunderstandings (and some novel ones), once again demonstrating why a new translation and commentary was desperately needed.

Arrian’s Army

In his first section (“Orders for the March”), he has missed the fact (emphasized by Ritterling in his 1902 publication) that the entire vanguard consists of horsemen. Moreover, he seems to imagine that each named body of troops constituted an entire unit, rather than the detachments that they clearly are. Thus, he interprets Arrian’s “Petraian horse archers” as “the cohors III Ulpia Patraeorum [sic] milliaria [sic] equitata sagittariorum (horse and foot archers from Petra)”, when it is quite clear that they are simply the mounted component of the cohort. He makes the same error when he assumes that the cohortes I and IIII Raetorum equitatae are present in the vanguard in full force, when it must only be their mounted component who are here.

Arrian says that the vanguard-closers are “the Celtic horsemen”, whom Tacticus (following Dent here) assumes to be the ala II Gallorum, but (as Ritterling realized in his 1902 publication) these are actually the mounted component of the cohors I Germanorum miliaria equitata. Arrian provides an additional clue here, when he says that “a centurion should lead them, just as in the camp”. He is alluding to the fact that the mounted component has been deployed separately from the main cohort, which no doubt remained at base under their tribune, while the horsemen joined Arrian’s expeditionary force under the command of a legionary centurion, seconded for this purpose (a situation that was by no means unusual).

Tacticus claims (again echoing Dent) that “they were followed by allied Armenian foot archers”, but there is no sign of them in Arrian’s text; nor would such troops be welcome here, trailing behind the mounted vanguard. Instead, Arrian introduces a new section with the words “Let the infantry be drawn up behind them”. This is naturally the beginning of the main column, but (like Dent) Tacticus includes them in the vanguard. Again, although Arrian has clearly announced that this section of the marching column comprises only infantry, Tacticus assumes that, for example, Arrian’s “Italians” are the entire cohors I Italica equitata (whom he, incidentally, identifies as the cohors I Italica voluntariorum civium Romanorum, which is possible, although it should be acknowledged that there was also a cohors I Italica miliaria stationed in the region). He also assumes that “each unit should be headed by attached archers”, whereas Arrian actually specifies that the block of infantry should be led by their massed archers.

The men of Arrian’s two legions formed the main part of the marching column, preceded by three important elements. First, “the picked horsemen” (Arrian’s own equites singulares, drawn from the auxiliary cavalry of Cappadocia); second, “the horsemen from the phalanx” (namely, the legionary cavalry, whom Tacticus boldly counts as 200 men, although the sole legionary legate accompanying Arrian would have brought only his own 120 cavalry); and third, the catapults.

The akontistai

Then Arrian says “Let the javelin-men be drawn up in front of the standard of the infantrymen”. Tacticus, by contrast, has the standards in front of the three above-noted elements; and behind all of them, he has “legionary lanciarii and the legionary officers”, before the main body of the legions. Dent made a similar (though not identical) mistake. The legionary officers actually march with the standard (surely the aquila or legionary eagle), and the standard is preceded by men whom Arrian calls akontistai (“javelin-men”). These are the men about whom Murray Dahm (in his Ancient Warfare review) wrote that he “would have liked more discussion”. However, as I point out in my commentary, “the identity of these men in Arrian’s marching column is not clear”. Previous suggestions have included “light infantry companies of both legions” (Dent), Arrian’s pedites singulares (Speidel), a body of velites (Belfiore), and unidentified “spearmen” (Brian Campbell). Since Tacticus later refers to half of each legion as lanciarii, “armed with the lighter dual-purpose lancea”, he seems to envisage Arrian’s akontistai as having been drawn from these men. Murray Dahm follows suit, referring to “lanciarii (called akontistai, ‘javelin-men’)”.

However, I have suggested a far subtler identification. Their position “in front of the standard” recalls Caesar’s antesignani (whom I discussed in 2017, in Ancient Warfare Vol. XI, Issue 4). It may well be that Arrian’s akontistai were legionaries who were similarly “chosen for speed”, as Caesar writes, and expediti (“unencumbered” by baggage), so that they were ready for immediate action. There really isn’t any more we can say about them. Tacticus writes that “behind the legions came more allied troops” — “more”, because he mistakenly thought that there had already been Armenian allies in the vanguard. Not so. Arrian is quite clear: “Let the allied force be drawn up behind the hoplite force”, the former being a quaint term for the provincial militia, the latter for the legions. It must be said that Tacticus here dodged one of Dent’s many errors, in realizing that Arrian’s “Apulian infantry”, who came behind the militia, were in fact the cohors Apula civium Romanorum (although he chooses to spell it Apuleia). Arrian elsewhere indicates that this cohort had supplied only 200 men, and Tacticus is surely mistaken to assume that it must have been grossly under-strength; the cohors III Augusta Cyrenaica, for example, also supplied only a detachment. Finally for this section, the “cavalry from the ala II Gallorum and Italian horsemen” whom Tacticus has escorting this part of the column were actually the former ala in its entirety (for some reason, he thought that the bulk of the unit were up ahead with the vanguard) and the mounted component of the cohors I Italica equitata, which he assumed were marching in their entirety ahead of the legions.

Arrian’s Battle

Tacticus’ version of Arrian’s battle array (pictured here) is broadly correct, although it isn’t clear why he labels the cavalry contingents as “ad hoc” units.

Arrian refers to “all of the cavalry, drawn up in cavalry squadrons and eight companies”, in order to draw a distinction between the four alae at his disposal (namely, the ala II Ulpia Auriana, the ala I Augusta Gemina Colonorum, the ala II Claudia Gallorum, and the ala I Ulpia Dacorum) and the mounted components drawn from his part-mounted cohorts. Four of these cohorts had supplied only their horsemen: cohortes I Raetorum equitata, I Germanorum miliaria equitata, III Ulpia Petraeorum miliaria equitata, and IV Raetorum equitata. Another three were present at full strength: cohortes I Ituraeorum miliaria equitata, I Bosporanorum equitata, and I Numidarum equitata. And two others (cohortes I Italica miliaria equitata and III Augusta Cyrenaica equitata) had provided detachments, which — brigaded together — made an eighth cavalry contingent. Also, Arrian implies (by the sequence of his text) that the catapults formed a line behind the infantry archers and in front of the cavalry contingents, thus keeping the cavalry well clear of them. And, incidentally, it is likely that Tacticus’s “200 infantry guardsmen [who] acted as Arrian’s personal reserve” were actually his pedites singulares.

If the marauding Alans of the title were to approach Arrian’s army, the legions were intended to halt their advance by presenting a hedge of spear-points, co-ordinated with a barrage of missiles. In Tacticus’ version, “the first three ranks were to lock shields and press their shoulders into them to prevent a breakthrough while the front rank stabbed at horses and riders without pause. (...) The fourth rank were to do something else, but we don’t know what, because of one of the many gaps in the surviving text”. Ironically, there is no lacuna here! Let us read Arrian’s version: “the first three ranks, closing up their shields and bracing their shoulders, should receive the assault as resolutely as possible, in the most compact formation, pressing against each other as firmly as possible. The fourth rank should overshoot the rest; and the third rank should stab or hurl their lances mercilessly at the horses and the men”.

Finally, Tacticus makes no mention of what is perhaps the most interesting aspect of the Ektaxis; namely, the curious archaizing, often quaint terminology that Arrian employs. Why does he call the cohors I Germanorum equitata “the Celtic horsemen”? Or the ala I Ulpia Dacorum “the squadron of the Getae”? Why does he call a pilum a “lance with a long iron part that comes to a slender point”? Why does he refer to the provincial militia as allies and the legions as phalanxes of hoplites? I believe the answer lies in Arrian’s claim to be “the new Xenophon”, for his entire vocabulary harks back to the fourth century BC, a time when anybody referring to a detachment of the cohors III Augusta Cyrenaica might have resorted to a circumlocution like “those of the Cyrenaeans who are present”.