This crop of books is Republic-heavy, with a strong showing for political history. No fewer than three demonstrate a notable trend in current Roman history writing: the focus on a particular term as a means to examine a key ideological concept. John Richardson's 2009 study of the words imperium and provincia was clearly a landmark (and is explicitly cited as a model by one of this year's crop).Footnote ¹ In 2013 Myles Lavan examined Roman conceptions of imperialism through looking at a slightly broader range of terms, focusing on the formation of different paradigms of power.Footnote ² Two years later Clifford Ando explored the same subject with a more distinctively cognitive and linguistic approach.Footnote ³ In the crop of books for review here, we have one focusing on the word foedus (most broadly: ‘alliance’), one on pax (‘peace’), and one on the term res publica. Roman history, it seems, is finally fully and perhaps belatedly embracing the ‘linguistic turn’.

Bill Gladhill's study, Rethinking Roman Alliance has the subtitle ‘A Study of Poetics and Society’ and is indeed the most literary of the group, with three out of its five main chapters dedicated to works of Latin literature (Manlius’ Astronomica, Virgil's Aeneid, and Lucan's Bellum Civile).Footnote ⁴ Gladhill argues that the idea of ‘alliance’ is central in much of Roman poetry and culture in defining ‘all relationships…whether political, civil, international, amicable, amorous, or cosmological’ (2). That being said, the term foedus actually refers to a particular, ritually formalized alliance (as defined in Chapter 1), although different sub-types are drawn out. In Chapter 2 Gladhill argues for the real significance of formal foedera in Roman foreign policy, and for a shared ‘unitary and cohesive system of alliance’ (48). The detailed interpretations of poetry that follow will perhaps be of less interest to the average scholar of Roman imperialism, but more so to those with a broader interest in Roman poetics, as the book's subtitle suggests.

The concept of pax is the subject of Hannah Cornwell's book,Footnote ⁵ showing peace to be very much a dynamic process, and one that was deeply political and thus able to be used in different ways and to different ends. Her study looks at how the political use of pax developed in the Late Republic, starting with Pompey's command against the pirates, and moves through the civil war to the establishment of the pax Augusta and beyond. Peace, it soon becomes clear, is far from meek and mild – pax at Rome is, not least, about power. An attractive aspect of Cornwell's book is its interdisciplinary dimension, focusing on visual and material culture as well as literary texts. This is a fruitful approach: coin types provide one of the best media available for studying the depictions and uses of the term pax. Augustus’ Parthian Arch can only be reconstituted from coinage and textual evidence but the Ara Pacis Augustae provides a rewarding case study. Cornwell's study ends with a ‘fully fledged’ and stable pax Romana, an imperial and victorious peace.

The final member of the trio, Louise Hodgson's book, looks at the most central term of all – one that has vexed many generations of students and translators: the res publica itself.Footnote ⁶ As Hodgson makes clear early on, res publica did not mean ‘the Roman Republic’, or ‘Rome's corporate identity’, or indeed any type of political system. She comments: ‘In itself, the term implies no particular political organization, and the version that dominates in a given text will depend on the sociopolitical position and immediate aims of the text's author’ (11). The book proceeds through a series of close readings, examining different uses of the term res publica by different actors, with different interests, in different contexts. In particular, Hodgson considers what it meant for Roman politicians to appeal to the res publica and what the increasing frequency of such appeals tells about the collapse of political legitimacy in the Late Republic. Like Cornwell, Hodgson takes us through to the Augustan Principate, by which time the res publica had been transformed. Indeed, as Hodgson says, when Ovid famously wrote res publica est Caesar (Tr. 4.4.15) he was scarcely exaggerating.

From the linguistic to the spatial turn, Daniel J. Gargola investigates the Roman Republic as what he calls a ‘spatial order’, analysing how the Roman elites themselves conceptualized Roman rule.Footnote ⁷ In these conceptions, he argues, Roman rulers saw Roman rule as extending outwards through a series of concentric zones. Gargola hereby sets out consciously to avoid previous constitutional and institution-heavy interpretations. The structure of the book moves from representations of the res publica (Chapter 1) through to the elites’ conceptions of their empire (Chapter 2). Italy, an exception to the larger empire, is the topic of the next chapter. The role of the religious institutions in defining space, particularly the college of augurs (Chapter 4) and the designation of templa (Chapter 5), follow. The final substantive chapter examines how space appeared in (and permeated) Roman laws, decrees, and edicts. The conclusion reflects on the role of Roman spatiality in its conception of imperial power. This is not a book for the elementary student of Roman history and a more detailed introduction explaining the ‘spatial’ approach might have made it more user-friendly. There are undoubtedly thoughtful and subtle insights here, however, and this shows again how far Roman Republican history is moving in a more theoretical, and indeed cognitive, direction.

Still staying with the Republic, we come to Craige B. Champion's study of elite religious practice in the Middle Republic.Footnote ⁸ Champion is best known as a scholar of Roman imperialism, and imperialism indeed plays an important role in his analysis of Rome's religious history. His starting point is Polybius’ (in)famous discussion of Roman religion as a tool used, by the elite, to control the gullible common people.Footnote ⁹ Champion calls this view ‘elite-instrumentalism’ (ix) and argues that it is still implicit in many scholarly approaches to Roman religion; his approach, instead, is to seek to understand the religion of elite Romans from their own perspective – to take it seriously, as it were. He makes a nod to recent developments in ancient religion, including the advance of the study of ‘lived religion’ and a slow move towards starting to look (again) at the question of belief as well as practice (savoir penser, as well as savoir faire). However, as I have already suggested, it is imperialism that comes to the fore in Champion's study. He finds neo-realist interpretations of Roman imperialism (controversial in some quarters) central to helping us understand the obsession with religious orthopraxy shown by commanders in the field, whom he presents as placed in situations of great psychological stress in a situation of international anarchy. This is not to say that we should consider ourselves able to empathize with the Roman elite: Champion quotes no fewer than three times Keith Hopkins’ remark that the Romans were ‘dangerously different’. His study concludes:

Even though this view is more strawman-like than Champion quite allows, his book is thought-provoking and interesting throughout and makes a stimulating contribution to the field.

William Harris takes a rather different view of Roman imperialism to that of the neo-realists and his new book, Roman Power. A Thousand Years of Empire, finds him in typically pugnacious form.Footnote ¹⁰ This account of Roman history ranges across a rather longer durée than is common – from the beginnings of the Roman city state to the Islamic invasions. The focus on power is undoubtedly successful; power here comes in various forms (with a nod to Mann and Foucault in particular): political power, social power, economic power, even gender power (though, to be honest, women do not get much of a look in). That is, Roman power as discussed by Harris operates at all levels of society, so slaves, coloni, and holy men get a look in alongside emperors and politicians. The prose is brisk and lively, the digs at scholarly opponents equally so (although perhaps rather mystifying for ‘general readers’ who happen upon the book – as well they might), and the contemporary reflections are thoughtful. Harris is surely right when he says that ‘The study of modern empires is…indispensable to a historian of power’ (315). It is a pleasure to find a basically narrative account of Roman history aimed at a wide audience that also provides stimulating argument-based approaches.Footnote ¹¹

Still in the domain of Roman imperialism, and also aimed at a broad audience, it is worth briefly mentioning Dexter Hoyos’ Mastering the West. Rome and Carthage at War.Footnote ¹² New in paperback (and to this reviewer), this is a readable account of the Punic Wars by one of the most eminent historians in the field. After a brisk introduction to the two parties and their forces there follows a lively account of the three wars and their consequences. This is a readable and accessible book that will now be affordable for a much wider range of readers.

Meanwhile, a new, slim collection deals with another fascinating empire and enemy of Rome, the Parthians.Footnote ¹³ As a Roman historian, I welcomed the opportunity to look at the Arsacid rulers of Parthia in their own right, and at their multicultural empire. Interactions, influences, and interconnections across the Hellenistic world and the Near East come to the fore. Poignantly, the final paper, that of Björn Anderson, looks at the case of ancient Hatra in today's northern Iraq: in 2015 so-called IS looted the site systematically and also destroyed many sculptures from the city that were displayed in the Mosul Museum, before the horrified eyes of the world. Hatra was a Parthian city in the second century ce, which repelled the forces of both Trajan and Septimius Severus. Its second-century florescence saw a monumentalization of the city centre and a rise to a prominent position in the Parthian Empire. In the first half of the third century, Hatra allied with Rome against the Sasanians but this was to be its downfall. Sculpture from Hatra shows the rich range of influences at play that bear interesting comparisons with better-known material from Petra. It is only to be hoped that before too long locals and scholars alike will be able to return to Hatra.

On much more familiar ground for Romanists, the latest in the prolific series ‘Oxford Studies on the Roman Economy’ turns to the ever-popular subject of Pompeii, with an edited collection of fourteen papers dealing the economic history of Pompeii from a wide range of perspectives.Footnote ¹⁴ These include a variety of different methodologies, such as Erica Rowan's analysis of the archaeobotanical remains, and Estelle Lazer's discussion of osteological evidence, the two together providing fascinating insights into diet and health. These subjects are of course important for one of the broad themes running through many of the papers: the question of living standards and socioeconomic inequalities in Pompeii. Other more traditional aspects of economic history are not missing – such as trade and manufacture, and the relationship between the town and its agricultural hinterland. Monetization and the nature of commercial transactions also form the focus of a number of chapters. Pompeii, it is clear, cannot be seen as a ‘typical’ town (if such a thing exists) but must be understood in its very specific context within Roman Campania and in the Bay of Naples area in particular. Willem Jongmann's final reflective essay, written nearly twenty years after his own monograph on the Pompeiian economy,Footnote ¹⁵ provides interesting but regrettably brief comments on developments in archaeological scholarship and understanding in the meantime. The more optimistic assessment of the social spread of prosperity is notable here, even if, as Jongmann comments, it is unlikely to be very representative.

Another fruitful current series from Oxford University Press brings us to an original approach to the history of Roman law, in the shape of Kaius Tuori's The Emperor of Law. The Emergence of Roman Imperial Adjudication.Footnote ¹⁶ Tuori focuses on how the Roman emperor became a judge, ultimately emerging as a ‘supreme court’ for the Roman Empire, the story starting in the Late Republic and closing amid the ‘crisis’ of the Third Century. ‘Story’ is appropriate because narrative is a central concept in the book – understood in both a legal and a historical sense. Narratives lie at the heart of the analysis, from Cicero's Pro Ligario through to Dio's account of the Severans. The presence of Ovid in a work of legal history comes as a pleasant surprise: Tuori looks at his depiction of Augustus as a judge in the Tristia, which he compares with other depictions, both historiographical and epigraphic. The centrality of the princeps to jurisdiction is already apparent, despite the claims of Republican continuity. Moving forward in time, various narratives show how those in the provinces sought imperial jurisdiction, while the emperors presented themselves as virtuous and magnanimous judges for their people. A range of stories and traditions together built up shared notions that served to legitimize the legal supremacy of the emperor. Tuori's subtle readings of these diverse narratives, with attention to their particular contexts as well as their strategies, are a real strength and attraction of this account.

Finally, however, it is refreshing to turn to Anise K. Strong's Prostitutes and Matrons in the Roman World and to be reminded of the other half of the population, who have barely had a look in so far in this review.Footnote ¹⁷ This is a properly ambitious and indeed successful book that explores the fluidity between the clichéd categories of ‘whore’ and ‘matron’ through investigating a range of categories across a wide range of evidence (visual and archaeological as well as textual), interrogating stereotypes and realities with fascinating results. The ambivalence in elite Roman views of women comes to the fore, for instance in Chapter 2, looking at ‘good little prostitutes’. Change is visible over time, as in Chapter 3, which focuses on ‘notable courtesans and prostitutes’ from the Late Republic to the Antonines, with Strong suggesting that the visible switch in consort role between wife and concubine by emperors was done in order ‘to deliberately mininimize female influence’ (96). Continuing the theme of ambivalence, Chapter 4 looks at the ‘matrona as meretrix’, considering famous figures such as Clodia and Messalina. The next two chapters move rapidly down the social scale and take on a broader range of material, including graffiti, inscriptions, and archaeological and legal evidence. One of Strong's questions here regards the visibility of prostitutes in the urban landscape, which involves taking on the vexed question of moral ‘zoning’ in Roman towns: Strong concludes that brother workers were ‘in no way…relegated to the hidden corners of the Roman city’ (170). Changing direction again, Chapter 7, focuses on the role of prostitutes in religious life, while the final substantive but rather brief chapter looks at the legacy of the ‘whore’. Strong's conclusions are worth our consideration:

While scholarship has favoured binary distinctions, the reality – as revealed across a broad range of evidence – was more complex. Nonetheless, a sunny view of women's position in Roman culture and society remains elusive: Strong tells us that she would have liked to have written a book about how Roman women managed to get control of their lives and destinies but instead had to focus on ‘the historical reality of…patriarchal misogyny that sought to define and circumscribe the lives of Roman women’ (204). This seems a rather glum note on which to end the Roman History book review, but it is certainly realistic.