The second season of the series Rome opens with the frantic moments immediately following Julius Caesar's assassination on the Ides of March 44 bc. The natural crux of the aftermath is the rivalry of Brutus and Mark Antony, for their speeches at Caesar's funeral are pivotal in their competing attempts to shape public opinion and rally support for their respective causes. The season premiere episode, “Passover” (episode 13), presents a narrative of these adversaries that can stand on its own terms, but a closer look reveals the writing as a complex tissue of elements engaging the audience's expectations of action, Shakespeare's culturally iconic play Julius Caesar, and Plutarch's biographies that were Shakespeare's chief sources for his play. Antony's jibe to Brutus in Rome – that his speech was “a touch too cerebral for that audience” – becomes a most metaliterary meditation on adaptation. With this in mind, let us consider the chain of reception from Plutarch to Shakespeare to twenty-first-century television as it culminates in the dramatic effect of screenwriter Bruno Heller's creative choices.

PLUTARCH

Our discussion begins with Plutarch's account of the speeches of Brutus and Antony in his Life of Brutus and Life of Mark Antony. A prolific Greek writer living under imperial Rome, Plutarch (ca. ad 46–120) composed his Parallel Lives as pairs of biographies intended to be read as comparative diptychs. In Plutarch's work, Brutus’ speech takes place immediately after the death of Caesar, and it is a reflection of the speaker's own public standing and personal dignitas (Life of Brutus 18.5–6):

INTRODUCTION: ENIGMA VARIATIONS

Suetonius reports (Augustus 50) that, early in his career, Octavian used an image of the sphinx to seal letters and other documents. In a discussion of engraved gems, the elder Pliny gives a fuller description of this seal (Natural History 37.10):

In a slightly different version of this anecdote, Cassius Dio emphasizes Octavian's agency: according to Dio, Octavian himself had a duplicate of his sphinx seal made for the use of Agrippa and Maecenas, so that they could reseal the letters he wrote to the Senate and others after reading and, when necessary, altering them (Roman History 51.3).

Taken together, the two anecdotes, brief though they are, nicely capture and characterize the studied invention of the Augustan mask, in all its impenetrability and ominous power, from the earliest days of the young heir's ascendancy. Pliny's allusion to the witticism regarding the sphinx's riddles relies on the anecdote's implicit reference to the Theban Sphinx, who killed the would-be solvers of her puzzle until trounced by Oedipus. The replication of the image, whether fortuitously found by Octavian (Pliny) or consciously crafted by him (Dio), also invites interpretation: the literal duality of the sphinx simultaneously evokes a city's salvation by the dead king's son and hints at that city's experience of terror at the hands of the same son. Like Oedipus, Octavian will both save his city and allow terror to run rampant in it.

The creators of Rome use Octavian's early adoption of the sphinx as symbol and seal, much as, at least as our ancient sources suggest, Octavian did himself: to assert his authority, to signal his obscure isolation as a man fated to rule Rome, and to hint at the potential for malignancy behind his calmly enigmatic appearance.

Rome's fictional depiction of Cicero's death (episode 18, “Philippi”) was one of the most awaited scenes in the second season, yet one that variously surprised some viewers. It was greatly anticipated, as the death of Marcus Tullius Cicero on December 7, 43 bc is one of the best-known pictures of the late Roman Republic, and one of the most detailed among such descriptions in antiquity, which did not lack its share of morbid portrayals. It would be interesting to explore the modern adaptation against the facts we already know of Cicero's death. But what exactly do we know? Not much, it would seem. As succinctly put by Andrew Wright, the paradox is frustrating:

Thus, from the outset, Cicero's death is obscured by clouds of fiction. Our tradition of the famous scene stems from several strands. One is historical, and found in the extant history books of Appian (Civil War.19–20), Cassius Dio (47.8.3–4, 11.1–2), Livy (Summary 120), Florus (2.16.5), the anecdotal collection of Valerius Maximus (1.4.6, 5.3.4), as well as in Plutarch's biographies of Cicero (47–9) and Antony (20).4 The other tradition comes from the rhetorical schools, and is evidenced mainly in Seneca the Elder's Suasoriae (6–7) and Controversiae (7.2). The episode attracted orators in particular and was deemed a suitable topic for what were called declamations (declamationes), exercises used in rhetorical training. In the schools, they included suasoriae (fictitious historical speeches) or controversiae (fictitious legal orations). The first were related to the deliberative variant of persuasion in political cases, based on historical or legendary situations; the second dealt with the forensic variant of oratory, addressing legal questions.

A subplot was introduced in the second season of Rome, involving Timon the Jew and his brother, Levi, who is freshly arrived from Jerusalem. This thread was intended to set up the situation for the anticipated fifth season, which was to deal with the rise of Messianism in Judea. With the cancellation of seasons three through five, this subplot could not be developed further, but even as it stands the thread highlights some interesting points that reveal more about ideas and concerns about the role of Jews, Judaism, and Israel in the modern world than anything about ancient Rome.

TIMON THE JEW IN ROME, SEASON ONE

The figure of Timon first appears in Rome in the first season, where he is employed by Atia of the Julii as a hired thug and assassin. In this capacity, he provides a variety of services, ranging from protection to murder. He is also one of Atia's lovers, bargaining for sexual favors in return for providing the services she requires. In these early episodes the audience learn that he has a family, but this family does not appear on screen, nor are we told any personal details about them or about Timon himself. He is described briefly once in episode 5 (“The Ram has Touched the Wall”) as “Timon the Horse Jew,” but it is still something of a surprise when in episode 9 (“Utica”), the following short dialogue occurs, while Timon is watching for Servilia.

Suddenly there is a new dimension to Timon; although little indication of his ethnic identity has been given until now, it appears that he is a Jew. It is notable that this revelation occurs at the very moment that Timon first shows any discomfort with his lifestyle and job as Atia's henchman; as Servilia is dragged from her litter and attacked, Timon looks on with a troubled expression on his face, clearly uncomfortable with the proceedings. This discomfort is to be linked in the viewer's mind with the knowledge that he is a Jew, and perhaps with the fact that it is Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar, whose nature is at sharp odds with the actions taking place before his eyes.

Readers’ interest in the Roman army and battles often does not extend to considering veterans, yet they were a significant part of Roman military life. Every man not killed during service became a veteran. Since two of the primary characters in the series Rome start out as soldiers, and the military is present in every episode, it should not be surprising that veterans figure prominently. As with its treatment of active military life, the treatment of veterans in Rome is similarly successful. Once we disregard those production choices made for the dramatic and narrative requirements of a historical television series, what emerges is a useful treatment of some issues veterans faced in ancient Rome. Examining two specific aspects of veterans’ experience in the series and in the historical record – their reintegration into society and relationships with political leaders of the period – highlights some ways in which the treatment of veterans in Rome is useful for an audience seeking to understand veterans better, whether Roman or other.

ROMAN VETERANS IN FILM

Whereas one can write about a tradition of the Roman army in film, there is much less to be reported about Roman veterans on film. In the last forty years there are only four feature films in which Roman veterans appear: Gladiator (2000), King Arthur (2004), The Last Legion (2007), and The Eagle (2011). Admittedly, the protagonist in Gladiator was not a veteran for long on screen, but even so brief a veteran status justifies inclusion. It is no coincidence that in all four films the veterans play similar roles – after being abused, abandoned, or forgotten (or some combination) by flawed leaders and/or policies, the veterans are eventually provoked into picking up weapons and armor to restore freedom and order, if not also Rome itself. The success of Gladiator spawned many imitators, and the plot of a redeemed hero restoring order and getting revenge is a standard one. While it may be surprising that Roman veterans do not appear more often in feature films, it is more astonishing that this “revenge plot” has been the only one for Roman veterans in film, especially given that the military veteran has been a staple character in film history.

The ancient world as glimpsed by modern eyes has always been a sexy place, and as long as the genre has existed Hollywood has delighted in presenting antiquity as deviantly intriguing, replete with subjects and acts that in any other period would be considered scandalous or taboo. In the dimly sensuous haze of the distant past depictions of such things become somehow permissible, either by virtue of a setting that is seemingly so detached from the present, or in the name of “historical accuracy.” Such has always been the case: from the vamptastic and scantily clad Theda Bara as Cleopatra (1917) to the milk bath, gold chains, and lesbian dancing of Cecil B. DeMille's The Sign of the Cross (1932) to the homoerotic bath of Crassus in Stanley Kubrick's Spartacus (1960), antiquity has provided an ambiguously liberated outlet for exploring contemporary fascinations – regardless of their historicity. In the heady years following the post-Gladiator (2000) revival of antiquity's popularity on screens big and small we have witnessed this sexuality of the ancients intensify both in the sense of ever-more prevalent and graphic depictions of sexual acts, and the decadence blending into perversion of the acts themselves. Everything, it is safe to say, is getting more racy and risqué with each new film or series, as the cameras have been rolling on antiquity with decidedly unfiltered lenses.

This trend manifests itself in many forms, ranging from the scandalously incestuous tendencies of Commodus toward his sister Lucilla in Gladiator, to the controversial depiction of homosexuality of Oliver Stone's Alexander (2004), and the digitally enhanced pectorals and six-packs-becoming-twelve-packs of the half-naked cast of 300 (2007). The list goes on, and encompasses television series as well as films: Rome raised eyebrows with its moderately racy and fairly numerous depictions of ancient sexuality, while the cable chan nel STARZ Spartacus (2010–13) pushed the envelope further than most thought possible with graphic portrayals of hetero-, homo-, and bisexual relations (both consensual and not), whose frequency led some to brand the series quasi-pornographic. Over the past century, the ancients have not only become more sexual, but more perverse in their pleasures.

Illegal activities and the violence that underpins them form a large part of the storyline of Rome. Up to now, however, little attention has been paid to the depiction of criminality in the series, perhaps because the sexual politics are so prominent in their own right. Still, like love and marriage, sex and violence are a natural combination for a modern audience and the second component deserves closer attention. If the sex cannot be viewed as simply gratuitous, so the violence contributes to one of the most important motifs of the series: the will to succeed and gain one's desires by whatever means might be necessary and the human cost of such behavior. As with much of Rome, the narrative presentation is modern, but draws on themes already present in the Roman world. During the breakdown of order in the late Republic and the triumviral period after the assassination of Julius Caesar, aristocratic politicians act like leaders of criminal gangs, while in the face of ineffective government the general populace is subject to local forces that maintain a tenuous order by both exploiting their fellows and preventing others from doing the same. This gangster theme is well worth exploring both for what it reveals about ancient Rome and the modern viewers’ expectations.

CALLING OUT THE BAD GUYS

The accusation of criminality and the consequent assumption that the speaker making this claim is defending the peaceful and lawful privileges of all society is deeply embedded in Roman political discourse. These are, of course, the words of the wealthy and powerful, since the plebs in general had no voice in government. Following the death of Augustus, two bronze plaques were set up at the entrance to his tomb to memorialize his services to the Roman state. Amid various, often tendentious claims in this summary of imperial services that he had arranged to be distributed throughout the Empire, the emperor declared that he had brought peace to the seas, freeing them from the ravages of “bandits.” He meant by this his defeat in the 30s bc of Sextus Pompey, whose control of the shipping lanes around Italy had threatened Octavian's power in the west. The people of Rome thus had their food supplies restored by the efforts of Octavian and his general, Agrippa.

The plan was simple: the second season of HBO–BBC's Rome, scheduled to premiere in January of 2007, was going to build on the huge popular success of the critically acclaimed first season, weaving together “real” Roman historical events and people with compelling fictional subplots and characters into another set of powerful, pleasurable episodes. Critics were conspicuously excited by the narrative and dramatic prospects of the new season, with its combination of “sex, violence, and fancy book learnin’ – everybody wins.” Lisa Schwarzbaum of Entertainment Weekly declared: “Everything … is still reliably rotten, wantonly carnal, and spectacularly costumed as HBO and the BBC resume their dramatic collaboration on the world's largest standing film set at Italy's Cinecittà Studios.” Tad Friend of The New Yorker praised the series’ continued focus on character-driven storylines, especially its female protagonists: “Rome, in its new season … showcases its brusquest and most soldierly characters: its highborn women. The show's pitiless gorgons campaign ceaselessly to have their men crowned or killed, whichever.” And Gary Kamiya of Salon.com confessed he was “addicted” to the way the series shocked the past back to life and startled him out of his comfortable nest of modernity: “Rome is based on solid historical research. But what makes it draw imaginative blood is the fact that it's uncensored scholarship, audacious history. Rome is incredibly entertaining, while also being incredibly shocking. It's history porn.”

All this breathless anticipation was clearly due to the sensational achievement of the series’ first season, which aired in the autumn of 2005. The first season of Rome chronicled the trajectory of Julius Caesar's later career, as it followed the events that took place between Caesar's return to Rome after his conquest of Gaul in 52 bc and his assassination by senatorial conspirators in 44 bc. As the series begins, Caesar is planning to return to Rome after eight years of warfare to seek his political fortune, and the first season brilliantly narrates his conflict with Pompey, his dalliance with Cleopatra, and his ultimate betrayal by Brutus. The second season, which would open dramatically with Caesar dead on the Senate floor, was to chart the beginnings of the violent power struggle between Antony, Caesar's most trusted general and ally, and Octavian, his great-nephew and legal heir.