It remains only for us to summarize our findings and to attempt to reflect on what implications this study may have for future Johannine scholarship and for the use of John in contemporary theology.

Summary

In our first chapter, we saw that there are a number of possible solutions to the problem of why Johannine Christology developed along the distinctive lines that it did. We found it necessary to reject the approaches which we categorized under the rubric of ‘History of Religions’, since these did insufficient justice to the Jewishness of Johannine thought and its close continuity with earlier Christian ideas and motifs. The suggestion that John's Christology developed organically out of earlier traditions was given a more positive evaluation, but was nonetheless felt to do insufficient justice to the extent of the developments, and the need for some sort of catalyst or explanatory factor in order to understand the development. The suggestion that a particular individual's insight shaped the Johan-nine portrait of Christ was not denied, but we nonetheless felt it necessary to look for a different level of explanation, one which gave greater attention to the setting in which the author wrote and the factors which inspired or stimulated him to write as he did. We thus adopted a sociological approach, suggesting, in line with Berger and Luckmann's model of legitimation, that the Fourth Evangelist adapted and developed the traditions which he inherited as part of a defence of his (and his community's) beliefs against objections raised by Jewish opponents.

Having dealt with the scale of Roman politics and its implications for the individual institutions in Rome, in this final chapter we will focus on the connection between politics and society in general. The aim is to take a broader look at issues raised in the previous chapters and place them in their proper socio-economic context. The hope is to shed further light on the relationship between elite and masses, and the extent to which politics represented an integrative factor connecting the two.

A central theme in this study of Roman politics has been the scale of participation. It was argued that it remained very limited, not least when compared to the size of the city of Rome and with the Roman citizenbody as whole. Probably no more than a few per cent could attend the meetings and assemblies, and often the level of attendance would have been much lower. The implication is therefore that the large majority of the population never took part in the political process. The Roman system was, in other words, based on the few rather than the many.

This conclusion is in itself neither new nor surprising. A number of factors can be adduced, which would have contributed to keeping attendance down. There were practical difficulties posed by the amount of time taken up by meetings and the lack of remuneration for the lower classes.

When the official debate, the suasio/dissuasio, drew to a close, the contio was dissolved and the comitia tributa or the concilium plebis was called. The assembled crowd was divided into tribus, and after a short prayer by the presiding magistrate, the successive voting of the tribus could begin. When a majority of tribus had accepted the proposal, it became law and binding for the entire Roman people. In this process it is tempting to see a direct democracy at work, as scholars have increasingly done in recent years. But while the system was no doubt direct, the question remains of how democratic the republican assemblies were in reality.

There were important formal limitations to the people's influence. Thus, in a ‘constitutional’ perspective the passive, ‘reflective’ role of the assembly is conspicuous. The comitia could only reject or approve proposals put before it by a magistrate. It could take no initiatives of its own nor suggest emendations or additions to bills. Moreover, the principle of corporate voting, though in itself not undemocratic, offered a perfect means of reconciling the principle of equal political rights with the elite's de facto domination of the political process. Without violating the formal political equality of Roman cives optimo iure this peculiar form of voting enabled the elite to give different weight to individual votes.

The focal point of Roman politics was the annual elections of new magistrates. The appointments of quaestors, aediles, praetors, consuls and censors, in addition to a large number of minor officials, were central events in the public calendar of the Roman republic. And judging from the scale of the electoral facilities in the Campus Martius they clearly attracted larger crowds than the legislative assemblies, which convened in the smaller venues of the Forum and the Capitol. Likewise the procedures used in the electoral assemblies were less timeconsuming, thus allowing more people to vote in a single session.

Nevertheless, the overall level of participation remained low, and we may wonder what made a small section of the population take part in elections, while the large majority stayed away. The aim in this chapter is to investigate the nature of electoral participation and the different models which have been used to explain it. Our sources tend to convey the impression that elections were matters of general interest and concern among the Roman citizenry during the late republic. The sources, however, also reflect the views and preoccupations of the one group which was itself directly involved in office-holding and the exercise of power. The question is therefore whether these concerns were particular to this social group, or, in other words, whether the appointment of new magistrates attracted much attention outside the political class itself.

The scale of political participation in the late republic may be approached from several angles. The physical setting for the assemblies may provide an important indication as to the level of attendance possible in these meetings. Likewise, there are scattered literary references to the number of voters and the size of crowds; this evidence will also be evaluated in this chapter.

The people convened in a number of locations in Rome during the late republic: in the Comitium, the Forum Romanum, the Saepta, the Circus Flaminius and on the Capitol. The first three venues will be discussed in some detail in the following. The old Comitium, located in the northwest corner of the Forum Romanum, was the traditional meeting place for the tribal assembly and for the contiones, non-decisionmaking meetings called by a magistrate. Little survives of the Comitium, and although modern reconstructions differ substantially, there is broad agreement on the overall scale of the site.

Coarelli reconstructed the Comitium as a circular area surrounded by a cavea. Exactly to the north was located the senate building, the Curia Hostilia, which had access through the Comitium area. The entire structure measured 46 metres in diameter, the central area itself being 30 metres across. However, large sections of the cavea, which was approximately 8 metres wide were not available for the crowds who, standing, attended the assembly. The Curia would have intersected the cavea, dividing it into two wings, or cornua as the sources describe them.

The Lex Licinia is central to the study of political participation in the late republic. It has attracted considerable debate and a range of different interpretations have been brought forward. It has been seen as a senatorial attempt to quash the political clubs of Clodius, an attempt to curb electoral malpractice among the elite, and as a combination of the two, targeting both ambitus and political violence in general.

The senate first issued a decree on these matters on the tenth of February 57 – a week after Clodius' supporters had given Pompey a serious heckling at the trial of Milo. According to Cicero the Senatus Consultum obliged the consuls: ‘ut sodalitates decuriatique discederent lexque de iis ferretur’, Q. Fr. 2.3.5. And a year later Crassus passed his Lex Licinia de sodalitatibus. There are several ancient references to the selection of judges prescribed in the law, Cic. Pis. 94; Phil. 1.20; Asc. 21C. But the most important source on the subject is Cicero's speech for Plancius.

Plancius was accused of bribery according to the Lex Licinia: ‘reus de sodaliciis petitus est lege Licinia, Schol. Bob. 152 (St)’. It is apparent that the law, for the first time, defined a crimen sodalicium: ‘quos tu si sodalis vocas, officiosam amicitiam nomine inquinas criminoso’, 46, and Plancius was formally prosecuted: ‘nomine legis Liciniae quae est de sodaliciis’, 36.

After years of relative neglect the role of the people in Roman politics now attracts considerable interest among ancient historians. A wide range of new interpretations has been presented, and at the root of this interest lies a rediscovery of the fundamental paradox, which is the Roman political system itself. On the one hand, the Roman people wielded tremendous, almost unlimited powers. Their institutions controlled legislation, declarations of war and the appointment of all state officials; they were continuously consulted by their leaders and kept informed through public meetings. On the other hand, Rome was also an aristocratic society, where the elite controlled vast economic resources and monopolised public office, political, military and religious. The senate's influence was overwhelming. It embodied all political experience and religious authority in the Roman state, a position further boosted by its successful leadership during the conquest of Italy and the Mediterranean. This ambiguity has resulted in widely different assessments of the nature of Roman politics, some of which can be traced all the way back to ancient writers. Thus, according to Dio, 36.43.3, Caesar ‘courted the good-will of the multitude, observing how much stronger they were than the senate …’ Sallust, on the other hand, claimed that the affairs of the state were decided by ‘paucorum arbitrio’, because ‘plebis vis soluta atque dispersa in multitudine minus poterat’, Iug. 41.6.

A contio was a non-decision-making meeting called by a magistrate or priest with ius contionandi. Within these very broad terms the institution appears to have been relatively flexible. Thus, contiones could be purely informative, communicating important news to the people, for example military events, Livy 10.45.1; or emergencies, as happened in 184, when the consul gave his famous address warning the people about the Bacchanalian conspiracy, Livy 39.15–6. Some contiones had an official function in presenting new legislation, which had to be put before the people at least three market days before it could be voted on. These legislative assemblies were themselves preceded by a special contio, where the so-called suasio/dissuasio took place. This was a formal debate on the proposal held immediately before the vote was taken in the assembly. The two meetings were therefore intimately linked and their attendance virtually identical. These contiones must be distinguished from those called ad hoc by a magistrate or priests, wishing to address the people on any topic. It is the latter type which is our main concern in this chapter.

The contio provided the only official setting for political leaders to meet the people, and the picture presented by the ancient sources is one of lively civic events, which played a significant part in the political life of the republic.

INTRODUCTION

The 420s mark a turning-point in the history of the Balkan provinces of the Roman empire. Since the 370s the region had been under pressure from various tribes who were themselves being stimulated to challenge the strength of imperial defences by the threat posed to them by the westward movement of the awesome Huns across the south Russian steppe. By 420, but not much before, the Huns had reached the Danube, establishing themselves on the Hungarian plain, asserting their authority over other tribal groups along the Danube, and beginning to challenge Roman imperial authority in both west and east. South of the river, the prosperity of urban and rural life varied. Most cities survived the period of Gothic ravaging and settlement, partly because Goths were not skilled besiegers, but rural hinterlands upon which the vitality of cities depended had been seriously affected. This stimulated a significant change in the pattern of settlement, with the abandonment of isolated rural villages that previously had served as nuclei for exploiting the countryside and a migration of population to the safety of urban defences or upland refuges. Some cities might benefit from an influx of wealthy rural inhabitants who now relocated their grand villas inside the walls, while others in more exposed places received impoverished country people but lost their élites. Walls were strengthened or rebuilt, perhaps to enclose a restricted, more defensible, circuit, though habitation might still extend beyond the central defended area, as at Athens.

Under detailed scrutiny, the period from 425 to 600 is seen to represent a time of significant and conspicuous artistic production and stylistic change and complexity. If the fourth century appears a time of transition, yet dominated by traditional forms and techniques, then in contrast it is easy to see that the fifth century witnesses considerable change, and that by 600 the forms of Christian art have become distinctive, and many of the aspects of later medieval art have been determined. This is the period which produced the present church of St Sophia at Constantinople (532–7), one of the most dramatic and influential buildings in world architecture. This achievement alone gives the period an identity in its own right. Yet in the broad view, it is clear that Christianity adapted rather than rejected the values of classical ‘pagan’ art. Hence the predominant discussions of the art of this period in terms of continuity and change, or – put more precisely – in terms of classical and non-classical elements, and either their interplay or their independence.

This priority for the art-historical analysis of these centuries is superfically justifiable, but one soon suspects that it may mask a whole set of more serious problems. It may, however, still offer a way of identifying the strengths and weaknesses of the current state of research; the question of the stage of ‘classicism’ embodied in the art of this period should not necessarily be evaded, so long as one remains aware that it encourages the framing of questions in terms of style, and identifies the issues from the surface appearance.

On 23 October 425 the emperor Valentinian III was installed as ruler of the western half of the Roman empire. The act was a triumph for the Theodosian dynasty, which had lost its grip on the west following the death of Valentinian’s uncle, the emperor Honorius, on 15 August 423, and, at first sight, a remarkable demonstration of imperial unity. The young Valentinian (born on 2 July 419) had been taken to Constantinople by his mother Galla Placidia even before Honorius died. Valentinian’s father, Flavius (Fl.) Constantius, had done much to reconstitute the western empire in the 410s. He then married Galla Placidia (Honorius’ sister) on 1 January 417 at the start of his second consulship, and had himself declared co-emperor of the west in February 421. He died the following September, before he could extract recognition of his self-promotion from Constantinople. His death let loose an extended power struggle in the west, which at first centred on controlling the inactive Honorius.

Placidia and Valentinian had fled east in the course of these disputes in 422. When, after Honorius’ death, power was seized by a high-ranking member of the western bureaucracy, the notarius John, the eastern emperor, Theodosius II, eventually decided to back Valentinian and the cause of dynastic unity. Hence, in spring 425, a large eastern force – combining fleet and field army – moved west, and despite the capture of its commander, Ardaburius, quickly put an end to the usurper.

Devotion to asceticism was a highly visible and in some ways alarming feature of the late Roman world. That thousands of men and women were ready to adopt a life of radical simplicity, sexual abstinence and apparent indifference to wealth, status and power, and that even larger numbers were willing to admire if not imitate their choice, tells us something remarkable about the society in which they lived. Restrictions in diet and sexual behaviour had been accepted for centuries; and abnegation was frequently accompanied by a rejection of influence in public affairs and of privilege and property. Christians, however, from the third century onwards, were responsible for an unprecedented upsurge in ascetic devotion. The movement transformed town as well as countryside: famous exemplars may have congregated at first in remoter districts; but a new class of citizen became more widely evident at an early stage. Distinguished at times by an appalling emaciation of the body, by filth and infestation, by ragged, colourless and skimpy clothes, large numbers of these ascetics converged, at moments of crisis, on the cities themselves, forming virtual mobs that were capable not only of menace but of real power. Within a relatively short time, they occupied special and prominent buildings, administered successful rural estates, broadcast their views in public fora, and gained the ear of those in power – invading, in other words, the chief components of the late Roman polity.

BISHOPS AND PATRIARCHS

The fifth-century church inherited an organization matching that of the empire. Each community usually had its bishop, though increasingly presbyters or sometimes deacons deputized for the bishop in governing congregations. Above the local bishop stood the bishop of the metropolis, the metropolian (μητροπολιτης) whose position had been codified at Nicaea in 325. Superior to the metropolitan, the city which was the centre of an imperial diocese (επαρχια) attained comparable status in the church, and its bishop was called ‘archbishop’ (αρχιεπισκοπος) This term was frequently used of the bishops of Rome, Alexandria and Antioch at the Council of Ephesus in 431, the same sees which had been named as exercising territorial superiority in the canons of Nicaea in 325. The term ‘archbishop’ was limited to those of such standing till about 500. After that it is more widely used, first of metropolitans, then of others whose independence was being asserted. The term ‘patriarch’ (πατριαρχης) then began to be applied to the bishops of the greater sees. ‘Patriarch’ was first used of the ancient biblical figures, and had been adopted for leading officers by the Jewish communities before Constantine’s time. Its rare use for Christian figures began to be extended to the superior bishops in documents associated with the Council of Chalcedon in 451. That council also specified that the metropolitan bishops of the imperial dioceses of Pontus, Asia and Thrace should be ordained by the bishop of Constantinople; thus the metropolitans of Cappadocian Caesarea, Ephesus and Philippopolis, who were to ordain bishops in their respective imperial provinces and any pendent sees among the barbarians, were declared subordinate to the capital.