Antimonarchic Discourse in Antiquity 9783515110952, 351511095X, 9783515110969

Table of contents :
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
1 ANTIMONARCHIC DISCOURSE IN ANTIQUITY: A VERY SHORT INTRODUCTION
2 “AS HE DISREGARDED THE LAW, HE WAS REPLACED DURING HIS OWN LIFETIME”
3 “RULERS BY THE GRACE OF GOD”, “LIAR KINGS”, AND “ORIENTAL DESPOTS”: (ANTI-)MONARCHIC DISCOURSE IN ACHAEMENID IRAN
4 ANATOMY OF THE MONSTER: THE DISCOURSE OF TYRANNY IN ANCIENT GREECE
5 HERO, GOD OR TYRANT? ALEXANDER THE GREAT IN THE EARLY HELLENISTICPERIOD
6 DEMETRIUS POLIORCETES AND ATHENS: RULER CULT AND ANTIMONARCHIC NARRATIVES IN PLUTARCH’S LIFE OF DEMETRIUS
7 ROMAN DISCOURSES AGAINST THE MONARCHY IN THE 3RD AND 2ND CENTURY BCE: THE EVIDENCE OF FABIUS PICTOR AND ENNIUS
8 CONSORT OR DESPOT? HOW TO DEAL WITH A QUEEN AT THE END OF THE ROMAN REPUBLIC AND THE BEGINNING OF THE PRINCIPATE
9 PENELOPE’S WEB, OR: HOW TO BECOME A BAD EMPEROR POST MORTEM
10 IDLENESS. MONARCHIC AND ANTIMONARCHIC DISCOURSES AND THE CONSTRUCTION OF ROMAN IMPERIAL ORDER
11 JOSEPHUS ON HASMONEAN KINGSHIP
12 ‘IN SEARCH OF GOOD EMPERORS.’EMPERORS, CAESARS, AND USURPERS IN THE MIRROR OF ANTIMONARCHIC PATTERNS IN THE HISTORIA AUGUSTA –SOME CONSIDERATIONS
13 PROCOPIUS, HIS PREDECESSORS, AND THE GENESIS OF THE ANECDOTA
CONTRIBUTORS
GENERAL INDEX

Citation preview

Studies in Ancient Monarchies

Antimonarchic Discourse in Antiquity Edited by Henning Börm

Ancient History Franz Steiner Verlag

Antimonarchic Discourse in Antiquity Edited by Henning Börm

studies in ancient monarchies Edited by Ulrich Gotter (Konstanz), Nino Luraghi (Princeton) and Kai Trampedach (Heidelberg).

volume 3

Antimonarchic Discourse in Antiquity Edited by Henning Börm With collaboration of Wolfgang Havener

Franz Steiner Verlag

Gedruckt mit freundlicher Unterstützung des Exzellenzclusters 16 „Kulturelle Grundlagen von Integration“ der Universität Konstanz.

Umschlagabbildungen: Links: King Tiglath-pileser III of Assyria. Stone panel, ca. 728 BCE. From the Central Palace in Nimrud, now in the British Museum. © akg / Bible Land Pictures Mitte: Emperor Justinian. Mosaic, ca. 540 CE. Church of San Vitale, Ravenna. © akg / Bildarchiv Steffens Rechts: Alexander the Great at the Battle of Issos. Mosaic, ca. 100 BCE. From the Casa del Fauno, Pompeii, now in the Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli. © akg / Nimatallah Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek: Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet über abrufbar. Dieses Werk einschließlich aller seiner Teile ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Jede Verwertung außerhalb der engen Grenzen des Urheberrechtsgesetzes ist unzulässig und strafbar. © Franz Steiner Verlag, Stuttgart 2015 Satz: DTP + TEXT Eva Burri Druck: AZ Druck und Datentechnik GmbH, Kempten Gedruckt auf säurefreiem, alterungsbeständigem Papier. Printed in Germany. ISBN 978-3-515-11095-2 (Print) ISBN 978-3-515-11096-9 (eBook)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS It is my great pleasure to thank the people who made this volume possible. First and foremost my gratitude to the diverse contributors is enormous. I have learned a lot from them all, and I owe them many thanks, especially those who turned in their chapters as long ago as 2010, for the extreme patience that they have shown in the very long process of completion. I owe particularly important advice to Ulrich Gotter, Nino Luraghi, and Kai Trampedach; and special thanks for helping to organize the original conference Antimonarchic Discourse in Antiquity in Konstanz go to Ann-Cathrin Harders and Christian Seebacher. Moreover, I wish to thank John Noël Dillon, Rosa Maria Fera, and Helen Imhoff for translating into English portions of this book. Funds for translation and editing have been generously provided by the Center of Excellence 16 Cultural Foundations of Social Integration of Konstanz University. Henning Börm Konstanz, March 2015

CONTENTS Acknowledgments ...........................................................................................

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1

Antimonarchic Discourse in Antiquity: A Very Short Introduction .......... Henning Börm

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2

“As he Disregarded the Law, he was Replaced During his Own Lifetime”. On Criticism of Egyptian Rulers in the So-Called Demotic Chronicle .................................................................................... Joachim Friedrich Quack

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3

“Rulers by the Grace of God”, “Liar Kings”, and “Oriental Despots”: (Anti-)Monarchic Discourse in Achaemenid Iran ..................................... Josef Wiesehöfer

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Anatomy of the Monster: The Discourse of Tyranny in Ancient Greece ......................................................................................... Nino Luraghi

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Hero, God or Tyrant? Alexander the Great in the Early Hellenistic Period ..................................................................................... Hans-Ulrich Wiemer

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Demetrius Poliorcetes and Athens: Ruler Cult and Antimonarchic Narratives in Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius ................................................ 113 Steffen Diefenbach

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Roman Discourses Against the Monarchy in the 3rd and 2nd Century BCE: The Evidence of Fabius Pictor and Ennius ........... 153 Federico Russo

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Consort or Despot? How to Deal with a Queen at the End of the Roman Republic and the Beginning of the Principate ........................ 181 Ann-Cathrin Harders

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Penelope’s Web, or: How to Become a Bad Emperor Post Mortem ......... 215 Ulrich Gotter

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Contents

10 Idleness. Monarchic and Antimonarchic Discourses and the Construction of Roman Imperial Order........................................ 235 Mihály Loránd Dészpa 11 Josephus on Hasmonean Kingship. The Example of Aristobulus I and Alexander Jannaeus ................................................................................. 249 Meron M. Piotrkowski 12 ‘In Search of Good Emperors.’ Emperors, Caesars, and Usurpers in the Mirror of Antimonarchic Patterns in the Historia Augusta – Some Considerations ................................................................................ 269 Matthias Haake 13 Procopius, His Predecessors, and the Genesis of the Anecdota: Antimonarchic Discourse in Late Antique Historiography ............................................................................ 305 Henning Börm Contributors .................................................................................................... 347 General Index .................................................................................................. 349

1 ANTIMONARCHIC DISCOURSE IN ANTIQUITY: A VERY SHORT INTRODUCTION Henning Börm* Oh, der ist noch nicht König, der der Welt Gefallen muss! Nur der ist’s, der bei seinem Tun Nach keines Menschen Beifall braucht zu fragen. Friedrich Schiller Maria Stuart (Act 4, Scene 10)

It may at first seem surprising to approach the phenomenon of monocracy in antiquity by way of a detour via antimonarchic discourse.1 As a rule, when analyzing the self-image and the character of the different systems and their strategies for creating obedience and acceptance, the focus falls particularly on the self-representation and the ruler ideology of monarchs. However, this approach is conspicuous in concentrating only on one side. For this reason, it seems productive to approach the matter from the angle of real or merely anticipated criticism against the background of which monarchic legitimization was expressed: what conditions, what elements and what strategies are characteristic of negative discussion of monocracy, and to what extent was the relationship between ruler ideology and antimonarchic sentiments marked by mutual dependence? What significance does the eternal background noise have which as a contre-discours compelled Greek and Roman monarchs to justify themselves? It is the intercultural comparison in particular that allows us at this point to work out more clearly not just shared features and parallels but also specific individual characteristics. Thus, it is worth considering not just Hellas and Rome, but also the civilizations of the Ancient Near East. These are the places to start if one intends to approach the phenomenon.

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I owe particularly important suggestions to Ulrich Gotter and Nino Luraghi. Furthermore, I would like to thank Soi Agelidis, Benjamin Biesinger, Boris Chrubasik, Steffen Diefenbach, Johannes Geisthardt, Geoffrey Greatrex, Richard Payne, and Wolfgang Havener. Given the breadth of the topic, it goes without saying that the present short outline cannot do justice to every individual phenomenon. I use “monocracy”, “monarchy” and “sole rule” as more or less synonymous terms here to designate systems in which authority and the highest decision-making power lie with a single individual. This very wide definition of monarchy is, therefore, modelled on the original meaning of the word μοναρχία, and it is emphatically not based on constitutional aspects; instead it considers hierarchies of power.

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In doing so, however, one must first note that there is no such thing as the “Ancient Near East”, at least not in so far as this traditional expression suggests that the differences between different eras as well as between the different civilizations of the Near East and North Africa are essentially marginal and superficial. As with the “Myth of the Mediterranean”,2 conceptions which focus on (apparently) connecting features at the expense of special individual characteristics have increasingly been criticized in recent years with regard to the East, too.3 Nevertheless, there is one thing at least which does seem to have been by all means typical of the ancient civilizations4 in Mesopotamia, Iran, Anatolia, and Egypt.5 From the 2nd millennium BCE at the latest monarchy, usually founded on sacral6 and dynastic principles, had established itself here as a legitimate and almost “natural” form of government.7 Exceptions, especially as represented by some city states,8 were something out of the ordinary. This applies all the more if one also intends to take into account tribally organized societies, such as those characteristic of the Arabian Peninsula and early Israel,9 as monarchic in principle, despite the fact that there was no single supreme lord.10 This impression is strengthened by the fact that henotheistic and monotheistic religious concepts developed in conditions in which monocracy was fundamentally considered normal.11 Thus, if it is possible to speak about an “antimonarchic discourse” in connection with the pre-Islamic civilizations of this area,12 then it is in the sense of a discussion of what distinguishes a bad ruler from a good one.13 The focus is, therefore, not monarchy but the monarch. The ideology of monocratic rule, i. e. discussion about the good king, also necessarily produces a counterpart: as it implies that not every monarch is good per se, it must be possible to formulate criteria by which a 2 3

4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

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Cf. Timpe 2004; Malkin 2005. Cf. Kolb 1984: 16: “Die Gemeinsamkeiten etwa zwischen der sumerischen und der hethitischen Kultur oder zwischen dem griechischen Mutterland und der römischen Provinz Nordafrika waren geringer als die Unterschiede”. On the phenomenon of “Orientalism” in the Classical Studies, cf. Hauser 2001; Kuhrt 2012. A good starting point for an engagement with this area is still provided by Kuhrt 1995. On the Egyptian ruler ideology, cf. Blumenthal 1980 and Frandsen 2008. Cf. Jones 2005. Cf. Seux 1980–83; Nunn 2011: 77. Cf. Jacobsen 1943. Cf. Rebenich 2012: 1158–1164. “What we may call chiefs – leading members of dominant families who were accorded privileges in their roles as leaders in battle and judges in disputes – exerted local rule” (Meyers/ Rogerson 1997: 136). For the younger parts of the Old Testament, at least, Levin 2004: 85 speaks of a postulated “Notwendigkeit des Königtums”. Cf., however, 1 Sam. 8.10–18. Following M. Foucault, “discourse” can – to put it in a simplified way – be considered as a context of meaning which is created by speech and text; it reinforces certain ideas which themselves have certain underlying structures and interests, which they perpetuate and generate themselves; cf. Frank 1989. It is not least this aspect of changeability that makes (anti-)monarchic discourse particularly relevant; cf. Morley 2004: 98. Cf. Maset 2002 on the theoretical background to the concept of discourse, which goes back to Foucault, and on its application in historical research. See also Landwehr 2001.

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bad ruler can be described. It is not a great step from the possibility of describing him as unjust and therefore illegitimate to the right of revolution.14 Although there is no example of a monarchy being abolished, as far as I can see, an overthrow of government as a result of which the ruler was replaced was always possible in the Ancient Near East, too. It goes without saying that it was the elites who were bearers of this discourse; however, it usually only becomes tangible in the sources when it was influenced by the monarch himself, or rather his court, or by priests. In this way, they were of course also able to articulate claims; for this reason, the discourse can also be seen as a continuous process of negotiation.15 From the Bronze Age at the latest, there was intensive exchange between the Aegean and the Near Eastern-Egyptian area.16 In the present context, however, relations during the Archaic period are of greater significance,17 a time when there was not only close contact between the Cypselides of Corinth (Hdt. 3.48), as well as Lydia and Egypt, but also when the Greeks took over from an eastern language the expression “tyrant” (τύραννος) as an apparently neutral term for a monocrat.18 For although it was assumed in classical times that dynastically legitimated kings had once ruled the Greeks,19 it has by no means been established that such a ‘monarchic’ tradition really did exist.20 There are doubts as to whether the term basileus designated anything more than just one “big man” among others, and this is true not just for the Dark Ages;21 by now, even the generally held view that there was, in Mycenaean times, a wa-na-ka who ruled as a monarch,22 is disputed.23 This is not to say that the Greeks took over the idea of monarchy from the Orient, adapting it to their own special conditions, since it is hardly possible to find 14

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19 20 21

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At the same time, the image of the rex inutilis, who is not a tyrant but who is a superfluous failure, appears to be a comparatively late phenomenon; see, however, Dészpa (in this volume). Light has been shed on this concept, which presupposes a basically high acceptance of the monarchic principle, in medieval studies in particular; cf. Peters 1970. A text from the archive of Aššur-bāni-apli (Assurbanipal) may serve as an example. In this text, an unjust ruler, who does not respect the gods, the law or his advisors, is threatened with divine anger. This, it is said, can, in the worst case, lead to Enlil, the king of the gods, sending out a foreign king in order to destroy the unjust ruler and his army; cf. Meissner 1920: 65 f. For an overview, cf. Mee 2008. Cf. Rollinger 2001. Cf. Anderson 2005. According to the prevailing view, Archil. fr. 19 (West) is the locus classicus which proves an initially neutral use of the term: οὔ μοι τὰ Γύγεω τοῦ πολυχρύασου μέλει, οὐδ᾽ εἷλέ πώ με ζῆλος, οὐδ᾽ ἀγαίομαι θεῶν ἔργα, μεγάλης δ᾽οὐκ ἐρέω τυραννίδος· ἀπόπροθεν γάρ ἐστιν ὀφθαλμῶν ἐμῶν. Cf. Parker 1998. Cf. Aristot. eth. Nic. 1060b. Cf. Morris 2003. Cf. Hall 2007: 120–127; cf. Schulz 2011: 28 f. The Homeric epics occasionally show to all intents and purposes a positive attitude to monarchy, cf. Hom. Il. 2.204. It is noticeable that, at the same time, there is also already criticism of the unjust ruler; thus, Odysseus himself calls the killing of the suitors problematic: normally murder is punished by death or exile and he has now killed the aristoi of Ithaca (Hom. Od. 23.118–122). The killing of (other) nobles by a basileus is here considered unambiguously offensive. Cf. also Drews 1983. Cf. Shear 2004; Schmidt 2006. Cf. Schmitt 2009.

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evidence for such an idea in the sources.24 It is, however, certain that by classical times at the latest, the vast majority of poleis were not ruled by monocrats (not in Sparta, either), even if at that time basileia – at this point in clear opposition to tyrannis25 – was at least theoretically understood as a legitimate form of rule alongside democracy and aristocracy or oligarchy.26 In Athens, in particular, democracy, or rather isonomia, played a prominent role, although one should not overlook the fact that influential authors such as Thucydides or Aristotle did in fact distance themselves from it. The fact that feasible forms of rule between which one could choose existed alongside each other was crucial; under these circumstances an oligarchic as well as an antimonarchic discourse could develop, which was carried by the intellectual members of the secular elites and which we can grasp far better than in Egypt or the Near East on account of the more favorable preservation of relevant sources. When talking about monarchy, it did, of course, make a great difference in this context whether one lived under a monocrat or not. On account of the existence of plausible alternatives, the pressure to prove oneself as a legitimate ruler increased on anyone who was aspiring to monocracy in the Greek and Roman world or who, indeed, already ruled as a monocrat. Every monarch could be accused of being a tyrant or a despot, who turned people into his slaves. Although all strategies that were commonly used in order to delegitimize a ruler in the Orient could also be employed, in principle, in the West, too, the possibility in this context of questioning monocracy as such appears to have been a characteristic of the Greek and Roman world. This assumption is the central premise of the present volume. In classical times, after the Persian Wars at the latest,27 “freedom” (ἐλευθερία) had been declared to be a defining characteristic of the Greeks, distinguishing them from the barbarians, and the “Asians” in particular.28 This view has not only left marked traces in the European history of thought until very recent times: already in 24 25 26

27 28

See, however, Hall 2007: “That the Greeks should borrow a word to describe an autocratic regime only makes real sense if this was a system of government with which they were relatively unfamiliar” (139). Cf. the contributions in Morgan 2003. This was true above all of the Greek motherland; in that part of Asia Minor which was under Persian control (cf. Wiesehöfer 2008) tyrants did exist at this time, too, in the same way as they did with the Greeks of Sicily and southern Italy. Cf. de Romilly 1959 and Carlier 2010. The locus classicus is the fictitious constitutional debate, which Herodotus sets at the Persian court in the year 522 BCE (Hdt. 3.80–82); cf. Lanza 1977: 225–232; Pelling 2002. By using the transparent device of only discussing the ‘ideal’ versions of the three forms of government, Herodotus has Darius I emerge victorious from the discussion as a champion of monarchy: if basileia is defined as the rule of the best person, then aristocracy necessarily means that less good individuals participate in the exercise of authority, and this ought to be avoided: quid enim optumo melius cogitari potest? (Cic. rep. 3.35.) On the continued influence of this tradition in Rome, cf. Spawforth 1994. Aristot. pol. 3.1327b. It has been pointed out in more recent research that inner freedom and autonomy were apparently primarily meant here; by contrast, in case of doubt, freedom with regard to external politics was of subordinate importance for most poleis: the assumption that independence is a constitutive element of a city state derives primarily from modern constitutional thought; cf. Hansen 1995. Cf. also Dmitriev 2011.

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antiquity it offered the possibility of characterizing monocrats as enemies of freedom and associating them with barbarians. The relevant teachings concerning tyrant-related topoi were fully developed and established by around 430 BCE at the latest. It is true that in Hellas aristocratic-oligarchic and democratic models of government could never claim to be accepted automatically, either, and conflicts between their representatives could, indeed, play a part in the staseis of this period.29 However, the pressure to show himself to be the legitimate ruler was particularly high on every monocrat in the world of the polis,30 and it is hardly a coincidence that Greek tyrants did not, as a rule, manage to maintain their position for more than three generations at most.31 The idea of what constituted a “good” ruler appears to have first arisen as a counterpart to tyranny.32 On the other hand, outside the world of the polis, in Macedon in particular, a legitimate monarchy (basileia) succeeded in establishing itself, but it is precisely the example of the Argeads that shows the precariousness of the position of this dynastically legitimated sovereignty, too.33 The rule of a single individual was fundamentally contrary to the central norms of the world of the polis. Any individual who ruled alone had to attempt to adapt to this matrix in order to gain acceptance.34 This is of decisive importance: if monocracy was not considered a matter of course, it had to prove its worth. For this reason, unlike in the Near East, the monarch in question did not just have to demonstrate his personal aptitude; instead, the burden of proof went the other way: it was almost as if he were suspected of being a tyrant on principle. Boundaries were not clearly defined, and he had to show that his achievements and qualities justified the loss of freedom.35 Put in a very simplified way, in Hellas, it was not just a matter of proving that a particular ruler was unsuitable, but rather, the monarch had to prove that, despite the fact that he ruled, he was not bad. For this reason, even a successful ruler could always be attacked circuitously by way of criticism of the system: in case of doubt, he was unable to give much of an answer to the accusation that he was an enemy of freedom simply on account of his existence. Conversely, criticism of individual rulers could always also be understood as an attack on the political order. This phenomenon was a specific characteristic of monocracy, as it was only within this form of government that the political system and its exponent, the monarch, were largely one and the same. 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

The most famous example is without doubt the stasis in Corcyra (Diod. 13.48); according to Thucydides it was at least ostensibly marked by a conflict between oligarchs and democrats (Thuc. 3.79–84); cf. Gehrke 1985: 88–93; Price 2001: 6–66. An illegitimate monocrat was a tyrant, and as such he was, in principle, considered as an ἀσεβής and an outlaw. Cf. Luraghi 2013c. According to some Greek authors, a community which was ruled by an absolute monocrat could not even be called a polis anymore; cf. Soph. Ant. 737; Eur. Suppl. 429–432; Ain. tact. 10.11. Cf. Luraghi 2013b. Cf. King 2010. Cf. Gotter 2008b: 185 f. The virtues which Xenophon ascribes to the king of the Spartans, Agesilaus, are illuminating in this context; cf. Xen. Ag. 11.

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This was also true of Alexander the Great, who was unmatched when it came to success: irrespective of his achievements he was not infrequently also seen as a destroyer of Greek freedom. Nevertheless, meritocratic thinking offered a feasible route to securing a person’s rule and to making a prominent position plausible, a route taken by Hellenistic rulers in particular.36 If one did not have any genuine successes to show, it was at least important to claim that one did.37 The meritocratic principle thus presented an answer to the problem of how to justify one’s rule, but on the other hand, it also made the monarch vulnerable, as it made it possible to make statements about the ruler’s quality which could be assessed in a more or less objective way.38 He, for his part, had to live with the basic fear that antimonarchic discussion could, possibly, be followed by corresponding actions. Although the Greek world was – regardless of the continued existence and vibrancy of democratic structures in many poleis39 – dominated by monarchies after Alexander, monarchy itself nevertheless was never considered natural;40 the part played by kings was subject to continuous negotiation.41 The situation may have been different for most of the non-Greek subjects, especially those of the Seleucids and of the Ptolemaic rulers;42 and in those Greek towns of Asia Minor which had been under Achaemenid rule prior to Alexander’s campaign the longing for eleuthe-

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Cf. Gehrke 2013 and Haake 2013. In addition to this, Schubart 1936 is still of importance. The 17th Idyll of Theokritos (in particular 17.73–130), which was composed in around 270 BCE, probably conveys a good impression of the way in which kings wanted to see themselves portrayed. Cf. Gotter 2013; Strootman 2014: 247–263. The basic idea of judging a ruler by his achievements is nowhere clearer than in the famous, and very probably Hellenistic, definition of basileia: οὐτε φύσις οὐτε τε τὸ δίκαιον ἀποδιδοῦσι τοῖς ἀνθρώποις τὰς βασιλείας, ἀλλὰ τοῖς δυναμένοις ἡγεῖσθαι στρατοπέδου καὶ χειρίζειν πράγματα νουνεχῶς (Suda Β 147). Cf. Ma 2003 for more recent research on Hellenistic kingship; amongst other things, his paper emphasizes the multitude of roles which monarchs could play in different communication contexts. For recent discussion concerning the character of the Hellenistic town, cf. Zimmermann 2008; Wiemer 2013. It is significant that Plutarch, probably going back to Hellenistic sources, claims in a famous passage that the Diadochoi had immediately changed for the worse after accepting the title of king; Plut. Demet. 18. Cf. Plut. Kleom. 13; Pol. 15.24.4. Thus, it is noticeable that kings, for example when communicating with Greek towns, generally did not present themselves as rulers and monarchs, but as “benefactors”; cf., for example, OGIS 223 (Seleucids) or SEG 47.1745 (Attalids). Cf. Bringmann 1993; Strootman 2011. “The whole issue of autonomy and city liberty (…) might be another local tradition, which the kings had to accommodate by playing a specific role to be found within modes of interaction” (Ma 2003: 180). However, one must not forget that the Greek cities were of special importance to the kings: “Auf griechische Funktionäre und Militärs waren die Herrscher in hohem Maße angewiesen, und diese rekrutierten sich im Wesentlichen (…) aus den griechischen Städten” (Gehrke 2006: 217). Cf. Shipley 2000: 59–107. The non-Greek subjects of Hellenistic kings are, as a rule, likely to have largely considered the monarchic principle normal, as for example in Egypt. Cf. Mittag 2003.

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ria will also have been somewhat limited.43 All of these had in common the fact that they had been accustomed to monarchic systems for a long time. But there were important groups among which things stood differently, as antimonarchic sentiments were always attractive to the elites. These could be expressed in different genres – in addition to historiography, the most important areas were biography and rhetoric and to some extent also drama –, and it provided an outlet which made it possible to overcome the cognitive dissonance which existed between reality, often marked by opportunism, and the self-image of the aristocracy. From the very beginning, Hellenistic kings made use of dynastic44 and later also religious strategies of legitimization45 in order to immunize themselves better against criticism and attacks,46 and regardless of the difficult question concerning the extent to which this represents mere analogy or conscious appropriation of older, Near Eastern concepts,47 comparable approaches can be observed in the Imperium Romanum. Immediately after the end of the last relevant Hellenistic monarchy, Egypt, the Roman Empire for its part turned into a de facto monocracy. In this context, the Principate was, historically speaking, a special case: the nobiles of the res publica had for centuries defined themselves by means of a strict ethic of achievement and the ideal of aristocratic libertas.48 The ostentatious rejection of monarchy was, apparently, the lowest common denominator which most of the members of the Roman ruling classes had been able to agree on for a long time.49 In this context, however, two things must be considered: on the one hand, it is entirely unclear, not least because of the sources available, as to how and whether monarchy was a subject of discussion in Rome before the second century BCE.50 On the other hand, for 43

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Cf. Errington 2008: 3: “Since these ‘liberated’ Greek states were not used to exercising real political choice, they were generally content to recognize the Macedonian’s essential goodwill and therefore largely acquiesced in being ruled by him as successor to the ‘Great King’, quietly continuing to pay what his governors demanded.” Cf. Strootman 2011: 143: “Monarchic empire was only a new phenomenon for the cities in mainland Greece (…). Greek poleis in Asia Minor had been accustomed to Persian hegemony for centuries”. It is unclear to what extent those towns which had been founded after Alexander felt bound to the tradition of the polis (cf. Kosmin 2014: 183–251); it is certain, however, that Greeks as well as Macedonians were among the first citizens of these towns; cf. Austin 2003: 129. Thus, it is conspicuous that in a Hellenistic basileia, the women of the ruling dynasty also played an important public role from an early date; this differs from the state of affairs under a tyrant; cf. Shipley 2000: 71 f. Habicht 1970 still represents the classic investigation on the topic of the Hellenistic ruler cult; an up-to-date overview is offered by Chaniotis 2003. These efforts were doubtless taken to an extreme by the θεός Antiochus I of Commagene; cf. Wagner 2012. On attempted usurpations, especially in the Seleucid Empire, see Chrubasik (forthcoming). Cf. the contributions in Günther/Plischke 2012. On the Hasmonean Dynasty, an especially interesting case, see Trampedach 2013; Bernhardt 2015. Cf. Beck 2008. Cf. Erskine 1991, who assumes that the antimonarchic sentiments in Rome are a later development which only arose after contact with Hellenistic kings. See also Sigmund 2014. Cf. Classen 1965. Thus, it is entirely conceivable that the relevance of antimonarchic discourse only increased after men such as Publius Cornelius Scipio (and perhaps also already Gaius

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the period following this, one should not make the mistake of underestimating the variety of positions, interests and opinions inside and outside the ruling classes.51 Nevertheless, one thing is quite clear: the regifugium was, in the late Republic, a central founding myth of the nobiles – but perhaps less so for the plebs – and it played an important part in political discourse.52 It was not least because of this ideology that Caesar failed.53 When he assumed the dictatura perpetua, even men like Brutus, who owed him a personal debt of gratitude, reached for the dagger.54 It was probably partly because of this experience, too, that Caesar’s greatnephew, Augustus, proceeded more cautiously when, after a further civil war, he had gained sole authority in the Empire: necesse est multos timeat quem multi timent.55 The complex web of personal obligations and formal legal powers of authority served in the main to disguise the monocracy of the princeps with its huge resources and thus made it easier for the nobiles to cooperate.56 In practice, Tacitus was surely not the first to realize that the res publica libera had come to its end and that, effectively, Augustus’ rule represented the beginning of a monarchy.57 However, public discussion of the political situation was often deliberately ambiguous. For Augustus and the principes who followed him meritocratic thinking thus remained a central pillar of their position; officially, the main argument employed to create acceptance of their position of authority, and thus voluntary obedience of orders, was that their auctoritas, which exceeded everything else, had been gained through achievement.58 There could be only one optimus, and the idea was that he should be the one to rule.

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53 54

55 56 57 58

Flaminius) had begun to disturb the equilibrium within the ruling classes. Cf. Meier 2014. When a quaestor in 69 BCE, Caesar is supposed to have held a eulogy for his late aunt Julia in which he proudly traced his gens back to the rex Ancus Marcius; cf. Suet. Div. Iul. 6. Assuming that this is not a later invention, it shows that referring back to kings did not have to be a taboo. Nunc mihi dicenda est regis fuga. Traxit ab illa sextus ab extremo nomina mense dies. Ultima Tarquinius Romanae gentis habebat regna, vir iniustus, fortis ad arma tamen (Ov. fast. 2.685– 688). The question of whether there really was kingship in the early Roman period is of secondary importance in this context; on the “nature of kingship at Rome” cf. Cornell 1995: 141–150 (in parts methodologically problematic); Linke 2010; Smith 2011. Thus, the murderers of Caesar evidently justified their act as the recovery of freedom: οὔτε γὰρ ἐπὶ δυναστείᾳ οὔτ᾿ ἐπ᾿ ἄλλῃ πλεονεξίᾳ οὐδεμιᾷ ἀπεκτονέναι αὐτὸν ἔφασαν, ἀλλ᾿ ἵν᾿ ἐλεύθεροί τε καὶ αὐτόνομοι ὄντες ὀρθῶς πολιτεύωνται (Cass. Dio 44.21.1). Cf. Gotter 1996: 207–232. Outside Rome, too, Brutus and Cassius were sometimes celebrated as tyrannicides, the most famous example undoubtedly being Athens, where it was decided to erect statues in their honor next to Harmodius and Aristogeiton; cf. Cass. Dio 47.20.4. (I will leave aside the question of whether this was truly a voluntary act, given the power structures at the time.) Sen. de ira 2.11.3. The aphorism is ascribed to Caesar’s contemporary Decimus Laberius and in fact belongs to a different context. The co-existence of princeps and senate was famously described as “diarchy” by Theodor Mommsen; this conception has recently been advocated again; cf. Winterling 2005. Cf. Tac. ann. 3.56; Tac. ann. 4.33. Res Gest. div. Aug. 34.3. Cf. Börm/Havener 2012.

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It has long been known that the individual Roman emperors of this period were dependent on the assent of their subjects – and especially of the soldiers59 – to a particularly high degree, as the emperors’ position was, de facto, indispensable, but its formal legitimization was weak.60 For this reason, they were not only obliged to distinguish themselves from the rest of the population,61 but also from their predecessors – and this was true not only in cases of a violent changeover of power. Every princeps was expected to guarantee internal peace, in particular, that is, the absence of civil war and lawlessness, and this was often a difficult task. However, the situation of the Empire’s elite was also complicated.62 Writers did not always succeed in judging correctly the extent of the libertas which they were allowed.63 At the same time, a man such as Titus Labienus, who crossed the line, also created a difficult position for the ruler: on the one hand, attacks could, once they had reached a certain intensity, only be tolerated with difficulty without risking a loss of authority; on the other hand, a harsh reaction revealed the princeps as an enemy of freedom more than ever and thus proved the accusations to be true. It is likely that a desire to escape this dilemma contributed to the vast majority of historians of the imperial period deciding not to write about living principes.64 More than ever, talk of the past became the playing-field of (anti-)monarchic discourse, while the historians themselves stated that it had become more difficult since the beginning of the imperial period to obtain reliable information about the government; this gap was filled by rumors and allegations.65 As time went by, monocracy became more and more natural in the Roman Empire, which was, moreover, surrounded by neighbors in which monarchy was the dominant form of rule. From the middle of the 3rd century CE, in particular, the influence of the ideology of the Principate, which had, anyway, always been di59

60

61 62

63 64 65

One of the most astonishing and at the same time most overlooked achievements of the first princeps was, by the way, that Augustus managed to maintain his control over the legions, the decisive pillar of his power. The Roman troops do not really appear to have realized until the late second century that they were not only able to proclaim emperors but that they could also kill them. Reference should be made to the influential conception of the Principate as a “system of acceptance”: as there was no official provision in Rome for the position of monarch, it was also not possible for there to be an undisputed source of legitimacy for an individual emperor – if the princeps lost the support of vital groups of society, the risk of usurpation increased; cf. Flaig 1992: 174–209 and Flaig 2011. “Falls der Begriff der Legitimität überhaupt einen Sinn ergeben soll, muß er beinhalten: eine Institution ist fraglos akzeptiert. Daß die einzelnen Kaiser gestürzt werden konnten, heißt, daß sie nicht legitim – also nicht fraglos akzeptiert – waren, sondern ihre Akzeptanz sichern mußten” (Flaig 2014: 743). On the Roman Imperial cult, cf. Gordon 2011 (with further literature). Cf. Geisthardt 2015. Unde angusta et lubrica oratio sub principe qui libertatem metuebat adulationem oderat (Tac. ann. 2.87). This accusation goes back a long way and is found already in Herodotus: ἤν τε γὰρ αὐτὸν μετρίως θωμάζῃς, ἄχθεται ὅτι οὐ κάρτα θεραπεύεται, ἤν τε θεραπεύῃ τις κάρτα, ἄχθεται ἅτε θωπί (Hdt. 3.80.5). Cf. Rutledge 2009: 24–28. Cf. Matthews 2006. However, it should be conceded that most earlier historians also apparently avoided writing about individuals who were still alive. Cf. Cass. Dio 53.19.2–4; Eun. fr. 50 (Blockley).

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rected primarily at an Italian audience, decreased significantly. Given the serious crisis to which the Roman monarchy was subject at the time,66 emperors increasingly looked for new ways of stabilizing their precarious position. Moreover, consideration for the sensitivities of the nobiles receded in proportion to the growing marginalization of the senatorial aristocracy. In Late Antiquity, Rome had become close to a ‘normal’ monarchy.67 Diocletian systematized court ritual, which was intended to emphasize the singularity and superiority of the dominus, and Constantine not only strengthened dynastic thinking,68 but also quite openly introduced elements and symbols of kingship to Roman imperial rule – the most conspicuous example is probably the diadem.69 In the period that followed, a common set of stylistic elements of late antique monarchy developed, not least through exchange with the Sasanian Empire.70 This left its traces in Iran, the Eastern Roman Empire and right into the emerging regna in the Roman west. Nevertheless, the distinctive structural features of imperial rule remained visible, not least because the discourse on monarchies exhibited conspicuous features. Thus, even a Late Roman Augustus faced the risk of losing legitimacy on account of despotic behavior – especially the killing of nobiles – and being considered a tyrant from that point on.71 Moreover, traditional elements were preserved for a long time in secular literature because of the markedly conservative nature of paideia, which remained a mark of status for the elites until the reign of Justinian at least. “Kaiserkritik” was virtually a marker of genre, especially in late antique historiography, as it allowed authors to demonstrate their love of truth and their incorruptibility. In addition to this, it was possible to voice a fundamental feeling of unease as regards monocracy: even if it was always directed at individual, and usually deceased, rulers72 and did not directly attack monarchy itself as a system, the omnipresence of criticism of the emperor 66 67

68

69 70 71 72

Cf. Körner 2011. It is, of course, difficult to answer the question of what the characteristics of such a monarchy are. Here, the fact that it was fundamentally accepted as natural is viewed as the most prominent feature of such a system. In addition to this, the aspect which relates to constitutional law is of significance – is the monarch’s position provided for in the ‘constitution’? Furthermore, deriving from this, the presence of an unambiguous rule of succession is relevant. The consistent application of the dynastic principle, however, is not one of the significant elements. One should perhaps not make the mistake of viewing those forms which the western European kingdoms developed from the late Middle Ages onwards as the standard. The dynastic principle had already played an important role since Augustus, as the principes had always tried to pass on their power within the family. In this context it is, by the way, significant that the first princeps made membership of the senate hereditary, thus creating the ordo senatorius; this placed qualifications on strict meritocratic thinking. Cf. Börm 2015. Cf. Kolb 2001: 76 f. Cf. Canepa 2009; Mitchell 2015: 167–175. Cf. Börm 2013: 140–148. It is, of course, usually impossible to establish how much ‘reality’ may lie behind the accusations levelled at individual rulers; however, given the great age and authority of the traditions which were being continued, mimesis, for example, of literary models doubtlessly always played an important part.

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may be an indication that the secular elites continued to see imperial rule more as a necessary evil rather than anything else. In addition to this, rivalries within the ruling classes, on which every monarch depended, could become manifest in this way. In a monocracy, proximity to the ruler ultimately determined one’s career,73 and this meant that there were necessarily always many losers. In this context, the accusation that the system lacked legitimacy could increase the level of frustration that a person could tolerate, as one’s failure could be put down to circumstances rather than lack of personal ability. This function of criticism as an outlet for frustration may be a reason why rulers – especially those whose position was relatively secure – generally tolerated such comments, as long as a certain red line was not crossed. The second distinctive feature of Late Antiquity is the development of a religious, Christian discourse on monarchy. Constantine had turned to a faith, which, not least because of an increasingly more radical monotheism and claim to exclusivity, appeared to be suited to enabling an affirmative discussion of a monarchic order on earth, as a mirror of heaven,74 so to speak.75 But at the same time, this created new points of attack; already in the fourth century, a Christian discourse which was critical of the ruler developed in the Imperium Romanum.76 The Christianization of imperial rule thus increased the acceptance of monarchy in principle, but could also increase the pressure on an individual ruler. The relationship between monarchy and monotheism, indications of which are already found in pre-Christian times, is of course far too complex for it to be adequately examined here.77 Nevertheless, it seems likely that the triumphant advance 73 74 75

76 77

It is not possible to discuss here whether the concept of “Königsmechanismus” (cf. Elias 1997: 235–259) can be applied to the late Roman court, that is, whether the emperor was able to deliberately and successfully play off different groups of his “apparatus” against one another. Eus. vit. Const. 1.43 and Eus. Tria. 3.4. I would like to deliberately leave aside here the old question of whether a personal experience of conversion, in addition to political considerations, also played a role in the conversio Constantini. Cf. Amerise 2007. Already Tertullian had stated that monarchy and the Christian religion fitted together well: Christianus nullius est hostis, nedum imperatoris, quem sciens a Deo suo constitui, necesse est ut et ipsum diligat et revereatur et honoret et salvum velit, cum toto Romano Imperio, quousque saeculum stabit: tamdiu enim stabit. Colimus ergo et imperatorem sic quomodo et nobis licet et ipsi expedit, ut hominem a Deo secundum; et quicquid est a Deo consecutum est, solo tamen Deo minorem. Hoc et ipse volet. Sic enim omnibus maior est, dum solo Deo minor est. Sic et ipsis diis maior est, dum et ipsi in potestate eius sunt (Tert. ad Scapul. 2). – “A Christian is enemy to no one, least of all to the Emperor, whom he knows to be appointed by his God, and so cannot but love and honor; and whose well-being moreover, he must needs desire, with that of the empire over which he reigns so long as the world shall stand – for so long as that shall Rome continue. To the emperor, therefore, we render such reverential homage as is lawful for us and good for him; regarding him as the human being next to God who from God has received all his power, and is less than God alone. And this will be according to his own desires. For thus – as less only than the true God – he is greater than all besides. Thus he is greater than the very gods themselves, even they, too, being subject to him” (tr. Thelwall, with modifications). In the Apologeticum, however, Tertullian argues that a Roman emperor cannot be a Christian (Tert. Apol. 21.24). Cf. Börm 2010: 175 f. Cf. Rebenich 2012: 1188–1192.

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of monotheism also contributed to the fact that the late antique order which had established itself between the Atlantic Ocean and India by the 7th century CE consisted almost exclusively of monarchic systems, both in the east and in the west. At the same time, the demise, to a large extent, of the classically educated secular elites in this period meant that those who had transmitted the Greek and Roman (anti-) monarchic discourse over centuries disappeared. The world followed different rules after the end of antiquity.

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Smith, C. 2011. “Thinking about Kings”. BICS 54: 21–42. Spawforth, A. 1994. “Symbol of Unity? The Persian-Wars Tradition in the Roman Empire”. In Greek Historiography, Hornblower, S. ed., 233–269. Oxford: Clarendon. Strootman, R. 2011. “Kings and Cities in the Hellenistic Age”. In Political Culture in the Greek City after the Classical Age, van Nijf, O / Alston, R. eds., 141–153. Leuven: Peeters. Strootman, R. 2014. Courts and Elites in the Hellenistic Empires. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Timpe, D. 2004. “Der Mythos vom Mittelmeerraum. Über die Grenzen der Alten Welt”. Chiron 34: 3–23. Trampedach, K. 2013. “Between Hellenistic Monarchy and Jewish Theocracy: The Contested Legitimacy of Hasmonean Rule”. In The Splendors and Miseries of Ruling Alone. Encounters with Monarchy from Archaic Greece to the Hellenistic Mediterranean, Luraghi, N. ed., 231– 259. Stuttgart: Steiner. Wagner, J. ed. 2012. Gottkönige am Euphrat. Neue Ausgrabungen und Forschungen in Kommagene. Mainz: Zabern. Weber, G. (forthcoming). Antike Monarchie. Hellenistisches Königtum und römischer Prinzipat. Munich: Oldenbourg. Wienand, J. 2015. Contested Monarchy. Integrating the Roman Empire in the Fourth Century AD. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wiemer, H.-U. 2006. “Staatlichkeit und politisches Handeln in der römischen Kaiserzeit. Einleitende Bemerkungen”. In Staatlichkeit und politisches Handeln in der römischen Kaiserzeit, Wiemer, H.-U. ed., 1–40. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Wiemer, H.-U. 2013. “Hellenistic Cities: The End of Greek Democracy?” In A Companion to Ancient Greek Government, Beck, H. ed., 54–69. Malden: Wiley-Blackwell. Wiesehöfer, J. 2004. Ancient Persia. From 550 BC to 650 AD. London/New York: Tauris. Wiesehöfer, J. 2008. “Republik versus Monarchie? Griechische Stadtstaaten unter persischer Herrschaft”. Iranistik 5.1–2: 223–231. Winterling, A. 2005. “Dyarchie in der römischen Kaiserzeit. Vorschlag zur Wiederaufnahme der Diskussion”. In Theodor Mommsens langer Schatten. Das römische Staatsrecht als bleibende Herausforderung für die Forschung, Nippel, W. / Seidensticker, B. eds., 177–198. Hildesheim: Olms. Winterling, A. 2009. Politics and Society in Imperial Rome. Malden: Wiley-Blackwell. Winterling, A. 2011. “Zu Theorie und Methode einer neuen Römischen Kaisergeschichte”. In Zwischen Strukturgeschichte und Biographie. Probleme und Perspektiven einer neuen Römischen Kaisergeschichte, Winterling, A. ed., 1–11. Munich: Oldenbourg. Zimmermann, M. 2008. “Stadtbilder im Hellenismus – die hellenistische Polis in neuer Perspektive”. In Stadtbilder im Hellenismus, Matthaei, A. / Zimmermann, M. eds., 9–20. Berlin: Verlag Antike.

2 “AS HE DISREGARDED THE LAW, HE WAS REPLACED DURING HIS OWN LIFETIME” On Criticism of Egyptian Rulers in the So-Called Demotic Chronicle Joachim Friedrich Quack Before going into detail, it might be appropriate to provide some basic information on Egyptian history and the concept of kingship in Ancient Egypt. Egyptian history is commonly structured by means of a division into “dynasties”, a term which goes back to the historical work, written in Greek, of Manetho, an Egyptian priest living in the early Ptolemaic period (3rd century BCE).1 In Manetho’s work, “dynasties” are defined not by genealogical descent but by common geographic origin. Nevertheless, they are considered nowadays to usually consist of a sequence of kings from the same family. Chronologically, the dynasties are organised into larger units of “kingdoms” (the Old Kingdom, ca. 2700 to 2200 BCE; the Middle Kingdom, ca. 2000 to 1750 BCE; and the New Kingdom, ca. 1550 to 1070 BCE). In between these, there are so-called “intermediary periods”, and it has become customary in recent times to add to this a “Third Intermediate Period” (ca. 1070 to 715 BCE), which follows after the New Kingdom before the Late Period as such sets in. Whereas Egypt was under indigenous rule for the largest part of the older period (and often expanded into neighbouring territories), from the first millennium BCE onwards it experienced different types of foreign rulers. While the families of Libyan descent ruling for most of the Third Intermediate period had their actual power bases within Egypt, the picture began to change with the Nubian pharaohs of the 25th dynasty (ca. 715 to 664 BCE). Although they often still resided in Egypt, their actual home was outside Egypt. The situation became more extreme with the Assyrian invasion of Egypt (671 BCE) and later with Persian rule (526 to 404 and 342 to 330 BCE), when Egypt was only a small part of an empire the center of which lay outside Egypt itself. In between these two phases of foreign rule, we have the 26th dynasty (664 to 526 BCE) and a sequence of short-lived dynasties between the two Persian occupations (404 to 342 BCE). The concept of kingship in Egypt has been the subject of considerable scholarly attention.2 However, most studies are either very general or restricted to limited time 1 2

Basic edition Jacoby 1958: 5–112; handy bilingual (Greek-English) edition Waddell 1940; for a recent study of the dynastic tradition and its possible Egyptian antecedents, see Quack 2012b. Besides the “classic” study by Frankfort 1948, more recent studies are e. g. Blumenthal 1970; Barta 1975, Grimal 1986; Schade-Busch 1992; O’Connor/Silverman 1995; Gundlach 1998;

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periods, sometimes even to single kings, and there is as yet no overarching diachronic study which traces the changes over time in detail. Such an endeavour would probably be quite difficult to undertake and the time is not yet ripe for it. Nevertheless, we should at least bear in mind that the different concepts are likely to have evolved substantially over such a long period of time, and that even the use of similar or identical expressions can imply different meanings when considered in detail. In modern times, there has been considerable discussion as to what extent the Egyptians really considered their king to be divine. In general, older publications take such a claim seriously while, since Posener’s 1960 ground-breaking study on the question of divine kingship, as well as a more specific study by Goedicke (1960) on Old Kingdom royal phraseology, the preferred solution has been to distinguish between a genuinely divine office and the individual (human) incumbent. I am far from being persuaded that this is the correct solution; it seems to be driven to too great an extent by modern considerations of what is acceptable and what is not.3 There are even explicit statements that survive that say that the king is a god and not a man (Edfou VI.301.13). Ancient Egypt was a culture in which monarchy as a form of rule was never questioned as such. This may be taken as confirmation of prejudices concerning Oriental despotism by whomsoever feels so inclined,4 but at least the Egyptians provided a clear definition of what they considered the king’s main tasks to be. However, this definition is not found as part of a discursive, theoretical treatise, but of a religious text which, in research on the subject, is generally called “cult-theological tract” or “The King as Sun-Priest”, but which was in fact either a companion text to the representation of the sun cycle in the temple or an integral constituent of funerary compositions for private individuals. In any case, it hardly satisfies the expectations one would have of a politico-philosophical discursive text today.5 The passage in question reads as follows: The sun-god has appointed King NN on the earth of the living for all eternity so that he may judge humans and satisfy the gods, so that he may create truth and destroy falsehood. He gives the gods sacrificial food, invocational sacrifices to those who have become transfigured. The name of King NN is in heaven the same as (that of) the sun-god, his life is in his heart’s joy as (is that of) Horus of the horizon. The noble rejoice when they see him, his subjects pay homage to him in his shape of a young man.6

3

4 5 6

Windus-Staginsky 2006; Blöbaum 2006; Frandsen 2008. Quack 2010a. Frandsen 2008: 62–65 has argued that the transmission of an ı̓mı̓.t-pr-document (a sort of testament) would be an indication of the human character of the king. However, this legal document is also recorded for the divine sphere in Egypt (some examples already in Frandsen 2008: 64; additionally e. g. pCairo CG 58034, l. 9; cf. Quack 2012d: 225). On this subject, cf. Assmann 1992, especially 39–44, with a very considered position. He also already refers to the “Demotic Chronicle”, discussed below, as the only Egyptian text in which monarchy is criticised. On the text, cf. Assmann 1970; Betrò 1990: 27–50. Cf. Assmann 1970: 19 and 22; Betrò 1990: 27 and 46–50.

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Of course, this definition of function, with its unquestioned and unquestionable religious legitimation, makes a critical reflection regarding the point of a monarchic form of government (or lack thereof) impossible from the outset. At this point, one might consider the extent to which the system would, given this situation, even allow for an open, controversial discussion and, furthermore, to what extent the place of such a discussion is taken instead by court intrigue as the most eminent implement for deciding between two options. In any case, the importance of rituals in Egyptian culture which served the purpose of obtaining favor and popularity, especially with the king is noticeable, as is the amount of evidence which shows that it was possible to systematically obliterate the names and images of high officials with richly decorated graves – the specific reason being, apparently, that they had lost royal favor.7 Such an examination could lead on to further discussion of what Egyptologists call the “king’s novel” and which is, in fact, less of a literary genre than a way of describing how political decisions should be made according to the following understanding: the king announces a decision, and either his council rejoices from the outset or they are shown the error of their ways.8 Controversial situations at court are never mentioned in this context; the court is always represented as a homogenous bloc, although one can assume that, in practice, different opinions and factions existed often enough. But the existence of different factions is subject to negative cultural judgment in Egypt in any case. Key evidence of this is, for instance, the Instructions for Merikare, in which the demagogue is described in the following way: “He creates two factions among the young” (Merikare E 25);9 furthermore, an explicit appeal is made to oppose such people. Accordingly, the entire decision-making structure in Egypt is strongly marked by the principle of consensus. A judge’s ideal virtue, for example, is the ability to deliver a judgment concerning two people in such a way that both are satisfied.10 On the other hand, one should of course bear in mind that in such a situation, too, which involved the court and which was supposedly characterised by a superficial harmony and consensus, different groups with varying interests would, in actual fact, have participated in the decision-making process. It is just that the actual process diverges considerably from that of a parliamentary democracy of today. For all that, criticism of individual rulers is not entirely out of the question. However, in such cases, the situation tends to turn quickly to the other extreme. Rulers who, often almost immediately after their death, have been classified in a negative way are quickly seen in such a bad light that there is no discursive discussion of their rule, and they are simply forgotten in a process which is as prescribed as it is effective. It is telling how the names of certain rulers who have been subject 7 8 9 10

On this, cf. Quack 2011; Quack 2012c: 111–115. For recent discussions on this group of texts, cf. for example Jansen-Winkeln 1993; Loprieno 1996; Beylage 2002: 553–618, Hoffmann 2004; Quack 2010b: 223; Quack 2012a: 282–286. Quack 1992: 20 f. and 167. Cf., for example, Jin 2003; Jin 2014.

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to an unfavorable judgement by immediate posterity are indeed actively consigned to oblivion. They are not found in the ritual compilations of kings’ names for sacrificial purposes,11 and, in those cases where lists from the administrative tradition necessitate transmission of the name, for example for administrative purposes, circumlocutions are used in order to avoid naming the ruler explicitly. In the king lists, which contain a consecutive listing of all rulers along with the length of their reign, the number of years of a given reign has been labelled with the word “empty” at certain points. As the number of years of the reign has, in all cases, been preserved in these entries but the name of the specific ruler hasn’t, and as other sources usually indicate that the rulers in question were ones who were problematic in certain respects, one can assume that their names were deliberately considered not worthy of preservation and that the omission cannot be put down to coincidental damage to the archival exemplar that was used in that specific instance.12 Such rulers are, then, also notoriously subjected to a kind of damnatio memoriae insofar as their depictions and names were systematically hacked out of hieroglyphics wherever they were accessible. The difference from Roman damnatio memoriae is that no historian preserved the names and facts in his work.13 The circumstances are not yet entirely clear in cases in which images and texts of rulers who were later condemned remained on buildings and continued to be publicly visible, and it is a matter which would require more detailed examination. Particularly in the case of Queen Hatshepsut there are occasional instances in which her image was originally present but was then covered by other decoration. However, it is also fairly common for her image as king to have remained intact but for the accompanying names to have been rewritten to refer to unproblematic predecessors (especially Thutmosis I and II).14 The aim is clearly to maintain the function of the images in question as representations of kings carrying out rituals. Furthermore, it means that there is no ‘gap’ which might cause the observer to ask questions that could potentially keep the ruler in question alive in oral discourse more than ever. Circumlocution is another tangible method that was used in order to avoid naming a ruler explicitly when referring to his rule was unavoidable for practical reasons. An example of this occurred in a major lawsuit concerning property, which is relatively well documented in an inscription on a grave.15 The inscription refers to an earlier event, which happened to have taken place during the time of the heretical king Akhenaten, whom later tradition tried very much, and with considerable success, to forget. The inscription states that something took place during the time of the “enemy from Akhetaten”. The name of the short-lived Egyptian capital, relevant for the time in question, is just about given, but the inscription avoids giving the actual name of the ruler; the negative classification of the ruler as an enemy is

11 12 13 14 15

Redford 1986: 18–64. For this view, see, for example, Redford 1986: 14–16. On “the art of forgetting” in Rome, cf. Flower 2006. Cf. the overview in Ratié 1979: 302–209. On the text, cf. Text Gardiner 1905: 11 and 54 (line S 14); Gaballa 1977: 25, pl. LXIII.

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firmly defined. Similarly, a fragmentary administrative papyrus from the Egyptian Museum in Berlin states that someone died in the ninth year of “the rebel”.16 This very distinctive tendency to act as if events had never occurred or people had never existed forms a conspicuous contrast with conditions in the ancient Near East. There, the concept of “ill-fated kings” did, by all means, exist; their specific names are preserved for posterity, but they are preserved as examples of bad rule.17 At most, the admission of mistakes and of events which did not turn out in the best way is possible in a very specific genre, namely that kind of wisdom literature which a king composes for his son and successor and in which he gives good advice for his future rule. There are two surviving texts of this kind, the “Instructions of Amenemhat” addressed to his son Senusret18 and the “Instructions for Merikare” (a lacuna in the text means that the name of the father whose teachings are represented has been lost).19 The first text constitutes an apparently successful attack on the father whose teaching is described, while in the other an unfortunate event during the speaker’s own reign is admitted. However, both texts appear to be de facto posthumous works and it seems more likely that they represent a later ruler’s attempts to publicize his own political orientation as well as to provide a foil to his own glorious rule. However, once they have died, criticism of the rulers in question and of their government does not constitute a genuinely discursive and perhaps controversially dealt with point of personal opinion; instead, it is prescribed, official policy. In such a case, criticism of the ruler is not a personal decision that involves risks. Rather, it is only a refusal to accept the official condemnation which would carry risks, and substantial ones at that. Condemnation of a ruler is implemented so consistently, however, that one does not even find the ruler’s name as a negative example along with a list of his terrible deeds (as Tacitus might have done). In the case of an Egyptian ruler, however, the failing which he represents is obliterated by the power of hard facts, as it were, thus making the slightest opportunity of criticizing the fundamental political structures even more impossible. By contrast, negative statements about a ruler who is still in power carry heavy sanctions. This is to be seen as a culturally pronounced warning in wisdom literature, especially texts of that kind from the Middle Kingdom (c. 1950 to 1700 BCE), which are characterized by a strong exhortation to loyalty.20 The compositions known to Egyptologists as “The Loyalist Instructions”21 (by now identified as the “Teachings of Kairsu”) and as “The Teaching of a Man for his Son”22 are especially relevant.

16 17 18 19 20 21 22

Gardiner 1938; the text is now edited in KRI III 158: 14 f. Cf. for example Braun-Holzinger/Frahm 1999 as well as Wiesehöfer (in this volume). Adrom 2006 is the most recent edition of the original text. For an edition and study, see Quack 1992. On both works cf. Burkard/Thissen 2007: 102–114 with further references. Cf. for example Quack 2005a; Wilke 2006: 127 f. For a basic edition, see Posener 1976. In addition, cf. Chappaz 1982; Verhoeven 2009; Hagen 2011: 25 f. For an edition, see Fischer-Elfert 1999; in addition see Fischer-Elfert 1998; Hagen 2011: 37–39.

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In Kairsu’s teachings there is a call to render homage to the king. In addition to positive remarks such as “Worship the king!” (§ 2.1) or “Exalt him at all times” (§ 2.3), there are also descriptions of what will happen to those who treat him correctly and those who treat him incorrectly. The text states, for example, that “His antagonist will become a have-not” (§ 3, 10); “He (the king) is Sekhmet23 to anyone who disobeys his orders. He who disregards him will succumb to the demons” (§ 5.13–14); “Be free of any act of rebellion! The king’s follower will become a venerable person. There is no grave for anyone who rebels against his majesty. His corpse will be thrown into the water” (§ 6.2–5). “The Teaching of a Man for his Son” also contains similar statements: “Worship the king by loving him as a follower!” (§ 2.2); “He who is neglectful towards him receives no burial” (§ 2.4); “There is no grave for anyone who abuses his name, no gift of water for the one who defames him” (§ 7.7–8). Similarly, there is a relevant passage in the so-called Negative Confession.24 This is a text which has been preserved in the context of the Egyptian Book of the Dead and which, in the form in which it survives, is connected to the judgement of the dead. On the evidence of the wording of certain passages in the postscript concerning its practical application, it may be possible that it originally formed part of a ritual installation of future courtiers and that its function was to declare them as pure and thus eligible to enter court.25 The main part of the text is a solemn declaration by the candidate that he has not committed any of a long series of transgressions. Tellingly, the statement “I have defamed the king” is also found in this list. Considerable space is also devoted to negative speech acts against the king in the context of the so-called execration formulae. Using these formulae, a curse was placed on a potential enemy that was then fulfilled if the deed named as deserving punishment was carried out.26 Conscious contortions of language, which appear to have been common practice, illustrate the extent to which even simply saying that something negative had happened to the king, let alone formulating this as a reproach, was considered inopportune.27 Thus, it is said that “the king’s enemy” is ill or unhappy,28 or that a bad event is “far from” happening.29 Expressing out loud that 23 24 25 26 27

28 29

This is a dangerous goddess who sends out demons. Maystre 1937: 95. Cf. Quack 2004: 18 f.; Quack 2013: 150; Quack (forthcoming). Cf. Assmann 1994; Quack 2002. The expression “freedom fries” instead of “French fries”, created in 2003, is on a somewhat similar plane; even if, in this case, the aim was to avoid connecting an association perceived as positive with a political entity which was viewed in a negative light in the political situation of the time. Posener 1969; Quack 2005b: 173 with further references. Cf. Schorch 2000: 87 f. on comparable phenomena in other cultures, too. Cf. Quack 1993; Omar 2008: 49 and 136 (with n. 745). Unfortunately, the lack of mental agility on the part of today’s researchers is reflected in the fact that Franke 1998 and Depuydt 1998 have tried to explain away the findings with more or less useful auxiliary hypotheses and with often numerous necessary emendations, instead of taking seriously the nature of the culturally characteristic treatment of problematic situations and the means of expressing them.

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the king had actually been ill at some point or another thus proves to be not without its problems. The danger associated with negative statements about the king is reflected in a case from the New Kingdom (c. 1200 BCE) in which the court dealt with an accusation of defamation of the king. The case is recorded on ostracon Cairo CG 25556.30 The case took place in the workmen’s village of Deir-el-Medina, where the craftsmen who carved out and decorated the kings’ rock-cut tombs were accommodated. The foreman there told the court that one of the workers had defamed the ruling king, Seti (II). The committee of judges questioned the witnesses regarding the incident, but they claimed not to have heard any statements of that kind. They were thereupon made to swear an oath which threatened them with serious mutilations should they keep back statements against the pharaoh, but disclose them on another day. It is possible to speculate on this incident. Presumably some thoughtless words had indeed been uttered but the witnesses ultimately had the feeling that it was not worth exposing one of their neighbours to the full severity of state punishment which he would have been certain to suffer had there been a sworn report of lèse-majesty. A letter (pBerlin 10487) dating to the very end of the 20th Dynasty (c. 1070 BCE),31 a time of considerable internal problems, represents contemporaneous written evidence of a very rare case of the ruling king’s authority being called into question. The author of the letter, who is on campaign in Nubia as the king’s general, wrote to his trusted contact, who was implementing his orders as a scribe in Thebes. The letter talks about two Nubian soldiers who are obviously making undesirable speeches in Thebes, although the text avoids giving any more precise details. The recipient of the letter is to join forces with two other people (to each of whom a letter with similar content was sent),32 is to get to the bottom of the matter and, if the accusations turn out to be true, put the two Nubians into sacks and throw them into the water at night without anyone else noticing.33 This drastic demand is followed by a declaration (rt. 8–vs. 1): “As regards pharaoh – how is he able to still reach this country? And as regards pharaoh, of what is he even still the ruler?” This passage has occasionally been interpreted as an example of criticism of the ruler or of the author’s own excessive desire for power, perhaps even as an example of a treasonous plot.34 In my view, if one takes into account the situation in which the letter was written, it does not represent criticism so much as a recognition of the royal party’s actual weak position (a party to which the letter’s author by all means belongs!). The passage merely explains why it is necessary to take recourse to the somewhat questionable procedure of carrying out a political murder and subsequently destroying the evidence instead of taking the men to court in the normal 30 31 32 33 34

Allam 1973: 61–63. Cf. Lippert 2008: 69. For an edition of the text, see Černý 1939: 36 f.; an English translation is found in Wente 1967: 53 f.; Wente 1990: 183. pBerlin 10488 and 10489, see Černý 1939: 53 f. It is no coincidence that these letters were given the heading “Ein Fall abgekürzter Justiz” (“A case of reduced justice”) in the first edition of them by Erman 1913. Gardiner 1912–13: 61 f.; Helck 1981: 207; Vandersleyen 1995: 649.

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way, condemning them and having them quite officially executed. It appears that the risk that they might disclose explosive information and thus damage the king’s cause further, or perhaps even that it might not have been possible to enforce their execution officially, was too great. Brief mention, at least, should be made of another text, the interpretation of which is very problematic. It is generally called “Reproach to god” by Egyptologists and it is preserved in a text which, since its original title has not been preserved, is usually called “The Admonitions of Ipuwer”, although a better title is “The Dialogue of Ipuwer and the Lord of All”.35 Because of the poor state of preservation of the papyrus, the context of the passage is not particularly clear. Above all, there is profound disagreement about whether it represents a reproach to a god or to a king. Personally, I am of the opinion that there is a first part, in which someone is mentioned in the third person, that clearly refers to a creator-god. There is no doubt that this figure has the power to intervene directly in the matters of the world. Thus, the text says the following: “Would that he had recognized their character in the first generation! He would have damned, he would have stretched out his arm against it, and would have destroyed its seed (?) and their inheritance” (12.2 f.). The very reference to the first generation excludes the possibility that a figure who is still of current relevance is a human ruler – only a creator-god can be meant. Following this, however, someone is addressed in the second person. It is difficult to ascertain the nature of this figure, as the beginning of the text, which must have stated the situation of the dialogue more precisely, is missing. A later passage, however, makes it clear that the figure is to be identified as the Lord of All (nb-r-č ̣r). This term is usually applied to a deity in Egypt. Especially in the Middle Kingdom (to which period the composition is likely dated), however, it was also used as a designation of the king, and this is probably also the case here.36 In contrast to the deity, the king is addressed directly instead of just being spoken about. The text then says of the king: “Truly,37 utterance and insight38 are with you. (But) upheaval is what you have caused throughout the country, as well as the din of unrest” (12.12 f.). Ipuwer, the speaker, then summarizes the current lawless situation once again and contrasts it with an ideal image of society. Comments concerning the political situation, which deny a genuine threat from foreign enemies and, instead, lay the blame at the door of the country’s own conscripted soldiers, should probably be interpreted 35

36 37

38

See Gardiner 1909 for an edition and treatment; a new edition of the Egyptian text is found in Enmarch 2005; for a translation and an analysis of the contents, see Enmarch 2008. On the section under discussion here, see the special study by Fecht 1972. On the fundamental question of determining the genre of the text, I refer to my remarks in Quack 1997. Enmarch 2008: 30 f. also takes this view and considers the statement regarding a third person as a reference to a creator-god; with regard to the statements addressed to a second person, on the other hand, he takes the king as being the most likely addressee. In my opinion, the manuscript reading nḥm must stand for the particle nḥm.n, as has already been argued by Buchberger 1993: 342; cf. exactly the same orthography in the New Kingdom ostraca of Sinuhe B 46. Enmarch 2008: 189 f. takes a different view, but is forced to admit that the construction, assumed by him, of nḥm with the preposition ḥn῾ is not attested. These are Hu and Sia, deified personifications who appertain to the sun god as well as the king.

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as the answer of Ipuwer’s interlocutor.39 The rest of the discourse becomes increasingly difficult to understand due to the very poor state of the text’s preservation. It is fairly certain that the text questioned the status of a specific ruler in addition to containing sceptical comments about the creator-god.40 Unfortunately, the name of the ruler concerned has not been preserved, which contributes to the considerable uncertainties surrounding the text’s historical context.41 I would expect it to be someone who was subject to negative propaganda of a political nature, and so I would attribute the text to a movement which was either a contemporary political opposition of that time or which wanted to distance itself from a particular past. Given that the manuscript is certain to have been written several centuries after the particular historical situation, it is likely that this was a movement which was ultimately successful or rather bequeathed its assessment of the relevant historical situation to posterity with a degree of dominance or popular approval. At least in the context of a literary tale, namely “The Contest for the Beneficence of Amun”, there is criticism of a ruler.42 In this tale, a prince speaks disparagingly about the ruler, to whom he does not want to give the title of king. He applies epithets to him which are clearly derogatory, but philological problems make it difficult to understand them precisely. The following can, however, be understood: “The Tanitic (…) fish-catcher,43 this Butic (?) headrest-catching (?) sailor,44 to whom I did not say ‘Pharaoh’” (pSpiegelberg 13.14–15). It is clear that this openly stated assessment is derogatory, but its interpretation as a remark directed against a monarch is limited by the fact that, from the point of view of the speaker, the person in question is, after all, denied this very status. One should also take into account that the protagonists of this tale are members of the Libyan warrior elite, and so are not acting on the basis of Egyptian moral concepts that had been handed down traditionally.45 Furthermore, the prince who expresses this criticism is described as an unpleasant squabbler by other characters in the text. 39 40 41 42 43 44

45

There is no explicit statement that there has been a change of speaker, but this could easily be supplied in one of the larger lacunae. However, most recently, Morenz 2010 has taken a different view and, on a relatively weak basis, understands these sections, too, as a reproach to god. Enmarch 2008: 18–24 provides arguments for a possible composition date in the later Middle Kingdom or the Second Intermediate Period. An overview is found in Quack 2009a: 61–66; a translation into German is found in Hoffmann/ Quack 2007: 88–107 and 336–338. Cf. also Jasnow 2001: 71 (n. 59); his suggestion of taking h̠ lte as a variant of štl “ichneumon” is, however, phonetically impossible nor would it fit in with the determinative; for criticism of the argument, see Hoffmann/Quack 2007: 338. The assumption generally held up to now that the word in question is the word for “trapping pit”, which appears in pInsinger 19.13; 20.20 and 30.5 as hyyṱ.t with the dying-man determinative, is precluded by the fact that the word hyṱ has the leg determinative and is of masculine gender. The way the word is written only fits hyt “sailor”. wrs with the wood determinative is otherwise securely attested as “headrest”; cf. Vos 1993: 140. However, the meaning of this expression remains unclear. Are we perhaps dealing with the Egyptian equivalent of a “womanizer”? On this subject, cf. Jansen-Winkeln 2000: 3–13; Vittmann 2003: 1–20.

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In the main part of my contribution I want to focus on an interesting borderline case: a text which speaks badly of specific rulers, who are named explicitly. In most cases these rulers are, admittedly, dead, but it is possible that there are some, at least, whose power had not yet been completely abrogated. This involves genuine criticism of specific people instead of the vague pretence that someone who had fallen out of favor had never existed. My source text is given the title “Demotic Chronicle” in the field of Egyptology.46 However, it is generally acknowledged that the term “chronicle”, which was given to the work in the early period of modern scholarship, does not come anywhere close to adequately describing the text. For this reason, the designation “Demotic Oracle” has also been used, although this too has its problems. The text is preserved in a single papyrus (Bibliothèque Nationale 215), which dates to around the late 3rd century BCE – that is, to the time of Ptolemaic rule in Egypt. The demotic Egyptian text has been written over an erased older Greek text; the scroll is thus a palimpsest. Understanding the text is made difficult by the fact that only the middle section, comprising of 5 well-preserved columns and a few remnants of a further column, has been preserved, whereas the beginning and end are missing. The structure of the text is reasonably complex, so I consider a more detailed explanation necessary. Essentially, the source consists of a base text which is in itself already extremely enigmatic. To this is added an interpretation concerning the recent past, the present and the future of Egypt; in concrete terms it refers primarily to political history. The modern designation of “oracle”, which is sometimes used, attempts to reflect this situation. However, it is not really appropriate because it is difficult to imagine the base text as a genuine oracle, especially not in the context of Egyptian culture, where divine oracles are invariably delivered as clear statements which do not require laborious interpretation of the wording. Furthermore, an oracle is supposed to respond to explicit requests, but, in the text under consideration, signs requiring additional interpretation seem to have appeared somewhat more spontaneously. Unfortunately, any precise information concerning the circumstances in which this base text appeared and who is interpreting it with reference to contemporary history, has vanished due to the loss of the first pages of the text. It was already noted by Eduard Meyer how similar the situation may have been to the familiar writing on the wall from the biblical Book of Daniel and I recently elaborated on this further. It might at least be conceivable, as well as compatible with those parts of the texts that have been preserved, that a mysterious text appeared at the palace in supernatural circumstances, that interpreting it proved too difficult for those at court, and that, for this reason, an external expert in interpretation was consulted. 46

An edition is found in Spiegelberg 1914; Meyer 1915 attempts an initial historical contextualisation on the basis of Spiegelberg’s translation; for more recent secondary literature, see especially Johnson 1983; ead. 1984; Huß 1994: 143–162; Lippert 2001; Felber 2002; Gozzoli 2006: 283–290. I provide a new German translation in Hoffmann/Quack 2007: 183–191. On the interpretation of the text see, most recently, Quack 2009b. See also Griffiths 1991: 176–183; Assmann 1996: 419–422.

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The composition is divided into chapters, of which the section beginning roughly in the middle of the sixth chapter and running into the thirteenth has actually been preserved. With regard to content, it should be noted that the text does not simply progress through history in a linear fashion, but instead shows a conspicuous doubling in its sequence. Starting with Amyrtaeus, who was historically the one to successfully shake off the yoke of Persian supremacy over Egypt in 404 BCE, the last indigenous rulers of Egypt are discussed in the sixth chapter. The final ruler whose name we are given is Teos, from the middle 30th dynasty, c. 362/360 BCE. In this run of rulers, for the most part only the names are provided and there is no additional information on the nature of their government. Following the reference to Teos, it is merely said: “The things they did were written down by Thot when he was examining their affairs in Herakleopolis” (2.4). Thus it is possible that a critical examination may have composed part of the document, but concrete negative evaluations are not really expressed. This is rather more striking when one considers what follows afterwards: for the period after the rule of Teos, the text announces a ruler who will come “after them” (2.5), but it does not give his name. The main section of chapters seven to nine is devoted to him. This change of government, however, is not a peaceful or normal process. Rather, it is brought about by a rebellion, which is also the way the Demotic text explicitly describes it. The historical facts are reasonably clear: when Teos leaves for his great campaign in Syria, his uncle Samaus rebels and is able to place his son Nectanebo (II) on the throne of Egypt; the rebellion ultimately succeeds.47 Our text deals with the situation in some detail: Left will be confused with right. Egypt is to the right, Syria is to the left. That is, he who will go to Syria, which is to the left, will be exchanged for the person who will be in Egypt, which is to the right. The one from Herakleopolis – it was the one from Hermopolis who found him. The one from Herakleopolis is Herishef. He was found by the one from Hermopolis. That is, when Thot went to Herakleopolis, it was examinations of the things which he had given as orders to Herishef for Egypt that he carried out. Herakleopolis, Herakleopolis, Herakleopolis. That is, the one who went to Herakleopolis and disregarded the laws, [concerning him] [an] exam[ination] was carried out [in] Herakleopolis. Punishment was delivered on him. Punishment was delivered on his son. (2.12–17)

Two people at once, father and son, are considered to have been punished, and, in the case of the father, it is explicitly stated that the reason was his disregard for the law. The people in question are not, of course, just any private individuals, but the rulers themselves, that is Nectanebo I and his son, Teos. To say that they had disregarded the law is thus a fairly politically charged claim. At the same time, however, it is also obviously a point which should be connected to Nectanebo’s rebellion, as its success and the deposition of the other line is understood precisely as a punishment for wrongdoing.

47

An overview of the history of that period is found in Kienitz 1953; cf. Huß 2001: 43–51.

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However, the text is still comparatively terse and vague in this whole section. On the one hand, the future ruler’s revolt is described in more detail in a “ritualized” form, as it were, but on the other hand, joy about his rule is expressed. A positive statement is then made, namely that he does not disregard the laws (3.7–16). The composition could seemingly end with this, but in fact it continues, or rather starts anew. In a second run, which returns to the beginning of the account, i. e. to Amyrtaeus again, matters are treated in much more detail. Now each individual reign is explicitly assessed, and indeed in most cases, the result is distinctively negative. This process begins right away with the first and only representative of the 28th dynasty: “Pharaoh Amyrtaeus. As violations of the law were committed in his time, he was made to do the walks of yesterday. His son did not wield power after him” (3.18–19). The expression “walks of yesterday” is relatively difficult to interpret. I myself suspect that it means that he was made to become obsolete. The concluding sentence, which in accordance with the historical facts denies dynastic continuity, is clear, at any rate. Now the text turns to the 29th dynasty. The following statement is found concerning the first ruler: “Pharaoh Nepherites (I). As he carried out the things he did with diligence, his son was allowed to succeed him. However, he was only given a short time span on account of many sins that were committed in his time” (3.20– 21). At this point the text contains a sort of loop, the reason for which is difficult to see. Once again, there is a statement concerning Amyrtaeus: “As he ordered injustice to be done, one considered the things that were done to him. His son was not allowed to succeed him. Furthermore, he was deposed while he was still alive” (4.1–2). This is followed by another statement about Nepherites: “His son was allowed to succeed him” (4.3–4). There is an anticipatory remark, as it were, about Nectanebo here, who is explicitly named as the current ruler of Egypt: “It is he who has given away the possessions of Egypt and of all the temples in order to gain money” (4.4–5). The critical undertone is clear. With this, the text returns to the linear sequence. The following remark is not associated with a named ruler, but appears to refer to Hakor during the first phase of his rule: “As he disregarded the law, he was replaced during his own lifetime” (4.6). Thus this implies that he was ousted from his position of power by another ruler during his lifetime. This is probably Psammuthes, who is dealt with next: “He did not exist. That is, he was not on the path of the god. He was not allowed to stay in power” (4.7–8). This statement refers to the fact that the rule of Psammuthes remained ephemeral and that Hakor regained power after him for a second phase of rule: “His days of exercising power were allowed to reach fullness, that is, because he was beneficent to the temples. They ended. That is, he disregarded the law and no longer carried out inspections because of his brothers” (4.9–10). Subsequently, Hakor’s son Nepherites (II) has to bear the consequences of this behaviour which is regarded in a negative light. It is said about him: “It was ordered that he should not

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be allowed to exist, because the law had been disregarded under his father. Punishment was dealt on his son after him” (4.11–12). The 29th dynasty ends with this instance of family liability, which affects not only the governing ruler but also his son, and the composition can then devote itself fully to the thirtieth dynasty, described as ruling at that time. It does this extensively. What is worthy of note is the fact that the length of a reign is announced by way of complex combinations of numbers, the function of which is not yet entirely clear. Nectanebo and Teos are treated in this way first, before an anonymous, future ruler, who, on the basis of succession and the length of his rule, is plainly recognisable as Nectanebo. Besides this establishment of the length of the reign, developments up to the second period of Persian rule, described as a time of atrocity, are also traced. Chapter 11 returns to Nectanebo I. First, his self-confident demeanour is demonstrated using expressions which are attributed to him.48 But the problems of precisely this attitude are expounded by putting it into words. It is true that the first-person speaker of the passage does give the king the option that certain deities could act on his behalf, but it is immediately turned into a rebuke. “You forgot them when you were thinking of acquiring possessions” (5.13). This essential point of criticism, namely that Nectanebo acted against the interests of the gods and the temples because of his great avarice, is illustrated further in chapter 12. Here rebuke and instructions for potentially better behaviour are combined in a complex way. Although demands such as “Pharaoh, carry out your work!” (5.17) or “Pay attention to the avaricious people” (5.20) initially appear to offer the option of a better future under the same king, all hope seems ultimately lost when even the Uraeus, itself, the fire-spewing cobra which the king wears on his head in order to repel enemies, implores the ruler of the gods, Amun: “Provide the ruler who will be charitable” (6.3). With this, the old king is disavowed for good, and the only hope that remains is for a new king. However, there are no further concrete details about this new king, or, to put it more accurately, the state of the text here is such that a trained eye should immediately recognise the signs of redactional revision. On the one hand, the text says that the Barbarians are to be called in order to rule in Egypt after “you (pl.)” (6.15) – that is the group addressed by the first-person speaker. On the other hand, “his” time – that is, the time of a single ruling being – is understood as a time which is by all means happy (6.15–16). The section of the papyrus which has been preserved breaks off after the announcement that there will be a long period of Greek rule in the future. Rather than just giving a summary, I will now attempt to interpret what precisely is intended here and what political positions are implied. Practically all Egyptian rulers following the first period of Persian rule – that is every ruler whose name was actually mentioned in the text at all – are subject to negative assessment. 48

Contrary to the view in Johnson 1983: 63, this does not, of course, mean that the author of the text himself considers Nectanebo to be the legitimate king, but rather that the king sees himself in this way.

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Nepherites I is the only one who comes off relatively well. As a person, he is judged in a positive manner, the reward being that his son succeeds him directly. Given these circumstances, his reign is oddly short, and the many sins of the time, which are independent of Nepherites, are given as an explanation for this. The evaluation of Hakor is also still reasonably positive. The full completion of his time as a ruler is considered a reward for a beneficent attitude towards the temples, and this may also be an interpretation of the historical fact that he managed to regain control over the country after having been temporarily ousted from power. Only an alteration in behaviour, which the text blames on his brothers, leads to a change. As far as I know, independent means by which these facts might be verified do not exist. Nepherites II does not appear to be personally culpable, but is nonetheless held to account for the sins of his father. All other specifically named rulers are judged negatively; only the future savior-king is described in a positive way. Coming after Nectanebo and Teos, this can, historically, only be Nectanebo (II). The disguise of anonymity, as well as the classification as savior-king, are, of course, very significant, especially when one considers Nectanebo II’s true historical situation as a usurper who gained power without genuine legitimation and who had to first assert himself in an intense struggle. It is hard to imagine that this is a coincidence. Instead, I would firmly put forward the proposition that an original version of the so-called Demotic Chronicle was a piece of political propaganda composed with the interests of Nectanebo II in mind and probably also at his behest. I use the term “original version”, because the version that actually survives and which announces Persian rule and the Greek supremacy over Egypt “for a long time” (6.15–21) cannot have been written much before the 3rd century BCE. I would consider continuation and redacting to have taken place here. In this way – and this is a first conclusion – the background to the criticism of Egyptian rulers which is expressed so clearly is formed by a rebellion, which is probably the most pronounced form of criticism of a ruler that there is. Moving beyond the specific situation, one can also state generally that the last indigenous Egyptian dynasties do not exactly present a time of particularly smooth or unproblematic rule. Frequent changes of dynasty, with familial continuity of three generations at most, constant disagreement within families with subsidiary lines attempting to take over power, together with typically short periods of rule, all bear eloquent witness to the precariousness of an Egyptian king’s reign at this time.49 It should not come as too much of a surprise that, given these circumstances, concrete criticism of individual rulers was voiced more clearly than in earlier periods. Nevertheless, I would like to add some further observations here, which examine this particular type of criticism and possible external influences once again. The most common form of criticism is the accusation that the rulers in question are acting illegally. Indeed, in one case, the ruler is said not to be on the path of the god. Somewhat more concrete accusations are levelled against Nectanebo I, who is specifically accused of being avaricious, a fact expressed clearly by his behaviour to49

Cf., for example, Blöbaum 2006: 15–20.

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wards the temples and their property. The actual historical background is fairly clear with regard to the last point: the great Syrian campaign, on which Teos ultimately embarked, had been in preparation for a long time and had involved great expenditure. It depended to a large degree on the recruitment of Greek mercenaries, for which the minting of money was begun in Egypt. A significant gauge of a ruler is thus his relationship to the law (hp). This is relevant because it is not a concept that traditionally held a particularly important place in the legitimation of Egyptian kings.50 Rather, one might have instinctively expected ma’at as the leading concept of justice and cosmic order.51 The term is used less in the later period, but it still exists in Demotic, too, either independently or in the linguistically younger abstract mṭ.t-mȝ῾.t.52 There were also occasional proposals of making a connection with the Persian term data. In addition, one should also take into account a possibility which has already been discussed with regard to the text since Eduard Meyer anyway,53 and that is the similarity with the assessment of the kings of Israel and Judah in Deuteronomy. Here, too, kings were classified as good or bad depending on their relationship to the divine law. In doing so, specific connections were made between the quality of the reign when viewed in this light and the fate, good or bad, of the ruler; in the case of Israel, this also affected the continuation of the dynasty. The unhappy fate of rulers who, really, ruled without any obvious personal faults, was attributed to the sins of their time. The Demotic Chronicle really does the same for Nepherites I, the short length of whose reign is said to be caused by the sins of his time despite his own honest behaviour. In principle, the possibility of Jewish influence on Egypt should in no way be excluded in this period. However, whether one need necessarily apply it as an explanation is yet another question. To a certain degree, one can safely assume that similar historical situations have resulted in analogous occurrences. The Israelite and Judean monarchies were fairly weak, endangered entities which ultimately succumbed to great foreign powers; similarly, between the two phases of Persian rule, the Egyptian kingdom was constantly under threat and ultimately could not be upheld. The normal attitude in an ancient Near Eastern empire was to rely on the power of one’s own deity and to expect protection and support from it. If the winds of history are constantly in one’s face, a need for explanations can arise. Unless one wants to present one’s own gods as powerless, the obvious route is to interpret them as angry; that is, the gods are not prepared to help their own people, or rather the king, because of misconduct. Viewed in this light, I would conclude that the fundamental criticism of Egypt’s own kings in the so-called Demotic Chronicle results from its character as a political attack directed against a specific ruler on the one hand, and from the precarious state of Egypt in real political terms on the other. 50 51 52 53

Cf. also Lorton 1986: 53–62. On ma’at, cf. Assmann 1990; Lichtheim 1992. Cf. Thissen 1998: 1045. Meyer 1995: 299; Griffiths 1991: 178–183.

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Kienitz, F. K. 1953. Die politische Geschichte Ägyptens vom 7. bis zum 4. Jahrhundert vor der Zeitwende. Berlin: Akademie. Lichtheim, M. 1992. Maat in Egyptian Autobiographies and Related Studies. Freiburg/Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Lippert, S. L. 2001. “Komplexe Wortspiele in der demotischen Chronik und im Mythus vom Sonnenauge”. Enchoria 27: 88–100. Lippert, S. L. 2008. Einführung in die altägyptische Rechtsgeschichte. Berlin: Lit. Loprieno, A. 1996. “The ‘King’s Novel’. Ancient Egyptian Texts and Modern Theories”. In Ancient Egyptian Literature. History and Forms, Loprieno, A. ed., 277–296. Leiden: Brill. Lorton, D. 1986. “The King and the Law”. Varia Aegyptiaca 2: 53–62. Maystre, C. 1937. Les déclarations d’innocence (Livre des morts, chapitre 125). Cairo: Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale. Meyer, E. 1915. Ägyptische Dokumente aus der Perserzeit, Sitzungsberichte der Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften 1915/16, Berlin. Morenz, L. 2010. “Der existentielle Vorwurf – an wen ist er adressiert? Überlegungen anläßlich einer Neubearbeitung der Admonitions”. Lingua Aegyptia 18: 263–267. O’Connor, D. / Silverman, D. P. 1995. Ancient Egyptian Kingship, Leiden: Brill. Omar, M. 2008. Aufrührer, Rebellen, Widersacher. Untersuchungen zum Wortfeld “Feind” im pharaonischen Ägypten. Ein lexikalisch-phraseologischer Beitrag. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Posener, G. 1960. De la divinité du pharaon. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale. Posener, G. 1969. “Sur l’emploi euphémique de Ḫftj(w) ‘ennemis’”. Zeitschrift für Ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde 96: 30–35. Posener, G. 1976. L’enseignement loyaliste. Sagesse égyptienne du Moyen Empire. Geneva: Droz. Quack, J. F. 1992. Studien zur Lehre für Merikare. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Quack, J. F. 1993. “Ein altägyptisches Sprachtabu”. Lingua Aegyptia 3: 59–79. Quack, J. F. 1997. “Die Klage über die Zerstörung Ägyptens. Versuch einer Neudeutung der “Admonitions” im Vergleich zu altorientalischen Städteklagen”. In Ana šadî Labnāni lū allik. Beiträge zu altorientalischen und mittelmeerischen Kulturen. Festschrift für Wolfgang Röllig, Pongratz-Leisten, B. / Kühne, H. / Xella, P. eds., 345–354. Kevelaer/Neukirchen-Vluyn: Butzon & Bercker. Quack, J. F. 2002. “Some Old Kingdom Execration Figurines from the Teti Cemetery”. Bulletin of the Australian Center for Egyptology 13: 149–160. Quack, J. F. 2004. “Organiser le culte idéal. Le Manuel du temple égyptien”, Bulletin de la Société Française d’Égyptologie 160: 9–25. Quack, J. F. 2005a. “Demagogen, Aufrührer und Rebellen. Zum Spektrum politischer Feinde in Lebenslehren des Mittleren Reiches”. In Feinde und Aufrührer. Konzepte von Gegnerschaft in ägyptischen Texten besonders des Mittleren Reiches, Felber, H. ed., 74–85. Stuttgart/Leipzig: Verlag der Sächsischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Quack, J. F. 2005b. “Rezension zu S. Lippert, Ein demotisches juristisches Lehrbuch”. APF 51: 171–174. Quack, J. F. 2009a. Einführung in die altägyptische Literaturgeschichte III. Die demotische und gräko-ägyptische Literatur, 2nd ed. Berlin: Lit. Quack, J. F. 2009b. “Menetekel an der Wand? Zur Deutung der demotischen Chronik”. In Orakel und Gebete. Interdisziplinäre Studien zur Sprache der Religion in Ägypten, Vorderasien und Griechenland in hellenistischer Zeit, Witte, M. / Diel, J. F. eds, 23–51. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Quack, J. F. 2010a. “How Unapproachable is a Pharaoh?”. In Concepts of Kingship in Antiquity, Lanfranchi, G. B. / Rollinger, R. eds., 1–14. Padua: Sargon. Quack, J. F. 2010 b. “Political Rituals. Sense and Nonsense of a Term and its Application to Ancient Egypt”. In Ritual Dynamics and the Science of Ritual, Volume III. State, Power, and Violence, Michaels, A. ed., 215–230. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz.

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Quack, J. F. 2011. “From Ritual to Magic. Ancient Egyptian Forerunners of the Charitesion and Their Social Setting”. In Continuity and Innovation in the Magical Tradition, Bohak, G. / Harari, Y. / Shaked, S. eds., 43–84. Leiden: Brill. Quack, J. F. 2012a. “Pharao und Hofstaat, Palast und Tempel: Entscheidungsfindung, Öffentlichkeit und Entscheidungsveröffentlichung im Alten Ägypten”. In Politische Kommunikation und Öffentliche Meinung in der Antiken Welt, Kuhn, C. ed., 277–295. Stuttgart: Steiner. Quack, J. F. 2012b. “Reiche, Dynastien, … und auch Chroniken? Zum Bewußtsein der eigenen Vergangenheit im Alten Ägypten”. In Periodisierung und Epochenbewußtsein in der antiken Geschichtsschreibung, Krüger, T. / Wiesehöfer, J. eds, 9–36. Stuttgart: Steiner. Quack, J. F. 2013. “Concepts of Purity in Egyptian Religion”. In Purity and the Forming of Religious Traditions in the Ancient Mediterranean World and Ancient Judaism, Dynamics in the History of Religion 3, Frevel, Chr. / Nihan, Chr., eds., 115–158. Leiden: Brill. Quack, J. F. (forthcoming). “Translating the realities of cult: The case of the Book of the Temple”. In Aegypto-graeca. Literary Interactions between Greece and Egypt, Rutherford, I., ed. Ratié, S. 1979. La reine Hatchepsout. Sources et problems. Leiden: Brill. Redford, D. B. 1986. Pharaonic King-Lists, Annals and Day-Books. A Contribution to the Egyptian Sense of History. Mississauga: Benben. Schade-Busch, M. 1992. Zur Königsideologie Amenophis’ III. Analyse der Phraseologie historischer Inschriften der Voramarnazeit. Hildesheim: Gerstenberg. Schorch, S. 2000. Euphemismen in der Hebräischen Bibel. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Spiegelberg, W. 1914. Die sogenannte demotische Chronik des Pap. 215 der Bibliothèque Nationale zu Paris nebst den auf der Rückseite des Papyrus stehenden Texten. Leipzig: Hinrichs. Thissen, H.-J. 1998. “‘Apokalypse Now!’ Anmerkungen zum Lamm des Bokchoris”. In Egyptian Religion, The Last Thousand Years, Part II. Studies Dedicated to the Memory of Jan Quaegebeur, Clarysse, W. / Schoors, A. / Willems, H. eds., 1043–1053. Leuven: Peeters. Vandersleyen, C. 1995. L’Égypte et la vallée du Nil, tome 2. De la fin de l’Ancien Empire à la fin du Nouvel Empire. Paris: PUF. Verhoeven, U. 2009. “Von der ‘Loyalistischen Lehre’ zur ‘Lehre des Kaïrsu’”. Zeitschrift für Ägyptische Sprache und Altertumskunde 136: 87–98. Vittmann, G. 2003. Ägypten und die Fremden im ersten vorchristlichen Jahrtausend. Mainz: Zabern. Vos, R. L. 1993. The Apis Embalming Ritual. P. Vindob. 3873. Leuven: Peeters. Waddell, W. G. ed. 1940. Manetho. With an English Translation. London: Heinemann. Wente, E. F. 1967. Late Ramesside Letters. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wente, E. F. 1990. Letters from Ancient Egypt. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Wilke, A. F. 2006. Kronerben der Weisheit. Gott, König und Frommer in der didaktischen Literatur Ägyptens und Israels. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Windus-Staginsky, E. 2006. Der ägyptische König im Alten Reich. Terminologie und Phraseologie. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz.

3 “RULERS BY THE GRACE OF GOD”, “LIAR KINGS”, AND “ORIENTAL DESPOTS”: (ANTI-)MONARCHIC DISCOURSE IN ACHAEMENID IRAN Josef Wiesehöfer 1. PREFATORY REMARKS: CRITICAL DISCOURSE ON MONARCHY OR ON MONARCHS? What permits us to include the Teispid and Achaemenid Empire into an anthology on antimonarchic discourse in antiquity? Didn’t the monarchy constitute the unquestioned and distinctive mark of political organization in the Ancient Near East? Is it therefore only possible to justify this contribution because Greek literature provides us with numerous critical remarks on Persian monarchy, or is antimonarchic discourse also to be found in Iranian or Mesopotamian sources of Persian times? It has often rightly been stressed that Persian ways of empire-building and governing as well as the Persian way of imperial legitimization can only be understood with recourse to the history and the traditions of the preceding Ancient Near Eastern civilizations; however, historical textbooks often enough pass a strangely undifferentiated judgment on Ancient Near Eastern monarchy: They only seldom refer to the diversity of the relevant sources and to the different perspectives of authors or artists (views from inside the empire and foreign views; the perspective of future generations; research discourse) and to the regional and diachronic variety of monarchic traditions in the area that we are used to call “the Ancient Near East”. As for the monarchy, indeed, its religious foundation (as a divinely given and therefore unquestionable institution) is normally mentioned; however, it is only rarely noticed that we know of two different rationales in Ancient Near Eastern tradition for the origins of monarchy: On the one hand, it appears as “a god-given institution reacting to human needs” (“eine von den Göttern gegebene Organisationsform, die auf menschliche Bedürfnisse reagiert”) – which insinuates an initial period free of domination; on the other hand, it is seen as “a social order which has been an original part of creation” (“eine bereits von Anbeginn an im Rahmen der Schöpfung angelegte Gesellschaftsordnung”).1 In other words, monarchy is recognized in Ancient Near Eastern literature as a central political authority given by the gods and as a principle effective in history; however, it is by all means “an object of systematic reflection” (“Gegenstand … systematischer Reflexion”),2 and this reflection 1 2

Cancik-Kirschbaum 2007: 171. Cancik-Kirschbaum 2007: 177.

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seems to have played a major role whenever the institution itself underwent significant changes. Thus, the “Sumerian King List” explicitly stresses the theme of the change of rule from one town to another (not from one dynasty to another), even if the influence of the dynastic principle can also be noticed. And in the so-called “Lament for Ur” we find the idea of a God-given limitation of political rule (of a town) as a historical principle. In the time of the big territorial states of the 2nd and 1st millennia BCE, the focus of historical discourse is on single imperious personalities; monarchic continuity is now guaranteed by the continuity of dynastic succession, and the critique of monarchy takes the shape of a criticism of kings.3 It is the idea of the monarchy as a divine gift that existed from the beginning or that very early answered to the inadequacies and needs of the people to which not only the Assyrian and Babylonian kings of the 1st millennium, but also the rulers of the families of Teispes and Achaemenes felt connected (see below). With it, the institution of kingship reflects the grace of the gods who want the best for man – since “people without a king are (like) sheep without shepherds” –, and it mirrors the respective divine trustee’s duty to become mediator between gods and men, deputy of the rule-lending God and “keeper of the land entrusted to him and sponsor of the people mandated to him by the gods” (“Wahrer des ihm von den Göttern anvertrauten Landes und Förderer des ihm von den Göttern unterstellten Volkes”).4 Besides, it is his duty to enforce justice on earth as a legislator and ‘judicial officer’, to guarantee the care of the cults and to supervise and to carry out by himself the obligatory rituals.5 The kings can meet these requirements because they own divinely given special intellectual gifts and abilities that they can use for the protection of the cosmic order and for the benefit of the people entrusted to them. In reality, the king, as God’s deputy on earth and as supervisor of the relations between gods and men, has of course got a great actual and ‘ideological’ power and enjoys a high confidence rating. However, in contrast to the institution of kingship, the kings can also be criticized if they do not accomplish their mission, and the single bearer of royal dignity does need the legitimization of his individual rule. With it, dynastic principles (affiliation to the royal family, right of succession to the throne) usually play a role as well as those of a(n) (alleged) divine election and of everyday probation. As for a possible ritual worship of the ruler while still alive, we do not have any corresponding evidence for 1st millennium’s Syria, Phoenicia and Mesopotamia. In the light of the ruler’s commitment to a divine order that makes despotic rule and arbitrary government, at least ideologically, impossible, we should beware of falling into the trap of trusting too stereotyped modern descriptions of Ancient Near Eastern and especially Ancient Iranian kingship (see part V). A similar caution is called for when dealing with the relations between central government and local institutions in the Near East, and, in my view, we even have to think anew about the background of the “emergence of the Political Sphere” (“die Entstehung des Politischen”, Christian Meier; see part VI). First, however, I would like to turn the 3 4 5

Cancik-Kirschbaum 2007: 180. Dietrich/Dietrich 1998: 217. Cf. Röllig 1981.

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readers’ attention to the Achaemenid ideal of a king (part II), to his ‘ideological’ counterpart, the “Liar King” (part III), and to the role of kings in Iranian mythical tradition (part IV). 2. THE ACHAEMENID IDEAL RULER6 Proclaims Darius, the king: By the favor of Auramazda I am of such a kind that I am friendly to right, (but) I am not friendly to wrong. (It is) not my desire that the weak one might be treated wrongly for the strong one’s sake, (and) that (is) not my desire that the strong one might be treated wrongly for the weak one’s sake. (DNb 5–11; transl. R. Schmitt)

Some of the readers might know these sentences: Darius I, “King of Kings” from 522 to 486 BCE, did conceive them for one of his two inscriptions at his crossshaped rock tomb of Naqsh-i Rustam. The king who takes care of law and justice and who tries to ensure solidarity and a balanced relationship between the strong and the weak is an integral component of Achaemenid royal ideology7 and a pre-condition of the idea of a pax Achaemenidica for the equal benefit of both the ruler and his subjects;8 it was an idea that was heralded throughout the empire with the help of inscriptions and images. At the same time, the quotation introduces Old Persian imperial terminology: The language of the king uses as a word for “right” and “just” or “law” and “justice” the adjective or noun rāsta with the literal meaning “adjusted”, “arranged”, related to Latin rectus (“right”, “correct”, “proper”, “upright”). The so-called lower tomb-inscription Darius Naqsh-i Rustam b (DNb) – a kind of “Mirror of Princes”, but allegedly drafted by the ruler himself – does not content itself, as far as law and justice are concerned, with the announcements just quoted; rather, it expands on the idea of a balance of interests and the necessity of fair social relations in the empire: What (is) right, that (is) my desire. To the man following Falsehood I am not friendly (…). The man who co-operates, for him, according to the co-operation, thus I care for him; who does harm, according to the harm done, thus I punish him. (It is) not my desire that a man should do harm; moreover that (is) not my desire: If he should do harm, he should not be punished. What a man says about a(nother) man, that does not convince me, until I have heard the statement of both. What a man achieves or brings according to his powers, by that I become satisfied, and it is very much my desire; and I am pleased and give generously to loyal men. (DNb 11–27; transl. R. Schmitt) 6

7 8

For the best and more detailed introductions into the history and the features of Achaemenid rule, cf. Kuhrt 2001; Briant 2002; Tuplin 2004; Wiesehöfer 2005a: 25–148; Huyse 2005: passim; Allen 2006; Brosius 2006: 6–78; Tuplin 2008; Wiesehöfer 2009a. There is an excellent collection of sources (with commentaries) by Kuhrt 2007. For the Achaemenid royal ideology, see Wiesehöfer/Rollinger 2012. Cf. Wiesehöfer 2013a.

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At first, this passage reveals who defines what is to be understood by law and justice and who is leading the thus defined law to victory: the Great King himself (by the favor and with the help of the gods; see below). The subjects are right to support the ruler’s efforts towards the stability of his rule and of the empire, they are wrong if they oppose the ruler and become disloyal, if they follow the “Lie” (Old Persian drauga) and thereby do harm to the inhabitants of the empire and their king. The ruler is right to provide for a fair order and to take steps against troublemakers (see below). Already in his res gestae from Bisutun, the only, so to speak, ‘historical’ inscription of the Achaemenid kings, Darius had claimed for himself to have restored the right order suspended by the rebel Gaumata and the other so-called liar kings: through the restitution of confiscated property, the restoration of destroyed places of worship, the suppression of numerous uprisings and the punishment of the lawbreakers. Darius is in good company with his qualities and his legislative measures: his Near Eastern royal predecessors had also appreciated those qualities of a ruler and had attributed to themselves the same intellectual gifts and abilities – in Darius’ terms the “ability to judge” (Old Persian ušīy; DNb 28), “discernment” (xraθu) and the “capacity to act” (aruvasta; DNb 3 f.). Like in Mesopotamia, Darius leaves no doubt about to whom he owes qualities like the ability to judge or to tell right from wrong and the mission to take action against lawbreakers: to the God or the gods, in the case of Darius to Auramazda, the “Great God”. “By the favor of Auramazda” (Old Persian vašnā Auramazdāha) – this is the tenor of the Bisutun inscription – Darius has gained power against all odds. We may also quote the words of an inscription of this king from Susa: “Thus was Auramazda’s desire: he chose me as (his) man in all the earth; me he made king in all the earth” (DSf 12–18). However, with God’s help the king is also able to remain in power – by means of his victories over the “Liar Kings” (see below);9 he has thus become the deputy of God on earth – however, without being God’s son or having god-like qualities, i. e. unlike the rulers of Egypt10 and at times (3rd millennium) also those of Mesopotamia. Auramazda has never withdrawn his support from Darius in the course of the latter’s regency: “by the favor of Auramazda” the king has become friendly to right (DNb 6–8), by the favor of the same god, “who created this marvelous (creation) that is seen, who created blissful happiness for man, who bestowed wisdom and ability upon Darius, the king” (DNb 1–5). In his upper tomb inscription Darius concludes: “… that which has been done, all that by the favor of Auramazda I have done”, or better: “I was able to do” (DNa 48–50). In other words, as the king’s success owes itself to divine favor, it is at the same time further demonstration of the ruler’s election by God and the legality of his claim for ruling and for beating the evildoers. Conversely, it is also true that whoever reveres Auramazda is immune to the temptations of the “Lie”, to rebellion as well as to offences against God’s good creation (XPh 35–41). If Darius proclaims in his inscription d from Persepolis: “May Auramazda protect this country from the (enemy) army, from crop failure (and) from Falsehood!” (DPd 15–18), this is on the 9 10

Stausberg 2002: 165. Cf. Quack (in this volume).

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one hand proof that an attack of foreign enemies can also threaten the God-given peaceful order and thus justifies royal retaliatory action; on the other hand, it proves that the ruler, in a good Near Eastern manner, is obliged to act as a good “shepherd” who provides for prosperity for both the land and the people. Like their Near Eastern predecessors, Darius and his son Xerxes, to whom we owe the greater part of the monumental inscriptions, are part of a cosmic framework; as Auramazda’s representatives on earth and rulers by God’s favor they try to help law and justice to become established, to destroy the evildoers, who follow the “Lie”, and to perpetuate Auramazda’s good creation – with God’s help – in the shape of a political and economic order of peace. It is exactly this idea that the Achaemenids stress most in their inscriptions and the imagery of their palaces. The fact that the Persians’ imperial ideology and their ideology of ruling is obliged to older Near Eastern traditions and models11 is particularly apparent in the royal Persian announcements from Mesopotamia itself: for example, in the text fragment of a Babylonian copy of the Bisutun inscription which replaces the name Auramazda with that of Bel. In his famous cylinder inscription, the Teispid Cyrus the Great, on the one hand, places himself within the traditions of the preceding legitimate Kings of Babylon, but on the other hand does not present himself as a descendant of those rulers but as the son of Persian forefathers.12 Cyrus, selected and legitimized by Bel-Marduk, restores, on God’s command, the lost universal order, which the last Chaldean king Nabonid had destroyed by his misdeeds; he provides for peace and joy in the newly conquered land and thus finds favor in the eyes of the God of his new subjects. There are numerous connections between the Ancient Near Eastern and the Achaemenid forms of royal legitimization, not least in the area of its theological-religious foundation and in the field of the indispensable royal commitment to law and justice, i. e. in the area of argumentation. However, the Persian kings have never simply copied Ancient Near Eastern traditions and models; rather, they have set out in new directions, above all, as Gregor Ahn has rightly put it, in the field of the “Ausdrucksformen und Bilder dieser Legitimation” (“means of expression and imagery”).13 Here, one is particularly reminded of the palace reliefs of Persepolis – the throne-bearer and tribute-bearer reliefs as well as those of the royal hero who overcomes monsters – that give a spectacular impression of a “mythical and trans-historical ideal world of perfect rule”14. The king is in the center of the earthly part of Auramazda’s creation; at least in the art of the reliefs and of the palaces’ outer walls in Susa and Persepolis the power of the – mostly enthroned – king seems to be “consolidated and removed from the world of military daily life – it is no longer neces-

11 12 13 14

For the development of Teispid and Achaemenid royal ideology and views of history, cf. Rollinger 2014. Ahn 1992: 136. For the early history of the Persian Empire cf. the fundamental study of Henkelman 2008. Ahn 1992: 307. Stausberg 2002: 167.

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sary to defend it, in any case, not against human opponents.”15 The royal hero defeats hybrid creatures as representatives of evil; representatives of the subject peoples and the military carry his throne; he no longer needs, as in Bisutun, to step upon his defeated enemies, and above him hovers – symbolized by the winged figure on the reliefs – the royal farnah as a token of divine election and support.16 On the other hand: Even if the subjects’ submission – in any case, in the art of the palace walls and the royal tombs – is not an explicit subject of Achaemenid imagery, it is nevertheless implicitly taken for granted: on the reliefs in the form of throne and tribute bearers, in the inscriptions in the form of hints to the rewarding of loyal “servants” (Old Persian bandakā) whom the Greeks denounced as δοῦλοι (“slaves”) of the Great King. Michael Stausberg has put the relationship between God and king in relation to the relationship between king and subjects and has used for both of them the term “vertical solidarity” – thereby following Jan Assmann.17 Such a term is surely appropriate; however, in the case of the Achaemenids, it must be complemented by the idea that also the king is putting himself under pressure: He has to provide for law and justice for his subjects, to guarantee internal peace and prosperity, and to defend the empire’s inhabitants from foreign enemies. The loyalty of the subjects – an important theme of the inscriptions and the reliefs – can rightly be demanded by Darius and his successors because the kings – thanks to the qualities lent to them by Auramazda – are able to perform the duties asked for by the same god. Hence the ruler has got every right to punish disloyalty, for it is directed against a person who, in the name of God and on his command, only wants and does the best for his subjects. With Xerxes’ request to his subjects to “obey that law (dāta), which Auramazda has established, worship Auramazda at the proper time and in the proper ceremonial style” (XPh 49–51)18 we get to know another central term of Achaemenid ‘legal terminology’: dāta. This word (literally: “that which was laid down/settled”), even the whole admonitory message of the king, remind us of an Avestan text which says that a person who despises Ahura Mazda, the Amǝša Spǝntas (“Beneficent Immortals”), Mithra, the law (dāta-), Rašnu and justice is unable to win the favor of Ahura Mazda, the Beneficent Immortals and Mithra (Yt. 10.139). As the law of God, which became the law of the king, asks for empire-wide observance, the Old Persian term dāta attained universal importance: the Babylonians, the speakers of Aramaic, the Jews and the Armenians took it over as a loan word (dātu, dāt or dat), numerous people adopted it as a component of their names or their juridical titles. In contrast, the Old Persian feminine noun framānā (“command”, “order”) clearly lags behind in importance. It is thus no wonder that a ‘law’ of such a legal scope, which Darius reminds us of in his upper tomb inscription, must have impressed many inhabitants of his em15 16 17 18

Stausberg 2002: 167. For the ‘winged man’ and other Achaemenid symbols, cf. Garrison (forthcoming), with partly different views from that of the author of this contribution. Cf. Stausberg 2002: 168; Assmann 1990 (and more often). Cf. Rollinger 2004.

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pire: The Great King does not just publish decrees, does not just give orders and commands; instead, he provides his subjects with an integral well-intentioned, well articulated, well-balanced and well-founded system of behavioral patterns that meet Auramazda’s expectations, that help to impose and guarantee law and justice to the favor of all and that, in the end, provide – in the words of Xerxes (XPh 54–56) – for the fact that he who obeys that law and worships Auramazda becomes both “blissful (while) living and blessed (when) dead”. The close relationship between the divine and the royal dāta is also stressed in the rescript of Artaxerxes I, quoted in the Bible (Ezra 7:12–26), which mentions the “Law of your (i. e. Ezra’s) God” and the “Law of the King” in the same context, while the books of Daniel (6:9.13.16) and Esther (1:19) underline the inviolability of the dāta of the Medes and Persians. It is no wonder then that the expression “the law of the king” (dātu ša šarri) is also found in Babylonian documents, however, only from the time of Darius I onwards, thus from the time of the man who lent decisive significance to the term dāta. However, Babylonian economic and legal texts normally refer to concrete Achaemenid statutory regulations, not to the legal system on the whole.19 3. THE “LIAR KINGS” It is quite clear from what has been said so far that there must have been a critical discourse on individual monarchs or royal usurpers but not towards monocracy per se in the Persian Empire, at least in the area of the Fertile Crescent and Iran. After the suppression of the uprisings against Darius and Xerxes, the rule of the members of the Achaemenid clan no longer was at issue. Only in Egypt the elites seriously and temporarily even successfully tried to replace the foreign by an indigenous rule. And it is only in parts of Old Testament literature that we find the idea that kingship might be inappropriate to serve the needs of God and the neighbors.20 What concerns the Persian kings, scholars have stressed over and over again the good relations between them and the Judean authorities; however, Judean views of the Persian rulers are more critical and sophisticated than often thought.21 In Darius’ royal inscriptions his opponents are characterized as “followers of the Lie”. They are people who plan to unsettle or even overturn God’s good creation whose security the king guarantees. However, since Auramazda is interested in the king’s success, the latter is able to beat his enemies decisively (cf. DB I 94 f.).22 Darius and Xerxes use the Old Persian term drauga for all the acts that oppose the God-given rule of the Achaemenid kings, a rule that guarantees peace, prosperity, law and order. The word is borrowed from the religious-ethical vocabulary of Zoroastrianism, but with the Persian kings it stands for political disloyalty, for turmoil and rebellion; followers of the drauga, such as the “Liar Kings” of the monument 19 20 21 22

Schmitt 1996. Cf. Gerstenberger 2010. Cf. Gruen 2005. Ahn 1992: 300.

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of Bisutun, sin against the heavenly prescribed order. Scholars have even assumed that Darius, in his fight against the followers of the drauga, might have compared himself to the Avestan hero Θraetaona who had been able to kill the horrific dragon Dahaka. If this is so, the monster-defeating royal hero of the Persian reliefs and seal impressions might be the pictorial expression of that idea.23 However, it should be noted that the Avestan counterpart of the term draoga-, aṧa- (“Justice”, “Order”, “Truth”), in its Old Persian form ṛta-, is absent in Darius’ inscriptions; it only comes up in the famous Daivā inscription of his son Xerxes (XPh 41.51.54) where it probably refers – like in certain Avestan contexts (cf. Yt. 8.15) – to the proper admiration of God.24 After all, the term ṛta- is a component of the most popular throne name of Achaemenid times, Artaxerxes (Old Persian Ṛtaxšaçā; literally: “he, whose rule is characterized by truth/justice”). Besides, also other throne names of the Achaemenid kings contain – in contrast to those of the Teispid clan – Avestan terms or are even part of the Avestan onomastic corpus. It was Michael Stausberg who particularly clearly indicated how the Achaemenids politically transformed Younger Avestan religious-ethical concepts. This is true for the idea of Auramazda as the God who bestows and secures lordship as well as for the political transformation of dualistic concepts: Thus, draoga-, which is part of the world of ethics and morality, now becomes drauga in the sense of a “potential destabilization of God-given political rule,”25 and the Avestan “followers of demons” (daēuuaiiasna-; daēuuaiiāz-) do become – in the inscription XPh – people who, in the course of their rebellions, ask for the wrong, demoniacal help of their local gods and who try to forcefully resist Xerxes’ anti-demoniacal, i. e. Mazda-worshipping, religious policy that is wished for by the gods and tries to prevent people from following the drauga and to preserve ṛta-. If Xerxes, as it were, copies the lower tomb inscription of his father (DNb 1–49) in his inscription XPl, this is sufficient proof that Darius’ political announcements were meant and understood as eternal and programmatic messages. There can be no doubt that the Achaemenids skillfully used the religious terminology of the Young Avestan tradition and turned it into a political one. Nevertheless, Darius as well as Xerxes are at the same time part of a long Ancient Near Eastern tradition where the theme of the “Lie” “is either connected to the rebellion against an already existing overlord, and is thus linked to the breaching of a treaty, or addresses the claims of pretenders to the throne in crises occasioned by an irregular succession.”26 And even the idea that devotion to the rule-lending God (or the 23 24

25 26

Stausberg 2002: 169 f. In contrast to Pongratz-Leisten (2002: 236), with whom I otherwise totally agree, and in accordance with Ahn 1992, I nevertheless do not think that, because of the first appearance of the term ṛta- only “with Xerxes are we able to detect (…) signs for a new religious system, whereas the rhetoric of Darius still fits in the wider context of its ancient Near Eastern background”. In my view, father and son have the same ‘ideological’ background: I would not see a difference between, e. g., DB V 14–17 and XPh 28–41. Stausberg 2002: 170. Pongratz-Leisten 2002: 231. For the Sumerian and Akkadian terminology of “truth” and “lie”, cf. Lämmerhirt 2010.

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rule-lending gods) – in the Achaemenid case: Auramazda – should be, on the one hand, the best guarantor for the subjects’ good political behavior, on the other hand, however, for a happy future of these loyal underlings, has its Assyrian and Babylonian forerunners.27 4. KINGS AND HEROES IN IRANIAN MYTHOLOGICAL TRADITION28 But what about the Iranian ‘historical’ tradition whose origins lead us back to Achaemenid time (and presumably even beyond)? Has it got reflections of the historical role of kingship and of the qualities of a ruler? As previous scholarship has frequently and convincingly shown, pre-Islamic Iran was a world in which orality dominated, in which the spoken word took precedence over the written word, notwithstanding the important body of administrative texts and royal texts of legitimization.29 Thus, it is only for the (late) Sasanian period that we should speak of Iranian ‘literature’, then written in Middle Persian. Evidence for this precedence is provided by the Old and Middle Persian vocabulary containing many indigenous words for “to remember”, “to memorize”, “to recite”, “to hear” and “to question (the recited text)”, but also by the fact that the Old Persian terms for “script” and “to write” are borrowed from other languages in the Near East. Similar to Plato’s Phaidros (275c–279b), the Avestan tradition is deeply skeptical of the written word, giving preference to the memorized text. Thus it is not surprising that the early Muslims did not recognize the Zoroastrians as “People of the Book”, despite the latter’s attempts to ascribe the written version of their relatively young canon of sacred writings, the Avesta – actually dating from around the 6th century CE –, to the prophet Zoroaster. As far as Zoroastrian literature is concerned, the most important religious-literary accomplishment of the Sasanian period was the compilation, codification and canonization of the Avesta with its 21 nasks, along with the collection’s translation into Middle Persian and the exegesis, commentary and interpretation of the sacred writings (Zand). Some time later (7th to 9th century CE?), new religious-didactic texts were composed, in which excerpts from the Avesta and the Zand were compiled into religious anthologies, as it were, devoted to one or more specific topics and including new thoughts and concepts. In addition, apocalyptical and mystical texts from the late Sasanian and early Islamic period are preserved, wisdom literature, as well as historical and political works of fiction, and treatises, law books and shorter didactic works of prose, glossaries, and many other works similar in content to the Avesta or from a similar religious background.30 The problems inherent in the long dominance of the spoken word in Iran for the continuity of tradition are obvious: first, many of the preserved written composi27 28 29 30

Pongratz-Leisten 2001: 235. Cf. Wiesehöfer 2011. Cf. Huyse 2008. Hintze 2009; Macuch 2009.

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tions contain older material, so that the age of a specific text, i. e. the age of its transcription, is not as significant as it might appear at first glance. Second, the individual phases of the evolutionary process of this literature are difficult to discern, as in most cases of orally transmitted tradition written down at a later time. Third, only part of this tradition, mostly of a religious-didactic kind, has been passed down to us directly, although the bulk of Iranian literature from the Sasanian period (224 to 651 CE) definitely belonged to the non-religious sector. Fourth and finally, the long dominance of the oral tradition and oral recitation also offer an explanation for the predominant role of images for the preservation of Iran’s ‘historical’ traditions, on bas-reliefs, on paintings and on vessels, on tapestries, coins and other pictorial carriers, in addition to the epigraphic heritage of the historical Iranian kings and the administrative records and documents. However, the epigraphic and archaeological testimony obviously never determined the Iranians’ ‘historical’ views. This follows from the fact that soon after the fall of the Sasanian Empire in the 7th century CE, the inhabitants of Fars (Persis) no longer considered the rock reliefs as being the works of Shabuhr I (240 to 272 CE) and his successors. Instead, they were associated with characters of the Iranian ‘legendary cycles’ like Rostam. What were the main features of this powerful tradition, and what caused the displacement of historical tradition by the legendary? In late Sasanian or even Islamic times, Middle Persian texts existed that were either related in a sense to the Avesta as a kind of commentary literature or that, in epic form or as poetic songs, belonged to a courtly context. From the time of the reign of Khusro I (531 to 579 CE) onwards, a kind of “Iranian National History” (Ehsan Yarshater), later entitled Xwadāynāmag (“Book of Lords”), based primarily on oral traditions, offered a semi-official written account of the complete history of Eranshahr, starting with the first world king Kayumars and ending with the rule of Khusro I himself.31 Probably designed to meet the subjects’ longing for a collective remembrance of Iran’s glorious past in view of a rather depressing present, this work, which has come down to us only in excerpts, translations and later versions, is structured around the reigns of fifty kings and queens. It is also characterized by specific ‘legendary cycles’; here we intend to focus primarily on those of the Pishdadian, the Kayanid and the Sasanian dynasties. It is interesting to note that ‘heroic’ times in the legends are usually followed by periods when seers, holy people or ‘prophets’ raise moral questions, forcing wars into the background. As far as literary genres are concerned, the “Book of Lords” is a mixture of heroic tales, quotations of kings and sages, priestly disputations, philosophical treatises, moral instruction, and royal testaments and speeches, all of which try to answer questions concerning justice, religiosity and exemplary behavior. The Xwadāynāmag was not only a kind of semi-official history book, but also a means of literary entertainment and social education. It was meant to propagate the moral and socio-political ideals and virtues of kings and royal subjects, upon which the Sasanian kings tried to rely, and with the help of which they hoped to perpetuate their rule.32 The lives of the kings, heroes and sages were 31 32

Howard-Johnston 2010: 341–353. Cf. Shayegan 2013; Börm (forthcoming).

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meant to illustrate those ideals; therefore, the distinction between myth, saga and historical fact became secondary. In Late Antiquity, the “Book of Lords” conjoined the traditions of world and, particularly, Iranian history into a kind of semi-official Sasanian version. Those traditions had probably circulated previously independently, with each region of Iran undoubtedly possessing regionally specific versions of Iranian history, differing in part from those of other regions. Some, perhaps of an eastern Iranian provenance, must have been so popular that, in the end, they were able to displace or absorb the historical and partly legendary tradition of Southwest Iran – a fact suggested by the Sasanian ignorance of their Achaemenid antecedents. Since it may be ruled out that the Arsacids consciously sought to erase the Achaemenids from tradition, the loss of all memory of the names of Cyrus and his successors might be explained as being the result of a gradual process resulting from the oral character of Iranian tradition. Its fascinating and entertaining traits are possibly attributable in part to eastern traditions of historical interpretation that place particular emphasis on the saving grace of the gods. The Parthians, who had epic and poetic material performed at their courts,33 are said to have contributed to this process by collecting and preserving the religious tradition of Iran. Even if eastern Iranian epic cycles made up the core of Iran’s national saga and national history in (early) Sasanian times, as has rightly been stressed, this does not mean that the inhabitants of Fars (‘Kings’, Magi, etc.) had not made their own contributions to the Sasanian version(s) of the ‘National History.’34 As mentioned above, ‘Iranian National History’ is shaped by a succession of dynasties. Among the mythical world rulers of the Pishdadian line, King Feraydun is for us the most significant. He not only defeated the monster-demon King Zahhak, but also divided the world among his three sons Salm, Tur and Iraj. This triggered the disastrous strife between the Iranian kings (heirs of Iraj, who were called Kayanids) and the descendants of Salm and Tur, both from the East and bearing Iranian names. The Kayanid epic tradition shows a strong eastern Iranian legendary and religious slant, although some scholars claim to be able to recognize allusions to Western Iranian historical characters like Cyrus the Great. The end of the third and last phase of Kayanid rule is heralded by the malevolent deeds of the conqueror Alexander of Rum. In the “Book of Lords” tradition, Alexander kills the last Kayanid king, Dara, or schemes to have him assassinated; furthermore, the “Roman” is said to have slain many members of the Iranian aristocracy along with many priests and scholars, to have destroyed fire temples or to have extinguished Holy Fires, to have razed cities and fortresses to the ground, to have robbed, burned or scattered the Holy Scriptures, and to have divided the empire into realms of powerless and quarrelling petty kings. Presumably, in the Parthian version(s) of the ‘National History’ the Arsacids (Ashkanians) came after the Kayanids. After consciously displacing their predecessors in late Sasanian times, the Sasanians took their place, systematically revising the 33 34

Cf. Huyse (forthcoming). Yarshater 1983: 390–391.

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entire tradition and presenting themselves as Iranian kings par excellence, as if the history of Iran had culminated in their rule by law of nature. It is no wonder that for many Muslim authors, the Arsacid era was the result of Alexander’s misdeeds and a time of instability and chaos, when the numerous rivalries between petty kings jeopardized their predecessors’ triumphs, affording Iran’s enemies the opportunity to take advantage of the situation and exploit its treasures. From the point of view of the late Sasanian compilers of the ‘National History,’ the outstanding qualities of Ardashir I (224 to 240 CE) were required to restore Iran’s former greatness and power. The extent to which the conflicts between Khusro I and his successors on the one side and members of the high nobility on the other – in particular the struggle for the throne between Khusro II and Vahram Chobin in 590/91 – were responsible for promoting a positive image of the founder of the Sasanian empire while belittling his Arsacid predecessor Ardavan IV, has already been fully analyzed.35 What was the communicative background of the spreading of this specifically Iranian historical tradition before, during and after the time of the Sasanians? And what role did kings and heroes play in this tradition? In pre-Sasanian times, the production, upkeep, performance, and transmission of such material was in the hands of singers and minstrels, the so-called gōsān, who travelled from one court or one aristocratic place to the other or were members of a noble man’s entourage and who performed those songs in an epic or poetic form. As with the Homeric epics it was the taste, the self-image and the interests of an aristocratic audience that the artists had to take into account. Above all, in the pre-Sasanian, especially Kayanid parts of the “Iranian National History”, neither the priesthood nor the monarchs had been able to dislodge the nobility from its role as the real hero of the millenary drama of Iranian history. As for the king and his house, his rule, even that of an unfair and bad monarch, indeed had found unconditional recognition, and the charisma of the king had not been denied. However, he had not been a god-like figure, free of all criticism and with an unlimited sovereignty, but often enough a rather sad figure of a more than dubious humanness. It had been the prominent representatives of the high nobility in whose hands the destiny of the land had lain, and it had been this nobility that had found the poetry’s real sympathy. There is much to be said for the fact that in the course of time the glorification of certain noble houses became an important feature of the singers’ poetry and that it took a more and more concrete, historical shape until the time of the Sasanian dynasty. One may also suppose that in certain figures of the Kayanid legendary circle reminiscences can be found of historical figures of Parthian and Sasanian (maybe even of Achaemenid) times and that Arsacids and Sasanians adapted older traditions to their own needs. Scholars have rightly characterized the history of the Old Iranian pre-Sasanian epic poetry as a development from heroic sagas to aristocratic epics. The spreading of the legends among the common people can only be explained, similar to the Nachleben of Firdausi’s Shahnameh, by the fact that they had been performed not only at the princes’ courts, but also where the people gathered. However, the people had not been the audience that counted, they had not been an object worth of being 35

Yarshater 1983: 474.

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poetically dealt with, and as a crowd they had rather been despised. As for the heroic sagas, the poetic impact of scribes and priests can be noticed, both of them also not ideal figures of heroic poetry, but active as a kind of editors: the scribes by adding, with the help of their ‘historiographical’ records, historical material to the old legends of the Iranian people; the priests by, for example, allowing the legendary history of Iran to end up in the rule of king Gushtasp, a king whom the Avesta knows as Vishtaspa, patron and sponsor of the prophet Zoroaster, or by presenting a Zoroastrian time frame and a pseudo-historical chronological framework to the national legendary tradition. 5. GREEK VIEWS OF PERSIAN KINGSHIP36 Let us now have a look at the certainly most powerful tradition on the Achaemenid-Persian monarchy. It is not of indigenous, but of foreign origin; however, it was and is so influential that it has not only decisively shaped popular European historical tradition till this day,37 but has in the meantime also become relevant, with the help of a dictator, in Iran itself.38 It has quite frequently and rightly been stressed that the Greek views of the power and the cultural representation of oriental rulers are marked by an “ambivalent perception.”39 They often enough oscillate between fascination and fear and look for explanations for the danger emanating from the oriental rulers and their power, as well as for their success and their failure. At the same time, however, they are decisively shaped by the very latest political developments, by literary and political debates of the time, by genre requirements and the intention of their authors, and they are incorporated into a discourse on identity and alterity. Therefore, it must be assumed that there were different characterizations of the oriental monarchy and of oriental kings, even if only the most powerful tradition has come down to us; however, lines of development can be indicated and traditions can be named that became more powerful than others. Before the beginnings of Persian rule Greek epic and poetry marked the Eastern kings’ power as impressive and – for example, for mercenaries and artisans – as inviting. However, there were always authors who criticized it as dangerous for the ruler himself, his subjects and the (Greek) outside world, and those who warned their compatriots against an uncritical adoption of oriental royal behavior or who spoke in favor of the special qualities of their own (Greek aristocratic) life style. Contemporary Greek perceptions of the end of Assyrian and Babylonian rule are strangely vague and uncommenting – with the exception of the views of the 36 37

38 39

Cf. Bichler 2007; Garcia Sánchez 2009. Cf., for example, the recent and rather strange views of a famous Hungarian author (www.eurotopics.net/en/home/autorenindex/autor_kertesz_imre; access 8/25/2011) and a journalist working for the (semi-official) “Deutsche Welle” (www.dw-world.de/dw/article/0,3839350,00. html; access 8/25/2011). For the Nachleben of the Persian Wars, see Albertz 2006; Jung 2006; Bridges/Hall/Rhodes 2007. Cf. Wiesehöfer 1999. Bichler 2007: 476.

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historical role of the Medes with whom the Persians were equated from the 540s BCE onwards. However, this lacking interest ends with the subjugation of the Greek cities of Western Asia Minor by Cyrus.40 Authors like Aeschylus, Pseudo-Hippocrates and Herodotus recognize the new quality of Oriental rule; however, they above all look for explanations of the astonishing victories of Athens and the members of the Hellenic League. Aeschylus, in his Persians, finds these explanations, on the one hand, in the hybris of the Persian kings that does not respect divinely set boundaries, that overestimates the king’s own power and underestimates the power of his opponents; on the other hand, he finds them in the despotic character of Persian rule that only assigns to the subjects the role of slaves and misjudges the love of freedom of the Greeks. The pseudo-Hippocratic work On the Environment (Περὶ ἀέρων ὑδάτων τόπων) associates Oriental despotism and the Greeks’ desire for freedom with different climatic conditions in Asia and Europe.41 Herodotus, against the background of the history of ‘meetings’ of Orientals and Greeks, makes a distinction between an older oriental form of despotic rule, which he characterizes by illustrating their residences, and the new monarchy of the Persians, which he describes in more detail. With the Halicarnassian, the quality of the kings’ home country also plays a role; however, he focuses on the arrogance and blindness of the rulers, who, in case of doubt, do not follow the warners’ but the hawks’ advice, and who, with their expansionist policy, not only ignore the gods’ orders but bring about their own disaster as well as that of the noble elite of the Persians and the mass of their soldiers. Reinhold Bichler has rightly stressed in this connection the “self-critical potential” of the Histories that characterizes the Athenians as similarly receptive to barbarian and despotic behavior.42 Quite recently, it was also made clear that the stereotyped views of the barbarians only developed some time after the Persian Wars, that Greek views of the Persians of the 5th century BCE in literature and art were always much more varied than thought before and must have oscillated between fascination and hostility, and that this debate has only come down to us in an almost exclusively Athenian garb.43 In the 4th century BCE, against the background of contemporary experiences with Persian power and in a proper discourse on Persia and the Persians to which the genre of the Persika testifies,44 the Cnidian Ctesias45 elaborated on the image of an “Oriental despotism”– by the way, also on the Herodotean idea of a sequence of world empires.46 He did it in such a way that his view of the Orient was able to determine Graeco-Roman tradition; and Early Modern and even contemporary authors have used it to illustrate their own experiences with the potentates of the east (or of Europe: cf. Montesquieu).47 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47

Cf. Xenophan. F 17 Latacz = F 13 Gentili/Prato. Cf. Backhaus 1976. Bichler 2007: 481. Wiesehöfer 2009b; Wiesehöfer 2013c. Cf. Lenfant 2011; Madreiter 2011. Wiesehöfer/Rollinger/Lanfranchi 2011. Wiesehöfer 2005b. Cf. Nippel 2013.

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What was the reason for the success of Ctesias’ work? First of all, he did greatly enhance and embellish the view of pre-Persian Oriental despotism. Thus, not only antiquity followed his view of the Assyrian Empire with its dazzling protagonists Semiramis and Sardanapallus; it had still an influence on the beginnings of Assyriology.48 Ctesias was also responsible for the displacement of the Neo-Babylonian Empire, at least from non-Jewish and non-Christian tradition. Secondly, compared to Herodotus, Ctesias was able to freely revise his predecessor’s royal history of the Persians inasmuch as he retained the order of the rulers on the one hand but changed the characters and the deeds of the kings from Cyrus to Xerxes in an astonishingly malicious and witty manner on the other.49 Thirdly, we have to notice that – aside from the history of Greek-Oriental contacts – the Achaemenid court50 was the main topic of Ctesias’ oeuvre. This focus has been ascribed to the court being Ctesias’ principal place of residence, which would make the author, a doctor from Cnidus, an eyewitness. Thus, it also does not come as a surprise that in modern reports on the Achaemenid court Ctesias has often been quoted as a principal source for events at that specific court and for its institutions. Nevertheless, modern scholarship rightly distinguishes between the characteristic features and institutions of the Persian court described by Ctesias and others and the Ctesianic representation and assessment of these marks and institutions.51 As regards the character of the court, Ctesias’ description is a mixture of (alleged?) experiences and imagination; with it, the court appears as a place of regularly returning violent scenarios (conspiracies, revolts, intrigues, longings for revenge, cruel punishments), a place without stability and rules, the domain of an indeed deciding, but rather double-minded and easily influencable monarch, a playground of scheming people and a ‘dangerous place’ for people of integrity.52 Dominique Lenfant is certainly right when she states that Ctesias does not follow a self-contained pattern of rise and decadence but provides us with the image of an empire, a monarchy, a court that are marked by the regular return of certain identical detrimental scenarios.53 However, this observation does not touch the fact that the Persian monarchy appears as a weak, often threatened political institution. Irene Madreiter was, in my view, able to show quite nicely how Ctesias played around with the expectations of his audience that was asked to measure the intentions and deeds of his multifaceted oriental characters against the respective Greek norms. Presumably, his audience or readers might have been highly irritated if those characters acted contrary to their expectations, and those irritations might be detected, for instance, in many of Plutarch’s comments on Ctesias’ remarks. Madreiter also claims that – apart from Ctesias’ game with his literary models, not the least Herodotus and 48 49 50 51 52 53

Cf. Renger 1979; Larsen 2010. For the beginnings of Assyriology, cf. Mangold 2004; Marchand 2009. Cf. Bichler 2004. For the Achaemenid Court cf. Wiesehöfer/Rollinger 2009 and the articles in Jacobs/Rollinger 2010, for Ctesias’ view of the Achaemenid court: Wiesehöfer 2013b. Briant 2002: 256. Lenfant 2004: CXXXVI. Lenfant 2004: CXXXVI.

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Hellanicus, and from the historiographically well-known claims of authentication (autopsy, interrogation of witnesses, and study of files) – the author might primarily have been concerned with clarifying his own views of an ideal rule and with the possible dangers of Greek poleis’ aspirations for hegemony – one may add: in a time of intensive Greek reflections on the ideal state and the recurring breakdown of negotiations on a long-term koine eirene. Thereby, the Achaemenid Empire would serve as the deterrent example of an absolute monarchy in which the injurious influence of wealth and the informal power of women and eunuchs become apparent. However, in doing so, Ctesias seems to play with different modes of moral behavior and human action and to avoid black-and-white images. He resorts to means of ironic dissociation just as to those of an entertaining kind. Madreiter also assumes a patriotic Cnidian anti-Persian trait of the work.54 On the other hand, Ctesias’ on the whole rather stereotyped look at the Achaemenid court, although probably actually meant as a warning to his Greek contemporaries, because of his narrative qualities seems to rather have served the prejudices and needs of an ancient as well as a post-ancient readership: for a shaping of its own identity by distancing itself from the foreign and the unfamiliar other. Thus, the man from Cnidus has helped to lay the foundation of the caricature of an ‘Oriental despotism’, to color that image and to implement it into the heads of Greeks and Romans and her post-ancient admirers. Apart from Ctesias, Plato, Xenophon and Isocrates particularly shaped critical views of Persian monarchy – although we have to admit that this judgment is due to the history of tradition and might be quite daring in view of the loss of a great part of Greek historical literature of the 4th century. Plato, in the third book of his ‘Laws’, his last and most extensive dialogue, discusses the Persian Empire in his review of the historical development of existing forms of state. For him, it embodies an order of state that does not ensure a balance between reason, freedom and harmony of its citizens, as was the case in Sparta or Crete, which would have ensured its survival, but it is one that increased sovereign power excessively. Thus, an oppressive despotism developed out of a monarchy, which had been founded by a judicious ruler, Cyrus, already during the reign of his son Cambyses, a consequence, which, by the way, repeated itself in the reigns of Darius and his son Xerxes. The dialogue partners presume the cause for this fatal development to lie in the education of the kings’ sons by the women (and eunuchs) of the royal house, an education that is said to have made the children effeminate, undisciplined and dissolute princes (leg. 695a–b).55 The concept of the degeneration of Persian character and the resulting decline of Persian power that can be detected in the Greek literature of that time is particularly noticeable in Xenophon and Isocrates. The last chapter of the eighth book of Xenophon’s Cyropedia (8.1 ff.) refers to education by contrasting the manners and customs in Persia in the grand period of Cyrus, the founder of the empire, with the manners of his Persian contemporaries. However, Xenophon considers the main cause of the decline to lie in a change in the educational curriculum. Moreover, he argues that the reason for negative developments were the fickleness of the kings in 54 55

Madreiter 2011: 125–132. For Plato, cf. Schöpsdau 1990.

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keeping agreements, their wickedness and iniquity, and especially their effeminacy (θρύψις). The rhetorician Isocrates does not stop there; in his great appeal for an all-Greek undertaking against the Great King, he also refers to the military weakness of the Persian Empire in the 4th century BCE, the reason for which was the effeminacy and servility of the Persians.56 Aristotle even sharpens this idea by declaring barbarians slaves “by nature”.57 6. ORIENTAL DESPOTISM VS. GREEK PUBLIC POLITICAL DEBATES? Against the background of the ubiquity of the monarchy in the Ancient Near East, its divine legitimization and the significance of the principle of “vertical solidarity”, Ancient Historians are normally inclined to deny its cultures a space of public action and of decisions for the public welfare and with it the prerequisites for the emergence of a political sphere.58 Even if scholars no longer refer to an alleged arbitrary rule of an “Oriental despot” – I nevertheless consider this idea to be still prevalent in European educated circles – and if they rightfully remind us of the Ancient Near Eastern idea of the “just king” and that Ancient Near Eastern kingship could not be thought of without the fundamental principles of justice and community, they nevertheless normally equate the legal sovereignty of the ruler with political powerlessness of the subjects and doubt the existence of chances of ‘civil participation’. This deficit is usually explained with the fact that Ancient Near Eastern states, in contrast to the Greek poleis, did not know the institutions, infrastructure and communication canals necessary for public debates.59 Now, it is certainly right that in the Ancient Near East justice and community could not be thought of without leadership, without monarchy, and even the literary genre of the “Lament” (see above) about the state of the world sticks to this connection. Thus, the ancient Middle East – at least the central political areas of the Fertile Crescent60 – apparently also did not know a public discourse on the best constitution, like in Greece, or on alternatives to monarchy. However, this is different with the legitimization of single rulers or the legitimacy of certain dynasties; the idea of the “Just King” and the “Liar King”, which was powerful beyond royal circles, sufficiently testifies to the existence of an anti-monarch discourse. But is the fact of the incontestability of the monarchy and the legal sovereignty of the ruler to be equated with political immaturity on part of the subjects? Recent Assyriological research has, not least by proving collective civic institutions and structures and civil consciousness in the areas of the Fertile Crescent of the 2nd and 1st millennium, 56 57 58 59 60

See primarily Isoc. Paneg. 144 f. Arist. Pol. 3.1285a. See Meier 1995. Cf. Assmann 2007. As for the pastoralist nomads in border zones of the Ancient Near Eastern empires, recent research is highly interested in the compatibility of the social and political organization of ‘tribes’ and ‘states’ (http://oi.uchicago.edu/research/symposia/2008.html; access 7/25/2011).

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not only done away with stereotyped older theories about the political relations between rulers and citizens, but has also put anew the question of possible Oriental models for the Greek polis.61 Thus, scholars were able to prove that the great time of the Ancient Near Eastern cities was just the time of manifold cultural transfers between East and West: the first half of the 1st millennium BCE. Then, the old corporate and non-corporate institutions of Bronze Age urban autonomy (assemblies, councils, magistrates) were still in existence, and we even know of a specific civic terminology. At that time, the scope of action of the citizens and their representatives towards the central imperial authorities (e. g., the Assyrian and Babylonian kings) could even be extended. Contemporary Greece also did not use the term polis exclusively for the autonomous city-state, and it seems as if freedom (ἐλευθερία) and autonomy (αὐτονομία) became characteristics of an ideal polis only after the experiences of the Persian Wars.62 Therefore, in Greece, trends of civic autonomy and socialization might have been promoted (or even initiated?) by external stimuli. Who, as a Greek, came to Phoenicia or Mesopotamia or communicated with people from these regions, was not just able to get information about the monarchic power over there, but also about forms of urban autonomy and civic identity. Should there really have been in Mesopotamia and Phoenicia, unlike in Hellas, a political and legal gap between city and countryside, this owed itself, in my opinion, rather to the specific natural conditions of the areas in comparison than to a different understanding of politics and cultural representation. Against the background of the Mesopotamian conditions and sources the lack of contemporary information on civic institutions from Phoenicia may also be less important in our discussions about the origins of the polis. Even if a final answer to this problem is not to be expected for reasons of lacking pre-Archaic Greek texts we Ancient Historians should nevertheless urgently seek the dialogue with Assyriologists when discussing again the question of the emergence of a public sphere. 7. CONCLUSION Ideologically, Persian kingship stands on a double basis: It shared the old Near Eastern idea of the interrelation of kingship, community and justice and also took over from its precursors the idea of the “Liar King”. However, at the same time, it orientated itself – not least terminologically, for example in the almost dualistic confrontation of drauga and ṛta, and in the throne names – towards Iranian (Avestan) traditions. Like its Ancient Near Eastern precursors, the Persian Empire, perhaps apart from Yehud and (Greek) Western Asia, probably did not know a critical discourse on monarchy, only one on monarchs, even if, after Darius’ usurpation, the Achaemenids’ right to rule was probably never seriously questioned in Iranian elite circles up to Alexander’s campaign. The succession crises, when people argued 61 62

See Wiesehöfer 2009c for the literature. Cf. Solans 2011. Cf. Wiesehöfer 2008.

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about the legitimization of single members of the Achaemenid clan, but not about Achaemenid rule per se, are proof enough for this thesis, despite the lack of respective Iranian sources. The Iranian mythical tradition also knows criticism of kings and it even shows in part a pro-aristocratic tendency – but we again find no questioning of the monarchy per se. By the way, the aristocratic bias seems to have originated from post-Achaemenid (Parthian?) time and had to give way in Sasanian times to a view much more friendly to the ruler. In the West, the Greek idea of “Oriental despotism” determined Greek and Roman views of Persian kingship. It was revitalized in Early Modern Europe and has been quite popular in educated circles ever since. Together with the lacking familiarity of most Historians with Assyriological research it today still obscures our views of the extent and range of Ancient Near Eastern political debates and civil participation. BIBLIOGRAPHY Ahn, G. 1992. Religiöse Herrscherlegitimation im achämenidischen Iran. Die Voraussetzungen und die Struktur ihrer Argumentation. Leiden: Brill. Albertz, A. 2006. Exemplarisches Heldentum. Die Rezeptionsgeschichte der Schlacht an den Thermopylen von der Antike bis zur Gegenwart. Munich: Oldenbourg. Allen, L. 2006. The Persian Empire. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Assmann, J. 1990. Ma’at. Gerechtigkeit und Unsterblichkeit im Alten Ägypten. Munich: Beck. Assmann, J. 2007. “Die Entstehung des Politischen im Alten Orient”. www.akademienunion.de/_ files/veranstaltungen/Festvortrag%20Jan%20Assmann.pdf Backhaus, W. 1976. “Der Hellenen-Barbaren-Gegensatz und die Hippokratische Schrift Περὶ ἀέρων ὑδάτων τόπων”. Historia 25: 170–185. Bichler, R. 2007. “Der ‘Orient’ im Wechselspiel von Imagination und Erfahrung: Zum Typus der ‘orientalischen Despotie’”. In Getrennte Wege? Kommunikation, Raum und Wahrnehmung in der Alten Welt, Rollinger, R. / Luther, A. / Wiesehöfer, J. eds., 475–500. Frankfurt: Verlag Antike. Börm, H. (forthcoming). “Kontinuität im Wandel. Begründungsmuster und Handlungsspielräume der iranischen Monarchie in arsakidischer und sasanidischer Zeit”. In Monarchische Herrschaft im Altertum, Rebenich, S. ed., Munich: Oldenbourg. Briant, P. 2002. From Cyrus to Alexander. A History of the Persian Empire. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. Bridges, E. / Hall, E. / Rhodes, P. J. eds. 2007. Cultural Responses to the Persian Wars. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Brosius, M. 2006. The Persians. An Introduction. London: Routledge. Cancik-Kirschbaum, E. 2007. “‘Menschen ohne König…’. Zur Wahrnehmung des Königtums in sumerischen und akkadischen Texten”. In Das geistige Erfassen der Welt im Alten Orient. Sprache, Religion, Kultur und Gesellschaft, Wilcke, C. ed., 167–190. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Dietrich, M. / Dietrich, W. 1998. “Zwischen Gott und Volk. Einführung des Königtums und Auswahl des Königs nach mesopotamischer und israelitischer Anschauung”. In “Und Mose schrieb dieses Lied auf …”, Dietrich, M. et al. eds., 215–264. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Garcia Sánchez, M. 2009. El Gran Rey de Persia. Formas de representación de la alteridad persa en el imaginario griego, Barcelona: Universitat de Barcelona. Garrison, M. (forthcoming). “Visual Representation of the Divine and the Numinous in Early Achaemenid Iran: Old Problems, New Directions”. In Iconography of Ancient Near Eastern Religions, vol. 1, Uehlinger, C. / Graf, F. eds. Leiden: Brill. Gerstenberger, E. S. 2010. “Königskritik (Version Juli 2010)”, www.wibilex.de (Access 7/25/11)

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Gruen, E. 2005. “Persia through the Jewish Looking-Glass”. In Cultural Borrowings and Ethnic Appropriations in Antiquity, Gruen, E. ed., 90–104. Stuttgart: Steiner. Henkelman, W. F. M. 2008. The Other Gods Who Are. Studies in Elamite-Iranian Acculturation Based on the Persepolis Fortification Texts. Leiden: Nederland Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten. Hintze, A. 2009. “Avestan Literature”. In The Literature of Pre-Islamic Iran. A History of Persian Literature XVII, Emmerick, R. E. / Macuch, M. eds., 1–71. London: Tauris. Howard-Johnston, J. 2010. Witnesses to a World Crisis. Historians and Histories of the Middle East in the Seventh Century. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Huyse, P. 2005. La Perse antique. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Huyse, P. 2008. “Late Sassanian Society between Orality and Literacy.” In The Idea of Iran III: The Sassanian Era, Curtis, V. S. / Stewart, S. eds., 140–155. London: Tauris. Huyse, P. (forthcoming). Histoire orale et écrite en Iran ancien entre mémoire et oubli. Paris. Jacobs, B. / Rollinger, R. eds. 2010. Der Achämenidenhof – The Achaemenid Court. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Jung, M. 2006. Marathon und Plataiai. Zwei Perserschlachten als “liex de mémoire” im antiken Griechenland. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Kuhrt, A. 2001. “The Achaemenid Persian Empire (c. 550 – c. 330 BCE): Continuities, Adaptations, Transformations.” In Empires. Perspectives from Archaeology and History, Alcock, S. et al. eds., 93–123. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kuhrt, A. 2007. The Persian Empire. 2 vols. London: Routledge. Lämmerhirt, K. 2010. Wahrheit und Trug. Untersuchungen zur altorientalischen Begriffsgeschichte. Münster: Ugarit-Verlag. Larsen, M. T. 2010. Versunkene Paläste. Wie Europa den Orient entdeckte. Berlin: Olsburg. Lenfant, D. ed. 2004. Ctésias de Cnide: La Perse, L’Inde, Autres Fragments. Texte établi, traduit et commenté. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Lenfant, D. ed. 2011. Les Perses vus par les Grecs. Lire les sources classiques sur l’Empire achéménide. Paris: Armand Colin. Macuch, M. 2009. “Pahlavi Literature”. In The Literature of Pre-Islamic Iran. A History of Persian Literature XVII, Emmerick, R. E. / Macuch, M. eds., 116–196. London: Tauris. Madreiter, I. 2011. Stereotypisierung – Idealisierung – Indifferenz: Formen der Auseinandersetzung mit dem Achaimeniden-Reich in der griechischen Persika-Literatur. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Mangold, S. 2004. Eine ‘weltbürgerliche Wissenschaft’. Die deutsche Orientalistik im 19. Jahrhundert. Stuttgart: Steiner. Marchand, S. L. 2009. German Orientalism in the Age of Empire – Religion, Race, and Scholarship. New York: German Historical Institute & Cambridge University Press. Meier, C. 1995. Die Entstehung des Politischen bei den Griechen. 2nd ed. Frankfurt: Suhrkamp. Nippel, W. 2013. “Der Diskurs über die orientalische Despotie im 18. und 19. Jahrhundert. Von Montesquieu zu Marx”. In Aneignung und Abgrenzung. Wechselnde Perspektiven auf die Antithese von ‘Ost’ und ‘West’ in der griechischen Antike, Zenzen, N. / Hölscher, T. / Trampedach, K. eds., 465–484. Heidelberg: Verlag Antike. Pongratz-Leisten, B. 2002. “‘Lying King’ and ‘False Prophet’. The Intercultural Transfer of a Rhetorical Device within Ancient Near Eastern Ideologies”. In Ideologies as Intercultural Phenomena. Proceedings of the Third Annual Symposium of the Assyrian and Babylonian Intellectual Heritage Project Held in Chicago, USA, October 27–31, 2000, Panaino, A. / Pettinato, G. eds., 215–243. Milan: Università di Bologna. Röllig, W. 1981. “Zum ‘sakralen Königtum’ im Alten Orient”. In Staat und Religion, Gladigow, B. ed., 114–125. Düsseldorf: Patmos. Renger, J. 1979. “Die Geschichte der Altorientalistik und der vorderasiatischen Archäologie in Berlin von 1875 bis 1945”. In Berlin und die Antike. Architektur, Kunstgewerbe, Malerei, Skulptur, Theater und Wissenschaft vom 16. Jahrhundert bis heute, Arenhövel, W. / Schreiber, C. eds., 151–192. Berlin: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut.

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Rollinger, R. 2004. “Herodotus, Human Violence and the Ancient Near East”. In The World of Herodotus, Karageorghis, V. / Taifacos, I. eds., 121–150. Nicosia: Foundation A. G. Leventis Rollinger, R. 2014. “Thinking and Writing about History in Teispid and Achaemenid Persia”. In Thinking, Recording, and Writing History in the Ancient World, Raaflaub, K. ed., 187–212. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Schmitt, R. 1996. “Dāta”. Encyclopaedia Iranica VII: 114–115. Schöpsdau, K. 1990. “Persien und Athen in Platons Nomoi”. In Pratum Saraviense. Festgabe für P. Steinmetz, Görler, W. / Koster, S. eds., 25–39. Stuttgart: Steiner. Shayegan, M. R. 2013. “Sasanian political ideology”. In The Oxford Handbook of Ancient Iran, Potts, D. ed., 805–813. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Solans, B. E. 2011. Poderes colectivos en la Siria del Bronce Final. Zaragoza: PhD thesis. Stausberg, M. 2002. Die Religion Zarathushtras. Vol 1. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Tuplin, Ch. 2004. “The Persian Empire”. In The Long March, Lane Fox, R. ed., 154–183. New Haven: Yale University Press. Tuplin, Ch. 2008. “Herodotus on Persia and the Persian Empire”. In The Landmark Herodotus, Strassler, R. B. ed., 792–797. New York: Anchor. Wiesehöfer, J. 1999. “Kyros, der Schah und 2500 Jahre Menschenrechte. Historische Mythenbildung zur Zeit der Pahlavi-Dynastie”. In Mythen, Geschichte(n), Identitäten: Der Kampf um die Vergangenheit, Conermann, S. ed., 55–68. Hamburg: e. b.-Verlag. Wiesehöfer, J. 2005a. Das antike Persien, 4th ed. Düsseldorf: Patmos. Wiesehöfer, J. 2005b. “Daniel, Herodot und ‘Dareios der Meder’: Auch ein Beitrag zur Abfolge von Weltreichen”. In Von Sumer bis Homer. Festschrift f. M. Schretter, Rollinger, R. ed., 647–653. Altenberge: Ugarit-Verlag. Wiesehöfer, J. 2008. “Republik versus Monarchie? Griechische Stadtstaaten unter persischer Herrschaft”. Iranistik 5.1–2: 223–231. Wiesehöfer, J. 2009a. “The Achaemenid Empire”. In The Dynamics of Ancient Empires, Morris, I. / Scheidel, W. eds., 66–98. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wiesehöfer, J. 2009b. “Das Bild der Anderen: Perser aus der Sicht der Griechen – Griechen aus der Sicht der Perser”. In Alexander der Große und die Öffnung der Welt. Asiens Kulturen im Wandel, Kühnelt, E. et al. eds., 87–93. Mannheim: Schnell & Steiner. Wiesehöfer, J. 2009c. “Die altorientalische Stadt – Vorbild für die griechische Bürgergemeinde (Polis)?” In Die Urbanisierung Europas von der Antike bis in die Moderne, Fouquet, G. / Zeilinger, G. eds., 43–61. Frankfurt: Peter Lang. Wiesehöfer, J. 2011. “Alexander among the People of Persia”. In A Companion to Alexander Literature in the Middle Ages, Zuwiyya, Z. D. ed., 113–132. Leiden: Brill. Wiesehöfer, J. 2013a. “Law and Religion in Achaemenid Iran”. In Law and Religion in the Eastern Mediterranean, Hagedorn, A. / Kratz, R. eds., 41–57. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wiesehöfer, J. 2013b. “Ctesias, the Achaemenid Court, and the History of the Greek Novel”. In The Romance between Greece and the East, Whitmarsh, T. / Thomson, S. eds., 127–141. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wiesehöfer, J. 2013c. “Anstelle eines Nachwortes: Methodische und rezeptionsgeschichtliche Überlegungen zu ‘Orient-Okzident-Beziehungen’ in der Antike”. In Aneignung und Abgrenzung. Wechselnde Perspektiven auf die Antithese von ‘Ost’ und ‘West’ in der griechischen Antike, Zenzen, N. / Hölscher, T. / Trampedach, K. eds., 485–507. Heidelberg: Verlag Antike. Wiesehöfer, J. / Rollinger, R. 2012. “Periodisierung und Epochenbewusstsein in achaimenidischer Zeit”. In Periodisierung und Epochenbewusstsein im Alten Testament und in seinem Umfeld, Krüger, T. / Wiesehöfer, J. eds., 57–85. Stuttgart: Steiner. Wiesehöfer, J. / Rollinger, R. / Lanfranchi, G. eds. 2011. Ktesias’ Welt – Ctesias’ World. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Yarshater, E. 1983. “Iranian National History”. The Cambridge History of Iran 3.1: 359–477.

4 ANATOMY OF THE MONSTER: THE DISCOURSE OF TYRANNY IN ANCIENT GREECE Nino Luraghi Any reader curious enough to read across linguistic and national boundaries can easily realize that the interpretation of tyranny in the framework of the political and social history of archaic Greece is highly controversial. The most obvious and in many ways most important point of disagreement has to do with the relationship between the tyrant and the upper and lower classes of the citizen body respectively, which is inextricably tied to the role of tyranny for the political development of archaic Greece. At the one end of the spectrum, scholars like Santo Mazzarino saw the tyrant as the leader of the people in the struggle against the wealthy elite, a view that echoes ancient portrayals of the demagogue-tyrant, inverting their value judgment.1 In a less radical vein, in the influential monograph of Anthony Andrewes the emergence of tyranny has been connected to a growing request for political participation on the part of a non-aristocratic middle class, and Andrewes in particular regarded this as a consequence of the introduction of the hoplite phalanx, which required a relatively high number of soldiers, all equipped in the same way and in principle interchangeable, rather than a small band of aristocratic warriors.2 The hoplites had to own enough property to be able to afford the panoply, but they were too numerous to be identical with the ruling elite. Equality on the battlefield supposedly translated into a demand for more equality in the political sphere as well, with the tyrant assuming the leadership of the protesters.3

1

2

3

Cf. Mazzarino 1989: 193 f. The main thrust of Mazzarino’s argument in the chapter consists in undermining the notion that tyranny had come to the Greeks of Asia Minor from Lydia. His insistence on this point and on tyranny not being a constitution should be seen in the context of the scholarly debates of the time when the book was originally published, in 1947, but the whole chapter is still well worth reading. The ‘popular’ interpretation of archaic tyranny is represented also in Mossé 1989. Recently, the association of the tyrant with the people in the case of Pisistratus of Athens has been revived by Lavelle 2005. Andrewes 1956: esp. 31–43. Andrewes’ book was basically a history of archaic Greece sub specie tyrannidis, an endeavor made possible precisely by the peculiar concentration on tyranny of the literary sources for archaic Greece, discussed below. Half a century later, de Oliveira Gomes 2007 undertakes a similar attempt at making of tyranny the backbone of an interpretation of archaic Greek history. The egalitarian implications of hoplite tactics have since been questioned; see Van Wees 1995 (and already the generally overlooked Detienne 1968). On Van Wees’ radical revisionist views of hoplite tactics, best laid out in Van Wees 2004, see the criticism of Schwartz 2009.

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At the other end of the spectrum is the view dominant in German scholarship and associated in particular with the name of Alfred Heuß. Heuß saw tyranny as an eminently aristocratic form of political order and as the logical result of competition for power within the ruling elite. This interpretation has been laid out in the most detailed and persuasive way in Michael Stahl’s book on tyranny at Athens and underpins Loretana De Libero’s overview of archaic tyranny. As De Libero puts it, according to this school of thought “archaic tyranny is a genuinely aristocratic form of rule, whose emergence was a product of the competitive ethos dictated by the ideal of social excellence.”4 In a recent overview, Elke Stein-Hölkeskamp, referring to the story of the wedding competition organized by Cleisthenes of Sikyon in order to marry off his daugher Agariste (Hdt. 6.126–130), writes: This story exemplifies the extent to which tyrants were an integral part of the aristocratic society of the archaic period. In their values, lifestyles, and methods of self-presentation, men like Cleisthenes distinguished themselves only slightly from other aristocrats. Even when they acted against other aristocrats in their own poleis, they did so primarily in order to restrict the latter’s capacity of proving, presenting, and advancing themselves and, as a consequence, to stand unrivaled in power and honor. Typically, aristocrats holding a tyranny in their home town were not excluded from the established forms of interaction with the aristocracies of other poleis. Apparently the tyrants’ position or role was perceived as neither strange nor “anti-aristocratic”. Rather, other aristocrats admired and envied them and attached great importance to forming familial ties with them.5

Similar views have only recently penetrated Anglo-Saxon scholarship. Echoing Robin Osborne’s call to eliminate chapters on colonization from handbooks of archaic history,6 Gregory Anderson in a long and thorough article has urged that a similar treatment be applied to tyranny. In his opinion, the term tyrant should not be used in reference to archaic Greek history, because its implications of monarchy and illegitimacy misrepresent the historical phenomenon that the term is supposed to indicate. For Anderson, archaic tyranny was nothing more than an extreme case of aristocratic leadership. If we consider the material and ideological foundations of their preeminence, tyrants were different from other members of the ruling elites of the archaic Greek world only in quantitative, not in qualitative terms. Like all other aristocrats, tyrants sought prestige and legitimacy by establishing privileged connections to three sources of symbolic capital: to the gods, by way of prestigious offerings in sanctuaries, to the heroes, by way of creative genealogies, and to the rich and prestigious world of the Near East, by way of personal relationships and the display of objects of luxury that formed the core of the conspicuous consump-

4

5 6

The classic statement of Heuß’ views is Heuß 1946; cf. however the slightly different take of Heuß 1981: 14 f. (tyranny as ‘progressive,’ with due attention to the risk of anachronism). Stahl 1987 includes also discussions of aristocratic life-style that reflect a later stage of scholarship on archaic Greek society, especially Oswyn Murray’s studies on archaic commensality. The quote is from De Libero 1996: 412. Stein-Hölkeskamp 2009: 106 f. Osborne 1998: 269.

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tion that marked off the archaic elite from the rest of the population.7 The tendency of tyrants to create networks of powerful connections with the ruling elites of other cities is also paralleled by other aristocrats. The use of violence for acquiring and consolidating power was a widespread characteristic of civil strife throughout Greek history, and especially, it seems, during the archaic period: in this field, too, tyrants were not exceptional.8 Accordingly, the difference between them and other successful aristocratic leaders lay in the quantity, not in the quality of the power they attained. Therefore, it is incorrect to see archaic tyrants as monarchs, dictators, or usurpers: archaic tyrannies were not regimes. In Anderson’s words, the tyrant was “by definition, a man who had decisively prevailed over all competitors, usually by overmatching them in self-promotion, by excelling them in the capacity to attract allies, and/or by defeating them in hostile confrontations.” In this extreme formulation, tyranny dissolves completely into the normalcy of archaic aristocratic power politics.9 It is crucial to realize that such divergence in interpretation, which baffles the political scientist,10 is not just a result of the dearth of evidence typical of archaic Greek history. Actually, in quantitative terms there is hardly any other aspect of archaic Greek history that is represented in our literary sources as abundantly as tyranny. The problem is that the sources, rich as they are, do not offer any reasonable answer to the questions that dominate the agenda of modern scholars. Rather than providing information that would facilitate an understanding of archaic tyranny as a kind of political order, ancient authors tend to concentrate on anecdotal aspects such as the family life or the sexuality of tyrants, often feeding the reader stories that remind disturbingly of myth. Only in rare instances do we find a reasonable narrative, let alone a plausible explanation, of the rise to power of the tyrants, and obvious questions – such as, what happened exactly in a city ruled by a tyrant? How were the civic magistracies filled, if at all? What happened to the general assembly? How was justice administered? How was order kept? Who represented the polis vis-a-vis other poleis, and how? – remain, with few exceptions, unanswerable in a definite way.11 Most obscure of all is the question of the power-basis of the tyrant. If all good citizens unanimously hated tyranny, as our ancient sources say or imply, how could the tyrants seize power at all? Why was tyranny so frequent, and

7 8 9 10 11

On the practices through which the Greek elite of the archaic age defined itself, see Duplouy 2006; in particular on the function of objects of prestige from the Ancient Near East, see especially 151–183. On stasis in classical Greece, see Gehrke 1985, deeply influenced by Heuß’ approach and itself hugely influential within German scholarship, and accordingly of general importance also for the study of internal struggles in the archaic polis. Anderson 2005: esp. 180–190. The quote is from page 202. Cf. Hammer 2005: 107. More on this interesting contribution below. The higher density of evidence makes of Athens a partial exception, but even here, the sources seem to tolerate radically different reconstructions, compare e. g. Anderson 2005 and Lavelle 2005.

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especially in the most powerful and most developed poleis of the archaic Greek world?12 Ultimately, the uncertainty that characterizes modern explanations of Greek tyranny is a direct result of the peculiar thematic orientation of the literary sources. Even in the fairly recent past, scholars have all too often succumbed to the temptation of sidestepping the problem and converting ancient scandalous stories into modern political history, with dubious results. An alternative way of reading the evidence for archaic tyranny started to emerge in the seventies of the last century. It was in a sense a by-product of the most important development in the study of Greek culture after the Second World War: the rise of a structurally-oriented anthropology of ancient Greece, associated with the ‘Paris School.’13 Scholars who worked in this new methodological framework were primarily interested in Greek myths as evidence for cultural patterns, and not very much in Greek political history. In hindsight, it was almost an accident that tyranny entered their field of vision. Jean-Pierre Vernant noticed striking parallels between the family history of the Labdacids, Oedipus’ family, and that of the Cypselids, the tyrants of Corinth, and by projecting the mythic logic of Oedipus’ story onto the Corinthian tyrants was able to explain puzzling aspects of the latter in a persuasive fashion.14 Vernant’s observations allowed scholars to read the stories of archaic tyrants with new eyes. Obviously, thinking within the logic of myth, precisely those aspects that make it difficult to write a political history of archaic tyranny became the most revealing: sexual excess and bodily deformation turned into evidence for deeply rooted perceptions of the nature of tyrannical power. Continuing on Vernant’s path in a systematic way involved a maze of problems of method and interpretation.15 First and most obvious, Vernant approached ancient evidence on the tyrants of Corinth in the same synchronic way in which he approached myth, exposing his arguments to the risk of merging notions and perceptions that actually derived from very different historical contexts.16 But perhaps the most important challenge was to broaden Vernant’s observations and see if they could be turned into a general interpretation of the way the Greeks represented (archaic) tyranny. The most comprehensive and most successful attempt at taking up the challenge is represented by Carmine Catenacci’s 1996 book Il tiranno e l’eroe. Coming to the evidence from a mostly literary angle, Catenacci showed that the life-story of the tyrant was characterized by a set of recurring motifs that presented obvious affinities to the stories of heroes – most obviously, like the hero the tyrant tended inevitably to excess, in hate as in love; like many heroes, many tyrants were 12 13 14 15 16

This last observation, combined with an impossibly high chronology for the introduction of coinage, gave rise to the famous theory of the entrepreneurial and capitalist tyrant of Percy Neville Ure; see Ure 1921: 138–162 and 1922: 2 f. On which see Murray 1998; on the origins of the Paris school and especially on its patriarch Louis Gernet, see Di Donato 1990. Vernant 1982. Similar observations in Gentili 1986; cf. Catenacci 1996: 10 f. If nothing else, because of the usual difficulty in defining Greek myth; for a very instructive survey of problems and approaches see now Csapo 2005. On this see e. g. the comments of Schmitt-Pantel 1979: 218–220.

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announced by premonitory signs of various sorts; like some heroes, some tyrants were physically deformed. Catenacci concluded that the affinities he was observing derived from the circumstance that both heroes and tyrants had become the actors of traditional stories that came from the same repertoire and were encoded accoring to the same semantics – almost interchangeable actors, one is tempted to say, as if in some sense they discharged the same narrative function. This conclusion, however, latently calls into question the meaningfulness of the association tyrant-hero: if tyrant-stories and hero-stories are similar simply because they use the same building-blocks and narrative grammar, one wonders if they can tell us anything about the specific persona of the tyrant in Greek imagination. Here it is interesting to consider a contribution by Christiane Sourvinou-Inwood which appeared a few years after Vernant’s article and failed to have the impact it would have deserved.17 The test-case Sourvinou-Inwood started from was once again the story of the tyrants of Corinth as narrated by Herodotus, but this time, the segment that received attention was the conflict between Periander and his son Lycophron (Hdt. 3.50–53). Sourvinou-Inwood’s analysis shows that the story has a deeper embedded meaning, encoded with symbols that respond to associations typical of Greek culture, to do with the ordered succession of generations, family and kinship relations, the replacement of fathers by sons, and the correct performance of rites of passage. In other words, the story is about Lycophron’s failure to follow the path that would bring him to succeed his father, and such failure is marked by symbolic gestures and other markers, starting from his very name (“the one with the mind of a wolf”).18 The ritual logic of the narrative as pointed out by Sourvinou-Inwood is undeniable, and the question that opens up is, again, to what extent can it be seen specifically as a story about tyranny, as opposed to a way of dramatizing what could be a general concern of any Greek, namely, how to ensure an orderly succession of generations. This observation makes more visible a problem built into the approaches championed by Vernant and Sourvinou-Inwood. While both are impressively capable of squeezing cultural meaning out of texts that had otherwise been seen only as a corrupted form of political history, understanding that Lycophron is the embodyment of the adolescent who does not succeed along the path towards adulthood does not of itself bring us any closer to an understanding of tyranny as a form of political order, or even as a product of the imaginaire of the Greeks. Explaining the cultural logic of tyrant stories, decoding their cultural semantics, are necessary steps for an adequate interpretation of the literary evidence. But if the political nature of tyranny is what we want to investigate, then we need to treat partial overlaps with mythic-ritual narratives, intriguing as they may be, as an interpretive means and not as an end, and focus on the image of the tyrant, which after all has very many traits than are not found in the stories about mythic heroes. The conceptual tools made available by anthropologically-oriented studies have to be re-functionalized for an investigation of the discourse of tyranny, that is, of the whole web of associations, 17 18

Cf. Sourvinou-Inwood 1991: 244–285 (originally published in 1988). Sourvinou-Inwood’s analysis of the story presupposes the classic studies of Gernet 1936 (most easily accessible in Gernet 1968) and Vidal-Naquet 1981.

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perceptions and representations that surround this historical and imaginary character. For such an investigation to be carried out in a comprehensive fashion, the space of this contribution would obviously not suffice. In the following, I will start with an inventory of the themes that recur most frequently in Greek representations of tyranny, in order to try and define the rules that govern such representations. My aim will be to point to the regularity of the Greek discourse of tyranny, thereby showing that the concept itself is meaningful, and to outline in a concise and consistent fashion the rules of such discourse.19 The overview will begin with the complex that seems most prominent in creating problems to modern scholars. We could call it ‘the loneliness of ruling alone.’20 As is so often the case, Aristotle’s Politics provides a very effective general statement of the principle. There we read that tyrants typically surrounded themselves with outsiders, most commonly foreigners who served as mercenary soldiers or as bodyguards (Pol. 3.1285a 25–30; 5.1314a 10–13). Plato and other authors add slaves and convicts, freed by the tyrant himself (Plat. rep. 8.567d–e) – taken together the two amount to a veritable checklist of marginals.21 Within the citizen body of the polis ruled by the tyrant there appears to be no such thing as a tyrant’s party. On the contrary, we read that many tyrants had proceeded to disarming their fellow-citizens in order to prevent an uprising – and here we need to remind ourselves of the nexus, obvious for a Greek, between military function and political identity: taking away the weapons of citizen-soldiers obviously undermined their being citizens. The confiscation of the weapons was allegedly made possible by some sort of stratagem, and never accomplished violently or under threat. For instance, Aristodemus, after massacring his opponents, convinced the citizens of Cumae that the only way to avoid further bloodshed was to consecrate all the weapons to the gods – thereby only his bodyguard, composed of convicts, slaves, and foreign mercenaries, was still in arms (Dion. Hal. ant. 7.8.2). Archinus of Argos proceeded in a similar fashion, except that he also promised the citizens new weapons instead of the old ones he confiscated with the pretext of dedicating them to the gods. But of course, he distributed the weapons of the citizens among his supporters, who again turn out to be strangers or the poor (Polyain. 3.8). Phalaris of Akragas organized splendid athletic events and then, while the citizens were outside the city enjoying the spectacle, he sent his minions to go through their houses and confiscate the weapons (Polyain. 5.1.2). Pisistratus supposedly invited the Athenians to an assembly with their weapons, and once they got there, he spoke so softly, that they were compelled to come closer to him in order to hear, and thereby put down their weapons and gave Pisistratus’ agents the opportunity to collect them (Ath. pol. 15.4; Polyain. 1.21.2).22 19 20 21 22

For a discussion of the approach followed here, see Landwehr 2001. Or ‘the tyrant walking on a solitary path,’ Vernant 1982: 33. The recurrent motif of the tyrant who gives the wives of free citizens over to slaves is explored in Asheri 1977; for comments on its political meaning, see also Schmitt-Pantel 1979: 228. The plausibility of this story was undermined by Thucydides’ narrative of the assassination of Hipparchus, in which the Athenians were engaging in a procession with their weapons (Thuc.

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The themes of the disarming of the citizens, the isolation of the tyrant and his relation to outsiders are not mere literary topoi. Apart from recurring in works of political philosophy such as Aristotle’s Politics, they appear even in inscriptions, such as for example the famous ‘tyrants dossier’ from the polis of Eresos on Lesbos, dating to the end of the fourth century and referring retrospectively to the tyrant Agonippus, who had been installed in the city by Memnon of Rhodes during the campaign against Alexander. The text, as preserved, does not tell us how exactly the tyrant disarmed his fellow citizens, only that he did, and it is made explicit that his henchmen were pirates, that is, outsiders, not citizens.23 Clearly linked to each other in a logical fashion, the disarming of the citizens and the isolation of the tyrant are ubiquitous themes in the ancient sources. The regular occurrence of these motifs can be regarded as one of the rules of the discourse of tyranny. It scarcely needs to be emphasized that they create serious difficulties for any attempt at formulating a historical reconstruction of archaic tyranny that may satisfy our standards of plausibility. Intractable as it may seem, the discourse of tyranny possesses its own inner consistency. If the tyrant has little or no support from among the citizens, then he needs to possess extraordinary skills and aptitudes in order to be able to dominate the citizen body, or the better part of it, united against him. The most prominent among these skills turns out to be cunning, or metis (µῆτις).24 Tyrants were supposed to be particularly skilled in deceiving their fellow citizens, especially but not only before their rise to power. Their guile was so sophisticated that they were able to convince the citizens to grant them the very means through which they took control of the city. Pisistratus supposedly wounded himself in order to demonstrate that his enemies were trying to murder him, and thereby convinced the Athenians to grant him a bodyguard of club-bearers recruited from among the citizens. With their help he then occupied the Acropolis (Hdt. 1.59.4–6).25 Phalaris of Akragas leased the construction of a temple from his fellow-citizens, and then used the money to hire mercenaries, and even persuaded the citizens to allow him to fortify the acropolis of Akragas in order to stop alleged thefts of building materials from the construction site. For good measure, he unleashed his final attack during a religious festival (Polyain. 5.1.1). The latter was not a particularly original idea – Aristodemus, as we have seen, did much the same, and so did Polycrates, tyrant of Samos (Polyain. 1.23.2). Tricky metis could help in other circumstances, too: for instance, when facing a more powerful enemy. Thrasybulus of Miletus convinced the Lydian king Alyattes to abandon his scorched-earth campaign against Miletus by having the citizens

23 24 25

6.58.1) – this version of the story was rejected in Ath. pol. 18.4; see the comments of Rhodes 1981: 232 and Lavelle 1993: 117. See RO 83 i 11–12; ii 12; for a new reconstruction of this document, see Ellis-Evans 2012. On the metis of the tyrant, see Catenacci 1996: 193–198; for an investigation of its cultural meaning, see Luraghi 2014. Later authors knew even the name of the proponent of the decree that granted Pisistratus his bodyguards; see Aristot. Ath. pol. 14.1 and Plut. Sol. 30.2. On this episode and its logic, exculpating the Athenians for accepting to be ruled by a tyrant, see Lavelle 1993: 115–118.

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bring forth all their food reserves and feast under the eyes of Alyattes’ envoys, thereby persuading the king that his campaign had been a failure (Hdt. 1.21–22). According to Herodotus, who himself expresses skepticism on the story, Polycrates was said to have bribed the Spartans with fake money in order to convince them to lift the siege of his city. Exploiting the unfamiliarity of the Spartans with coinage, the tyrant gave them lead coins coated with silver (Hdt. 3.56.2). Another prominent one among the specials skill of the wily tyrant was encrypted communication. Again according to Herodotus, Thrasybulus recommended to his colleague Periander of Corinth to get rid of the best citizens by taking Periander’s envoy out into the fields and, without saying a word, just cutting off all the highest among the ears of grain. Needless to say, Periander understood the enigmatic message and immediately set down to work on exterminating all the best citizens of Corinth (Hdt. 5.92.ζ.2–η.1).26 Similarly, Istiaeus of Miletus incited his lieutenant Aristagoras to unleash the Ionian revolt by tattooing a message on the scalp of a slave and then, after having waited for the hair to re-grow, sending the slave to Aristagoras with instructions to tell Aristagoras to shave his head (Hdt. 5.35.2 f.). If metis, which the Greeks after all appear to have highly appreciated,27 may still be seen as shedding an ambiguous light on the tyrant, it is the field of kinship and sexuality that most clearly shows his transgressive nature. In this sphere, excess and violation of accepted norms of behavior is the true seal of the tyrant.28 Even though tyrannical excess typically targeted the wives of the fellow-citizens, the sexual incontinence of the tyrants did not spare their own families – even incest is present, although mostly in an allusive fashion.29 The tyrant Myron of Sicyon, for example, was famous for raping any woman he could lay his hands on, without even so much as trying to hide his crimes, and ended up raping the wife of his brother Isodemus (Nik. Dam. FGrHist 90 F 61).30 Characteristically, beyond sheer insatiability the sexuality of the tyrant tends to show strange and even unnatural traits. According to Herodotus (1.61.1), in order to avoid generating an offspring with his wife, a lady from the accursed family of the Alcmaeonids, Pisistratus had sex with her ‘in an uncustomary way.’31 In the case of Periander, Herodotus gives us a veritable Familienroman that would have made the joy of Sigmund Freud (Hdt. 3.50–53). It starts with Periander murdering his wife Melissa, the daughter of the tyrant Procles of Epidaurus, and then committing necrophilia on her corpse. Later, 26 27 28 29 30 31

The story is reported also in Aristotle (pol. 3.1248a 27–37), where however Periander gives the cryptic advice and Thrasybulus receives it. On the implications of the two versions, see Forsdyke 1999. On the roots of the story in folk-tale, Luraghi 2013: 99 f. On cunning intelligence in Greek culture, see the classic study of Detienne/Vernant 1974; good observations on the Greeks’ mixed attitude to metis also in Catenacci 1996: 224–225. Catenacci 1996: 142–155; for a brief discussion, see also Holt 1998: 26–29. Most famously in the case of Hippias dreaming to sleep with his mother, Hdt. 6.107, on which see Holt 1998. On tyranny and incest more in general, see Vernant 1982. For a detailed study of the ancient sources on the tyrants of Sicyon, see Lupi 2008: esp. 18 on Ephorus as the most likely source of Nicolaus. For the correct interpretation of this passage, see Dräger 1998, with helpful reference to the allusions to this passage in Plutarch’s de Herodoti malignitate.

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intending to localize a treasury hidden by a friend, an action that already in itself bordered on sacrilege, Periander tried to communicate with the ghost of his wife by way of necromancy. But Melissa complained about being cold, because her clothes had not been burnt on the pyre with her corpse.32 In order to placate her, Periander summoned to the sanctuary of Hera all the women of Corinth with the excuse of a religious festival, and then compelled them all to strip naked and burned their precious clothes for Melissa – and one scarcely needs to point out the equivalence between disarming the men and disrobing the women.33 However, the murder of his wife was going to haunt Periander and thoroughly undermine his family. His fatherin-law Procles informed Periander’s sons in an enigmatic way of their father’s crime, by telling them something like “and of course, boys, you know who killed your mother, don’t you.” Periander’s elder son, we are told, was not particularly clever and did not get the hint, but his younger son Lycophron did, and once they were both back in Corinth he refused to have anything to do with his father – this is the part of the story that caught the attention of Sourvinou-Inwood. Periander sent him into exile to Corcyra, a famously recalcitrant colony of Corinth. But when Periander grew old and started thinking of retirement, he decided that the younger and smarter son was the best choice as his successor, and so he tried to get Lycophron back to Corinth. Since Lycophron persisted in not wanting anything to do with his father, in spite of the attempt of his sister at persuading him, in the end Periander proposed his son an exchange: he would retire to Corcyra and Lycophron would come to Corinth and take his place without having to meet him. As soon as the people of Corcyra heard of the plan, rather than have Periander among themselves they preferred to murder Lycophron. Periander reacted as one would expect of a tyrant, planning a cruel and symbolic vengeance: he rallied up the sons of the most prominent citizens of Corcyra and had them shipped to his friend king Alyattes of Lydia with the intention of having them castrated, thereby cancelling the bloodlines of his enemies while at the same time abstaining from homicide, as if in some sort of warped way to preserve the moral high ground. Periander’s revenge offers a revealing perspective on a vice that Greek tyrants shared with a broader category of bad rulers across history and imagination, namely cruelty. Even here, though, the tyrant shows specific features. Phalaris’ infamous bull sums up the most important of them. According to a story already known to Pindar, the tyrant of Akragas had the craftsman Perilaos build for him a bronze bull, hollow inside and made so that a person could be shut inside it and burnt alive, while a special mechanism in the mouth of the bull turned the victim’s screams into a sound that imitated the mooing of the bull. As the story goes, Perilaos was also the guinea pig of the machine.34 Again, as in the case of Periander and the Corcyran 32 33 34

The cryptic message that Melissa’s ghost sends to Periander alluded to the latter’s necrophilia and thereby functioned as a symbolon that only Periander could understand; see Pellizer 1993. The character of Melissa is investigated in Loraux 1993. See Catenacci 1996: 146 with further references. Pindar alludes to the story of the bull in P. 1.95–98, dedicated to Hiero’s victory in the chariot race at Delphi in 476 BCE, where Phalaris is mentioned as an example of what Hiero is not. On

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youths, the tyrant’s cruelty appears inextricably interwoven with his metis, and also with an ambiguous and brutal sense of justice. On the other hand, it is strangely gratuitous, having only its own satisfaction as a purpose. It is now time to shift our focus to the immortals. The story of the tyrant Agonippus in the Eresos inscription, in which citizen hostages are burnt alive inside the temples of the city, reflects sharply another dominant theme of the discourse of tyranny, namely sacrilege. Greek tyrants seem to have had a preference for committing their crimes in sacred spaces, as in the case of Periander and the Corinthian women, thereby adding an offence to immortals to the offence to mortals. Direct offences to the gods, typically in the form of plundering sanctuaries, were apparently a preferred activity of tyrants. Dionysius of Syracuse may be the most prominent representative. The sources preserve some of the witty statements that accompanied his sacred thefts.35 And of course, sacrilege is also implied in the numerous stories of tyrannical coups that were staged in conjunction with religious festivals. But the most serious version of sacrilege, the assassination of enemies inside sacred spaces or otherwise in violation of the right of asylum, as in the case of Agonippus, is also a common occurrence. The tyrant Pythagoras of Ephesus supposedly killed the members of the ruling oligarchy of the basilidai inside temples (Baton FGrHist 268 F 3). Interestingly, the Greeks also remembered that tyrants were responsible for the construction of some of their most remarkable temples – indeed, in some cases they may even have overestimated the tyrants’ merits in this field.36 However, information on the tyrants as temple-builders is rarely embedded into tyrant stories. The only temples that do feature in such stories are the ones that were never built, the ones for which the aspiring tyrants received funds that they then diverted towards the recruitment of henchmen. Still, on a fundamental level, it is indeed remarkable that the Greeks do not seem to have perceived any inconsistency between the sacrilegious crimes of the tyrants and their pious construction projects. Aristotle, the only Greek author who discussed in a general fashion the phenomenon of the temple-building tyrant, explains that the purpose of such initiatives was to impoverish the citizens and keep them busy, in order to prevent them from plotting against the tyrant (pol. 5.1313b 18–28). It is hardly necessary to point out that the logic of this argument is faulty: in Greece, only slaves and the poorest among the citizens were directly involved in the construction of temples. The wealthier citizens, the traditional enemies of the tyrant, certainly did not spend any time working on the construction sites. What happens in this passage is that Aristotle clashes against one of the rules of the discourse of tyranny: tyrants are natural enemies of the gods; there-

35 36

Phalaris, see Murray 1992. Cf. Ps.-Aristotle oec. 2.42 and Cic. nat. 3.84. This may be the case with the temple of Hera on Samos, if it is indeed to be comprised among the Polykrateia erga mentioned by Aristotle (pol. 5.1313b 24–25); for the actual chronology of the two dipteral temples, see Kienast 1993, and note at any rate that Herodotus (3.90) does not attribute the temple to Polycrates. For a succinct discussion of the role of archaic tyrants in major architectural projects, see Van Compernolle 1992: 2–5.

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fore, temples initiated by tyrants can only be an expression of their cunning, not of their piety, even though Aristotle himself, just a few lines away, does remark that it was in the interest of the tyrants conspicuously to display their piety, so that the fellow citizens might worry that the gods could protect them in case of need (pol. 5.1314b 28 ff.). The main rules of the dicourse of tyranny can be summarized as follows. The tyrant is depicted consistently as a human type, with specific features. Common to such features is the fact that they imply the transgression of social rules and values and the violation of taboos of secular and religious nature. Periander’s story offers an especially comprehensive checklist of tyrannical perversions, but single elements of the list appear associated with many other tyrants. The consequences of such violations regularly turned against the tyrants themselves: Myron ended up murdered by his brother, Pisistratus was exiled by his father-in-law the Alcmaeonid Megacles, and Periander lost his son. In other words, the stories do not question the cultural values infringed upon by the tyrants, they rather reinforce their validity by pointing to the disastrous consequences of the violations. This is a rule that applies to the discourse of tyranny in general. Until the fourth century, it seems to have been unimportant to determine precisely whether it was monarchic power that woke up by itself such features in potentially any man, or whether the potential tyrant needed to posses the necessary vices before reaching for monarchy. In the famous Persian constitutional debate, Herodotus has Otanes, the supporter of democracy, state explicitly that the fullness of power enjoyed by the tyrant would drive even the best of men out of his mind (Hdt. 3.80.3).37 As soon as the attempt to depict a positive image of the monarch was undertaken, the problem came to the surface and it became clearer that the tyrannical syndrome could not be regarded as an inevitable consequence of monarchy, for otherwise good monarchy would be inconceivable.38 In the memorable description of the tyrant in Book VIII of Plato’s Republic the tyrannical men come from the class of what Plato calls the drones, men who are ruled by their own impulses (rep. 8.564–6). And yet, the question does not seem to have been of central importance and was not dealt with in a consistent and exhaustive fashion – this was precisely one of the blindspots generated and protected by the discourse of tyranny. This observation confirms that the discourse of tyranny was indeed political at the bottom, and not anthropological, that is, that its real topic was not the psychology of a human type, but the nature and the implications of a political regime. The meaning of the features of the tyrant is consistent and clear. The tyrant is morally inferior, a marginal from the point of view of the community of the citizens, 37 38

In the vast bibliography on the constitutional debate, see especially Lanza 1977: 225–232 for the historical aspects and Pelling 2002 for a literary analysis. This consequence was drawn by Aristotle in his evaluation of the respective advantages of rule under the best laws and rule by the best man in Book III of Politics; see the memorable conclusion in pol. 3.1287a 29–30: “He who recommends that law be sovereign appears to recommend that divinity and reason be sovereign, he who recommends that a man be sovereign adds a wild beast.”

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a man who violates all the rules of the good man and of the good citizen. He is a monster, and his rule over the city is described as a suspension of cultural and social norms, a kind of return from culture to nature. For this reason, sources on Greek tyranny do not provide elements necessary for a historical explanation of it. The rules of the discourse of tyranny make such an explanation impossible, except in moral terms, but of course, to say that the tyrant occasionally had supporters because there are other depraved men in the community does not amount to an explanation. All we can really reconstruct are the contours of a powerful political myth, one that the Greek political imagination bequeatedh first to the Romans, and then to Medieval and early modern political thought. Aristotle’s remarks on why tyrants built temples give us an impressive exaple of the overwhelming social plausibility of the discourse of tyranny. Not even a theoretical thinker of the caliber of Aristotle was able to break loose from its rules. But if we extend our observations, we realize that the rules of the discourse of tyranny actually underpinned the whole concept of monarchy in classical Greek culture. Herodotus, who had perfectly clear the substantive differences between Greek tyrants and Egyptian and Near Eastern kings, does not appear to envision monarchy as essentially separable from tyranny.39 In the fourth century, when various writers began to try and formulate a positive image of the ideal monarch, all they could do was to reverse the negative traits of the tyrant, with the result that Greek monarchic ideology, apart from being rather marginal, is logically dependent on the discourse of tyranny.40 The good king needed to posses all the virtues that corresponded to the vices of the tyrant, or else he was a tyrant, not a king. Not even Plato and Aristotle offer a convincing discussion of monarchy as a kind of political order. Even in the Hellenistic period, in a world dominated by powerful kings, the ideology of monarchy kept concentrating almost exclusively on the personality of the ruler. How exactly monarchy was supposed to function as a political institution remained largely undiscussed. The upshot of this discussion is that understanding the logic of the discourse of tyranny is a necessary operation before we try to break through it, not that it is impossible to investigate archaic tyranny other than as a discoursive construct. For one thing, we also possess a small corpus of texts that derive from the tyrants themselves, as it were. The category includes a few dedicatory inscriptions and remains of monuments,41 but more importantly also a group of victory songs, or epinicia, 39

40 41

Consider the pervasive equivalence of tyranny and kingship in the Persian constitutional debate, and especially in Otanes’ speech (Hdt. 3.80). Herodotus’ views of tyrants and kings have been extensively debated; of the substantial bibliography, Dewald 2003 offers the most balanced interpretation, giving due attention to political institutions and political ideology. See Luraghi 2012 with further references. Most importantly, the dedications of the Deinomenids of Syracuse at Delphi and Olympia, on which see Luraghi 1994: 315–318 (also 139–141 on Hippocrates of Gela and 227–228 on Micythus of Rhegion) and Privitera 2003 with further references. Literary sources that point to earlier tyrants’ dedications, such as Hdt. 1.14.2 on the thesauros of Cypselus and/or of the Corinthians in Delphi and Paus. 6.19.1–4 on the thesauros of Myron and/or the Sicyonians in Olympia are more difficult to associate definitely with archaeological evidence. On the Or-

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composed by Pindar and Bacchylides, commissioned by the tyrants of Syracuse and Akragas in order to celebrate their victories in Panhellenic competitions. Of course, we cannot expect such poems to tell us very much about tyranny as a form of political order, either. However, they do offer intriguing evidence that shows how the tyrants intended to project their rulership for the benefit of an internal audience of fellow citizens and also for a Panhellenic one. The image we meet is that of a charismatic ruler, whose characteristics are righteousness, piety, and generosity, which are rewarded by the gods with military and agonistic success. The victory songs implicitly depict the power of the tyrant as a legitimate sort of rule, supported by divine sanction. Interestingly however, even here we fail to find a justification of the monarchic power of the tyrant as such. On the contrary, and rather paradoxically, we find the poets deploying themes of the discourse of tyranny to show what their patrons were not.42 In some ways, the positive portrait of the victorious tyrant of the epinicia takes as a model the Homeric heroes. The patrons are addressed as basileis and their attribute is the scepter, a standard attribute of the Homeric basileis.43 Within the limits set by the nature of the genre, the epinicia offer at any rate one more reason to reject the doubts on the actual existence of archaic tyranny as a form of rule, since after all some of them address the patron-tyrant explicitly and unequivocally as a ruler, which is all the more relevant considering that these poems were almost certainly destined to public performance. Based on the epinicia, it seems extremely difficult to maintain that the difference between tyrants and other powerful aristocrats was merely quantitative and not qualitative. The rhetoric of excellence applied to ‘normal’ aristocrats is clearly different from that reserved to tyrants.44 However, it is clear that the praise of tyrants in the epinicia does not get us much closer to an explanation of the origin of archaic tyranny as a political regime. If we want to try and understand archaic Greek tyranny as an extradiscursive phenomenon, we need to start looking for the cracks in the texture of the discourse, that is, for those aspects in which the naturalization operated by the discourse of tyranny is most obvious. In conclusion, an example will indicate what this may mean. Analyzing the discourse of tyranny makes it possible to recognize the topical nature of themes such as the isolation of the tyrant. Thinking back to the history of the twentieth century, it is almost to be expected that a regime that was demonized after its fall should be depicted retrospectively as if nobody has really supported it. Some of the stories associated to Greek tyrants however show inconsistencies that

42 43 44

thagorids of Sicyon at Olympia and Delphi see Neer 2007: 243–246 (the contribution offers a good synthetic introduction to the political implications of monumental dedications in Panhellenic sanctuaries). Morrison 2007 offers detailed discussions on the performance context of Pindar’s Sicilian odes, with abundant bibliography; see also Catenacci 2006. For a reading of the political implications of the odes of Pindar and Bacchylides for Sicilian tyrants, see Luraghi 2011 and Mann 2013. See Luraghi 2011: 32 and Mann 2013: 29 with references to the relevant passages in Pindar and Bacchylides. On Homeric βασιλεῖς, their prerogatives and attributes, see especially Carlier 1984: 151–209 (on the scepter, esp. 191). Cf. Mann 2013: 28–41 and, on a specific aspect, Morrison 2007: 33–34.

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point to a situation rather different from the one they ostensibly describe. A striking example is the story of Pisistratus’ bodyguard, a story that clearly tells us more than Herodotus and his successors intended to convey.45 Regardless of whether or not the wily tyrant deceived his fellow citizens by wounding himself, clearly if the Athenians had granted a bodyguard to every citizen whose life was threatened by his political opponents, the citizen body of Athens would not have sufficed. If the story is not totally invented,46 which seems prima facie not very likely, considering the amount of effort that it took to make it conform to the rules of the discourse of tyranny, then we must conclude that at the time the Athenians thought, for whatever reason, that Pisistratus’ safety was a matter of public interest, which is rather surprising, considering that the would-be tyrant at that point, if we are to believe Herodotus, was just an up-and-coming political leader. We have no trace of similar episodes in the classical period, regardless how high the level of violence in civil strife rose. Generalizing from this example, and with just a touch of paradox, one could suggest that widespread support among the citizen body was precisely one of the key differences between tyrants and aristocratic leaders. A revision of the ‘aristocratic’ interpretation of archaic tyranny formulated by Heuß and recently introduced to Anglo-American scholarship by Anderson should start from here.47 Another element that should be part of such a revision comes from a kind of political measure that appears to have been fairly common during the archaic period and to have all but disappeared thereafter. In the archaic period the Greeks seem to have tended much more than their descendants of the classical age to entrust the good of the community to one single citizen in order to smooth internal strife.48 Such individuals are typically classified as law-givers or arbitrators, but Solon’s elegies show that at least is his case reaching for tyranny was a totally plausible option, one that apparently some of his political supporters urged him to pursue.49 The proximity of tyrant and law-giver comes to the fore in the case of Pittakos of 45 46

47

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Cf. Lavelle 2005: 94–96. In which case, the antiquarian detail of the name of the proponent of the decree (see above, n. 25) would have to be invented, too, which would not be too surprising: antiquarian ‘recreation’ of documents was not at all foreign to Athenian historical tradition, even for much later times; see Habicht 1961. A promising line of thought for such a revision is advanced by Hammer 2005, who suggests to view archaic tyranny within the Weberian concept of plebiscitary politics, a kind of charismatic leadership where the investiture comes from the community of the ruled; see Weber 1972: 155 ff. (and note that Weber’s take on Greek tyranny is quite different: Weber sees tyranny merely as an illegitimate political order, Weber 1972: 784 f.). Hammer’s arguments are to some extent predicated, but not dependent, upon a view of the Iliad and Odyssey as depicting Greek political practice in the early archaic period which seems to me ultimately untenable, see Luraghi 2012: 132–135. The evidence for archaic lawgivers and political mediators is collected and assessed most comprehensively in Hölkeskamp 1999. Solon fr. 32 and 33 West, on which, and more in general on Solon fashioning a persona of which tyranny is a foil, see McGlew 1993: 87–123. Lawgivers and tyrants are not often discussed as aspects of the same political syndrome, but see recently Parker 2007 and Wallace 2009.

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Mytilene, too. In making sense of the evidence about him, Aristotle came up with the puzzling construct of the elective tyranny, or aisymneteia as he dubs it (pol. 3.1285a 29–1285b 3).50 To the extent that the informal power of the tyrant could at all be articulated as a form of legitimate rule, one can plausibly suppose this to have happened under the auspices of the recognized need to quench stasis, ubiquitous in the archaic world, and as a response to the call for social equity that is so eloquently articulated in archaic poetry. A new investigation of archaic tyranny should start by focussing on the extraordinarily high degree of acceptance for the idea of handing over absolute power to a single individual as a way out of civil strife that we observe in archaic Greece. Another, related point would be the problem of the transmission of power by the tyrant to his sons: this is actually the real difference between tyrants and law-givers that is regularly observed by our sources, which never mention even the very existence of sons of law-givers. The famously problematic routinization of charisma would offer a ready explanation for the short duration of tyrannic dynasties, thereby indirectly reinforcing the conclusion that this is indeed the conceptual framework in which the legitimacy of tyranny needs to be discussed. Furthermore, it would be necessary to analyze in a more consistent way the consequences of tyrannical rule for the several poleis, ranging from urbanistic transformation to growth in international power and influence: considering the high potential for victory in war to confer charisma, the victorious tyrant could be investigated not only as a feature of Panhellenic competitions, but also as a military phenomenon, beyond the prejudices of our sources, which occasionally project the image of unadventurous regimes whose only focus was the preservation of power.51 At any rate, as the present contribution hopes to have shown, no agenda for future research on archaic tyranny should sidestep a careful analysis of the discourse of tyranny. BIBLIOGRAPHY Anderson, G. 2005. “Before turannoi Were Tyrants: Rethinking a Chapter of Early Greek History”. CA 24: 173–222. Andrewes, A. 1956. The Greek Tyrants. London: Hutchinson. Asheri, D. 1977. “Tyrannie et marriage forcé”. Annales (ESC) 32: 21–48. Carlier, P. 1984. La Royauté en Grèce avant Alexandre. Strasbourg: ACER. Catenacci, C. 1996. Il tiranno e l’eroe. Per un’archeologia del potere nella Grecia antica. Milan: Mondadori. Catenacci, C. 2006. “Pindaro e le corti dei tiranni sicelioti”. In I luoghi e la poesia nella Grecia antica, Vetta, M. / Catenacci, C. eds., 177–197. Alessandria: Orso. Csapo, E. 2005. Theories of Mythology. Oxford: Blackwell. de Libero, L. 1996. Die archaische Tyrannis. Stuttgart: Steiner.

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On Aristotle’s creation of the concept of aisymnetes and its shaky connection to any historical reality, see Romer 1982; add Herrmann 1981 and SEG 31.985, showing that at least by the fifth century asymnetes could be used a synonym of tyrant. Faraguna 2005: 329–331 seems to me to misunderstand the meaning of this document. The locus classicus of this image is Thuk. 1.17.

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de Oliveira Gomes, C. 2007. La cité tyrannique. Histoire politique de la Grèce archaïque. Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes. Detienne, M. 1968. “La phalange. Problèmes et controverses”. In Problèmes de la guerre en Grèce ancienne, Vernant, J.-P. ed., 119–142. Paris: Mouton. Detienne, M. / Vernant, J.-P. 1974. Les Ruses de l’intelligence. La mètis des Grecs. Paris: Flammarion. Dewald, C. 2003: “Form and Content: The Question of Tyranny in Herodotus”. In Popular Tyranny: Sovereignty and Its Discontents in Ancient Greece, Morgan, K. ed., 25–58. Austin: University of Texas Press. di Donato, R. 1990. Per un’antropologia storica del mondo antico. Florence: La Nuova Italia. Dräger, P. 1998. “Die Ehe des Peisistratos mit der Tochter von Megakles (Hdt. 1,61,1 f.)”. Gymnasium 105: 195–198. Duplouy, A. 2006. Le prestige des élites: recherches sur les modes de reconnaissance sociale en Grèce entre les Xe et Ve siècles avant J.-C. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Ellis-Evans, A. 2012. “The Tyrants Dossier from Eresos”. Chiron 42: 183–212. Faraguna, M. 2005. “La figura dell’aisymnetes tra realtà storica e teoria politica”. In Wallace, R. W. / Gagarin, M. eds., Symposion 2001, 321–338. Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Forsdyke, S. 1999. From Aristocratic to Democratic Ideology and Back Again: The Thrasybulus Anecdote in Herodotus’ Histories and Aristotle’ Politics”. CPh 94: 361–372. Gehrke, H.-J. 1985. Stasis. Untersuchungen zu den inneren Kriegen in den griechischen Staaten des 5. und 4. Jahrhunderts v. Chr. Munich: Beck. Gentili, B. 1986. “Il tiranno, l’eroe e la dimensione tragica”. In Edipo. Il teatro greco e la cultura europea, Gentili, B. / Pretagostini, R. eds., 117–123. Rome: Ateneo. Gernet, L. 1936. “Dolon le loup”. In Mélanges Franz Cumont: 189–208. Brussels. Gernet, L. 1968. Anthropologie de la Grèce antique. Paris: Maspero. Habicht, C. 1961. “Falsche Urkunden zur Geschichte Athens im Zeitalter der Perserkriege”. Hermes 89: 1–35. Hammer, D. 2005. “Plebiscitary Politics in Archaic Greece”. Historia 54: 107–131. Hermann, P. 1981. “Teos und Abdera im 5. Jahrhundert v. Chr. Ein neues Fragment der Teiorum dirae”. Chiron 11: 1–30. Heuss, A. 1946. “Die archaische Zeit Griechenlands als geschichtliche Epoche”. A&A 2: 26–62. Heuss, A. 1981. “Vom Anfang und Ende ‘archaischer’ Politik bei den Griechen”. In Gnomosyne. Menschliches Denken und Handeln in der frühgriechischen Literatur. Festschrift W. Marg Kurz, G. / Müller, W. / Nicolai, W. eds., 1–29. Munich: Beck. Hölkeskamp, K.-J. 1999. Schiedsrichter, Gesetzgeber und Gesetzgebung im archaischen Griechenland. Stuttgart: Steiner. Holt, P. 1998. “Sex, Tyranny, and Hippias’ Incest Dream (Herodotos 6.107)”. GRBS 39: 221–241. Kienast, H. J. 1993. “Zur Baugeschichte der beiden Dipteroi im Heraion von Samos”. In Les grands ateliers d’architecture dans le monde égéen du VIe siècle avant J.-C., des Courtils, J. / Moretti, J.-C. eds., 69–75. Paris: de Boccard. Landwehr, A. 2001. Geschichte des Sagbaren. Einführung in die historische Diskursanalyse. Frankfurt/New York: Campus. Lanza, D. 1977. Il tiranno e il suo pubblico. Turin: Einaudi. Lavelle, B. M. 1993. The Sorrow and the Pity: A Prolegomenon to a History of Athens under the Peisistratids, c. 560–510 B. C. Stuttgart: Steiner. Lavlle, B. M. 2005. Fame, Money, and Power: The Rise of Peisistratos and “Democratic” Tyranny at Athens. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Loraux, N. 1993. “Melissa, moglie e figlia di tiranni”. In Grecia al femminile, Loraux, N. ed., 3–37. Rome: Laterza. Lupi, M. 2008. “Salvare i cento anni: il tema della durata della tirannide degli Ortagoridi in prospettiva generazionale”. IncidAntico 6: 133–166.

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Luraghi, N. 1994. Tirannidi arcaiche in Sicilia e Magna Grecia da Panezio di Leontini alla caduta dei Dinomenidi. Florence: Olschki. Luraghi, N. 2011. “Hieron agonistes or the Masks of the Tyrant”. In Dicere laudes. Elogio, comunicazione e creazione del consenso, Urso, G. ed., 27–47. Pisa: ETS. Luraghi, N. 2012. “One-Man Government: The Greeks and Monarchy”. In A Companion to Ancient Greek Government, Beck, H. ed., 131–145. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Luraghi, N. 2013. “The Stories before the Histories: Folktale and Traditional Narrative in Herodotus”. In Herodotus: Oxford Readings in Classical Texts, vol. 1, Vignolo Munson, R. ed., 87–112. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Luraghi, N. 2014. “The Cunning Tyrant: the Cultural Logic of a Narrative Pattern”. In Studies in Honour of Oswyn Murray, Moreno, A. / Thomas, R. eds. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mann, C. 2013. “The Victorious Tyrant: Hieron of Syracuse in the Epinicia of Pindar and Bacchylides”. In The Splendors and Miseries of ruling Alone, Luraghi, N. ed., 25–48. Stuttgart: Steiner. Mazzarino, S. 1989. Fra Oriente e Occidente. Ricerche di storia greca arcaica. 2nd ed. Milan: Rizzoli. Mcglew, J. F. 1993. Tyranny and Political Culture in Ancient Greece. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Morrison, A. D. 2007. Performance and Audiences in Pindar’s Sicilian Victory Odes. London: Institute of Classical Studies. Mossé, C. 1989. La Tyrannie dans la Grèce antique. 2nd ed. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Murray, O. 1992. “Falaride tra mito e storia”. In Agrigento e la Sicilia greca (Atti della. Settimana di studio, Agrigento maggio 1988), Braccesi, L. / de miro, E. eds., 47–60. Rome: Bretschneider. Murray, O. 1998. “Pierre Vidal-Naquet et le métier d’historien de la Grèce: l’ ‘école de Paris’”. In Pierre Vidal-Naquet, un historien dans la cité, Hartog, F. / Schmitt-Pantel, P. / Schnapp, A. eds., 154–166. Paris: La Découverte. Neer, R. T. 2007. “Delphi, Olympia and the Art of Politics”. In The Cambridge Companion to Archaic Greece, Shapiro, H. A. ed., 225–264. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Osborne, R. 1998. “Early Greek Colonization? The Nature of Greek Settlement in the West”. In Archaic Greece: New Approaches and New Evidence, Fisher, N. / van Vees, H. eds., 251–269. London: Duckworth. Parker, V. 2007. “Tyrants and Lawgivers”. In The Cambridge Companion to Archaic Greece, Shapiro, H. A. ed., 13–39. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pelling, C. 2002. “Speech and Action: Herodotus’ Debate on the Constitutions”. PCPhS 48: 123– 158. Pellizer, E. 1993. “Periandro di Corinto e il forno freddo”. In Tradizione e innovazione nella cultura greco da Omero all’età ellenistica: scritti in onore di Bruno Gentili. vol 2, Pretagostini, R. ed., 801–811. Rome: Gruppo Editoriale Internazionale. Privitera, S. 2003. “I tripodi dei Dinomenidi e la decima dei Siracusani”. ASAA 81: 391–424. Rhodes, P. J. 1981. A Commentary on the Aristotelian Athenaion Politeia. Oxford: Clarendon. Romer, F. E. 1982. “The Aisymneteia: A Problem in Aristotle’s Historic Method”. AJPh 103: 25–46. Schmitt-Pantel, P. 1979. “Histoire de tyran, ou comment la cite grecque construit ses marges”, In Les marginaux et les exclus dans l’histoire, 217–231. Paris: Union Générale d’Éditions. Schwartz, A. 2009. Reinstating the Hoplite: Arms, Armour and Phalanx Fighting in Archaic and Classical Greece. Stuttgart: Steiner. Souvrinou-Inwood, C. 1991. ‘Reading’ Greek Culture: Texts and Images, Rituals and Myths. Oxford: Clarendon. Stahl, M. 1987. Aristokraten und Tyrannen im archaischen Athen. Untersuchungen zur Überlieferung, zur Sozialstruktur und zur Entstehung des Staates. Stuttgart: Steiner. Stein-Hölkeskamp, E. 2009. “The Tyrants”. In A Companion to Archaic Greece, Raaflaub, K. A. / van Vees, H. eds., 100–116. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell.

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Ure, P. N. 1921. The Greek Renaissance. London: Methuen. Ure, P. N.1922. The Origin of Tyranny. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. van Compernolle, T. 1992. L’influence de la politique des Deinoménides et des Emménides sur l’architecture et l’urbanisme sicéliotes. Leuven: Peeters. van Wees, H. 1995. “Politics and the Battlefield: Ideology in Greek Warfare”. In The Greek World, Powell, A. ed., 153–177. London: Routledge. van Wees, H. 2004. Greek Warfare: Myths and Realities. London: Duckworth. Vernant, J.-P. 1982. “From Oedipus to Periander: Lameness, Tyranny, Incest in Legend and History”. Arethusa 15: 19–38. Vidal-Naquet, P. 1981. Le chasseur noir. Formes de pensée et formes de société dans le monde grec. Paris: Maspero. Wallace, R. W. 2009. “Charismatic Leaders”. In A Companion to Archaic Greece, Raaflaub, K. A. / van Vees, H. eds., 411–426. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. Weber, M. 1972. Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft. Grundriß der verstehenden Soziologie. 5th ed. Tübingen: Mohr.

5 HERO, GOD OR TYRANT? ALEXANDER THE GREAT IN THE EARLY HELLENISTIC PERIOD Hans-Ulrich Wiemer 1. INTRODUCTION* Latin authors of the early imperial period depict Alexander the Great as an immoderate and uncontrolled tyrant.1 In Seneca, Lucan and Curtius Rufus, the king’s excesses and misdeeds stand for the dangers which are inherent in monarchy. Curtius Rufus’ “History of Alexander” tells the story of a young and gifted ruler who is corrupted by success and gradually degenerates into an oriental despot: Alexander could better cope with warfare than peace and leisure. As soon as he was free of the worries that beset him, he yielded to dissipation, and the man whom the arms of Persia had failed to crush fell before its vices. There were parties early in the day; drinking and mad revelry throughout the night; women by the score. It was a general decline into the ways of the foreigner. By affecting these, as though they were superior to those of his own country, Alexander so offended the sensibilities and eyes of his people that most of his friends began to regard him as an enemy (…). This explains the increase in the plots against his life, the mutiny of his men and the more-public displays of resentment and mutual recrimination amongst them; it explains why Alexander subsequently oscillated between anger and suspicion which arose from groundless fear, and it explains other similar problems which will be recounted later.2 *

1 2

The article on which this translation from the German is based was published in Hermes 139 (2011): 179–205. I should like to thank Ulrich Gotter for inviting me to the conference that provided the stimulus to write it, Helen Imhoff for the translation into English, David Ganek for stylistic improvements, and Malcolm Errington, Stephan Schröder and Rainer Thiel for helpful criticism of the original version. Special thanks go to Felix Schmutterer and the Classical Numismatic Group, Inc. (Lancaster Office, P. O. Box 479, Lancaster, PA 17608). I have added references to literature that has come to my notice since the first publication and included material that for reasons of space could not be accommodated within the limits set by a journal. From the extensive older scholarship, I should like to single out the following contributions as being particularly valuable: Hoffmann 1907; Heuß 1954. On Koulakiotis 2006, which is problematic in a number of regards, see my review in AAHG 62 (2009): 144–148. Of the many contributions on this subject, cf. Hoffmann 1907: 50–69; Heuß 1954: 87–89. Curt. 6.2.1–2, 4: Sed ut primum instantibus curis laxatus est animus militarium rerum quam quietis otiique patientior, excepere eum voluptates, et quem arma Persarum non fregerant, vitia vicerunt: tempestiva convivia et perpotandi pervigilandique insana dulcedo ludique et greges paelicum. Omnia in externum lapsa morem; quem aemulatus quasi potiorem suo ita popularium animos oculosque pariter offendit, ut a plerisque amicorum pro hoste haberetur… Hinc

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As Roman representations of Alexander are generally believed to be based on Hellenistic sources, this negative image would at first sight seem to encourage the belief that the king had already become the target of polemic much earlier. To put the focus on Alexander might seem, therefore, to be a promising way of searching for antimonarchic discourses in the centuries that followed his victorious campaign in Asia. Hellenistic Greeks, however, saw Alexander in a very different light. In the first two centuries after his death, he continued to be admired as an invincible conqueror; he was celebrated as a benefactor and even revered as a god. As the liberator from Persian rule, he had already received cultic honors in some cities of Asia Minor while still alive and these continued after his death.3 Alexander held an enormous fascination which many Greeks could hardly escape, especially as through Homer’s Iliad the ideal of the youthful hero was deeply and firmly anchored in their culture. Alexander himself did what he could to ensure that his fame spread quickly over a wide area. The historian Callisthenes had been commissioned with presenting to the Greeks a positive picture of Alexander’s deeds, and he appears to have carried out this task well until he fell from grace in connection with the attempted introduction of proskynesis. Already in Callisthenes’ work, Alexander was elevated to a suprahuman sphere, appearing as a new Achilles and as son of Zeus.4 This representation had a lasting influence on the historiographical image of Alexander. After Alexander’s death, a host of works about him was written which – to a greater or lesser extent – resembled memoirs. Almost all of them were composed by people who had served Alexander loyally and were able to give an account of the king based on their own experiences: Chares, the “usher” (eisangeleus), Onesikritos, the “chief helmsman” (archikybernetes), Nearchos, the “commander of the fleet” (nauarchos), Ptolemy, the “bodyguard” (somatophylax), and Aristobulos, who had apparently served as a military engineer. Two of them, Nearchos and Ptolemy, had even belonged to Alexander’s inner circle. Unfortunately, none of these works survives in their original form, and therefore the circumstances of their creation and dissemination can only be determined roughly and with considerable uncertainty. Nevertheless, it is manifest that they all painted a very positive picture of Alexander.5

3

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saepius comparatae in caput eius insidiae, secessio militum et liberior inter mutuas querelas dolor, ipsius deinde nunc ira nunc suspiciones, quas excitabat inconsultus pavor, certaque his similia, quae deinde dicentur. The English translation is cited from the useful Penguin edition by J. Yardley and W. Heckel. All other translations are my own. Habicht 1970: 17–25: cults in Priene (and the Ionian League), Ephesus, Erythrai, Teos (?), Bargylia, Magnesia on the Maiander and Ilion; 245–246; 251–252: Thasos. On the Rhodian cult of Alexander 26–28. Admittedly, the evidence for the majority of these cults is late; the Thasian cult of Alexander, however, is attested before the end of the fourth century and there is evidence for the Erythraian cult in the early third. Cf. also Stewart 1993: 419–420. On Callisthenes cf. Jacoby 1919; Brown 1949a; Pearson 1960: 22–49; Pédech 1984: 17–70; Zahrnt 2006. Cf. on this, in addition to the essential works by Jacoby, Pearson and Pédech on the historiography about Alexander (cited in note 5), Meister 1989; Goukowsky 1991; Schepens 1998. On

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It is equally clear that these works originated in milieux in which Alexander held great importance as a legitimating authority. Almost all of the early Diadochi, especially Eumenes, Ptolemy, Seleucus, Lysimachus and Pyrrhus, referred to Alexander in some form or another,6 and even Cassander, who distanced himself from Alexander’s politics of fusion, had to honor him as king of the Macedonians.7 Ptolemy I was most consistent in his use of the prestige which adhered to Alexander even after his death: he secured Alexander’s dead body and had it interred in Memphis first and then in Alexandria. He created an eponymous cult for Alexander8 and celebrated Alexander as the founder of the dynasty in the context of a new pan-Hellenistic festival. His son and successor Ptolemy II connected the cult of Alexander to the cult rendered to himself and his sister and wife Arsinoe.9 The image of Alexander with an elephant scalp and the ram’s horns of Ammon – and later also with the mitra of Dionysus and the aigis – adorned the drachmae and staters which Ptolemy I had minted in the first two decades after Alexander’s death. In around 300 BCE, this image disappeared from gold and silver coins intended for “international” circulation and was replaced by that of Ptolemy I, but it was still used under Ptolemy V for bronze coinage within Egypt.10 After his victory over Antigonos in 301 BCE, Lysimachus referred to the dead king Alexander by issuing gold and silver coinage in his own name showing Alexander with a diadem and ram’s horns.11 After the death of the Diadoch this type of coin was imitated by many cities on the coasts of the Black Sea and the northern Aegean even beyond the end of the third century.12 For the Seleucids, Alexander was much less important as a means of legitimising their rule than he was for the Ptolemaic dynasty; Seleucus I used the image of Alexander with the elephant scalp on coins only for a short period.13 Nevertheless, the early Seleucids continued to issue the silver coinage which had been created by

6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

the precise nature of Onesikritos’ command see Badian 1975. A papyrus published in 2007 (P. Oxy. LXXI 4808) offers new information on Chares of Mytilene and Kleitarchos of Alexandria; on this, cf. note 61 (below). Goukowsky 1978–1981, is essential for the period of the Diadochi. A minimalist overview is found in Errington 1976. Alexander’s role in Hellenistic politics is treated comprehensively in Bohm 1989. The counterpart for Rome is now provided by Kühnen 2008. Cf. Goukowsky 1978–1981: 105–110. Fraser 1972: vol. I, 15–17 (with n. 77–92) in vol. II, 31–42; vol. I 215 ff. (with n. 209 ff.) in vol. II, 365 ff.; Erskine 2002. Described by Kallixeinos FGrHist 627 F 2 = Athen. 5.25–35; 196A–203B. From the extensive literature on this subject, cf. in addition to the antiquarian monograph by Rice 1983, especially Thompson 2000; further information is found in Wiemer 2009. Mørkholm 1991: 63–67, 105 ff.; Stewart 1993: 229–262; Dahmen 2007: 9–15, 111–116 with plates 4 and 5. Goukowsky 1978–1981: 121–122; Mørkholm 1991: 81–82; Stewart 1993: 318–321; Dahmen 2007: 17, 119–120 with plate 8. Mørkholm 1991: 145–148; Le Rider 1986: 10–11, 14–27. Goukowsky 1978–1981: 125–131; Mørkholm 1991: 71–76; Stewart 1993: 313–318; Dahmen 2007: 14–15, 117–188 with plate 7.

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Fig. 1: Ptolemy I Soter: Tetradrachm of c. 321–317 BCE showing Alexander’s head with elephant’s scalp and ram’s horn: Dahmen 113–114 pl. 4.14

Fig. 2: Lysimachus: Tetradrachm from Lampsakos (297–281 BCE) showing Alexander’s head with the ram’s horn of Zeus Ammon and diadem: Dahmen 119–120 pl. 8.15

14

15

AR Tetradrachm (28 mm, 16.41 g, 12h). Attic standard. In the name of Alexander III of Macedon. Alexandria mint. Struck circa 316–312/0 BCE. Diademed head of the deified Alexander right, wearing elephant skin and aegis with tiny ΔO to right of elephant ear / AΛEΞANΔPOY, Athena Alkidemos advancing right, brandishing spear in right hand and wearing shield on extended left arm; monogram to inner left; to right, EY and eagle standing right on thunderbolt. Svoronos 44, pl. II, 23 (same dies); Zervos Issue 20A (dies 300/b); SNG Copenhagen –; Noeske –; CNG 94, lot 775 (same dies). EF, toned, very minor cleaning marks under tone in field on reverse. Well centered (see Triton XVII, lot 409, and cf. Svoronos pl. 4, 23 and Kraay & Hirmer 798). AR Tetradrachm (28mm, 17.02 g, 12h). Lampsakos mint. Struck 297/6–282/1 BCE. Diademed head of the deified Alexander right, with horn of Ammon / BAΣIΛEΩΣ ΛYΣIMAXOY, Athena Nikephoros seated left, left arm resting on shield, transverse spear in background; torch to inner left, star on throne. Thompson 43; Müller 381; SNG France 2538–9; Sunrise 166 (this coin). Near EF, iridescent tone. From artistic dies.

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Alexander and bore his name, in some cases until the accession of Antiochus III.16 Above all, however, posthumous Alexander drachms, which were issued from time to time by many cities in Greece, the Aegean and Asia Minor, circulated in the Seleucid Empire and far beyond until around 160 BCE: the silver coinage which had been created by Alexander and was given his name was the “international” currency in the third century.17 Contemporaries and later generations were thus inundated with a flood of positive images of Alexander. Particularly in the sphere of influence of kings, there was no interest in a critical discussion of Alexander, even if the nature and extent of the use of his memory by individual rulers and dynasties did indeed differ. But, of course, not all Greeks were admirers of Alexander. Alexander made many enemies during his lifetime, encountering fierce opposition not only among some poleis on the Greek mainland, which immediately after his death attempted to shake off the Macedonian hegemony, but also among his Macedonian entourage. Opposition at court had, of course, been silenced and could, therefore, only have an indirect influence on the formation of tradition, namely through the accounts of those who defended the king against accusations which they considered unjustified. By contrast, it was never possible to control public debates in Greek citizen-states entirely. Here, the criterion for judging kings was whether their rule served the interests of the citizens or not, and this also applied to Alexander. However, precisely because in this context the stance on Alexander depended on the specific needs and experiences of a polis, the binding force of such discourses was restricted within rather narrow limits. They were seldom valid beyond a particular city or federal state (koinon). Athenians, Thebans and Spartans had their own specific reasons for not honoring Alexander’s memory. Finally, some citizen-states also allowed space for intellectual discussion which was not subject to the primacy of political interests but which followed its own logic. Philosophers subjected views commonly held to radical criticism and in doing so formulated positions which although shared by small minorities only nevertheless claimed to be universally valid. For this reason, it was possible to appropriate them in many places. As became apparent in the second century, a modified form of these positions could even appeal to members of the Roman elite. The subject of this essay is, thus, the question of when, where and how negative, or at least ambivalent, representations of Alexander could emerge and be disseminated given these conditions. In order to address these questions, I will focus on three different areas of the early Hellenistic period: 1.) Athenian political discourse, 2.) histories and pamphlets and 3.) the debates of the philosophers. In doing so, two aspects deserve particular attention: What categories underlie the criticism of Alexander in a given context, and what effect did the criticism of Alexander come to have? 16 17

A comprehensive collection of material is found in Houghton/Lorber 2002; a brief evaluation is found in Le Rider/de Callataÿ 2006: 42–48. Mørkholm 1991: 137–145, 147–148; Le Rider 1986: 3–51; Stewart 1993: 325–328; Le Rider/ de Callataÿ 2006: 71–120.

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2. ATHENIAN POLITICAL DISCOURSE Quite a number of Greeks from the Greek motherland hated Alexander intensely. We can be certain that the Spartans did not greatly esteem the king against whose rule they had rebelled under King Agis III. To the Aetolians, from whom he had attempted to take Oiniadai, Alexander was still like a red rag to a bull more than a century after his death.18 The Thebans are even less likely to have forgiven Alexander for the destruction of their city.19 Examples such as these, of course, yield hardly anything for the analysis of political discourse, because we lack texts in which they would become tangible. Looking to Athens is thus as one-sided as it is unavoidable. Since the devastating defeat at Chaironeia, political discourse in Athens had been determined by consideration of the Macedonian victors.20 After the murder of Philip, hope had arisen that this also meant the end of the Macedonian hegemony – an expectation that quickly vanished. After the destruction of Thebes in 335 BCE, the Athenians had to supply the king with twenty triremes and a small infantry corps for the Asian campaign, providing the king with an effective means of pressure. From then on, open discussion of Alexander involved considerable risk, as the Macedonian ruler tended to be well informed about the political debates in Athens. It was not the case, however, that the majority of Athenians had resigned themselves to Macedonian hegemony, even if it was unavoidable for the time being. In the spring of 336 BCE, there was an ostentatious avowal of democracy as the only legitimate system of government; the assembly passed a law proposed by Eucrates which guaranteed impunity to anyone who killed someone intending to establish a tyranny.21 The possibility of delegitimizing the Macedonian hegemony as a tyranny thus always remained.22 The Corpus Demosthenicum preserves a speech (no. 17) which was held before the Athenian assembly in 331, during the Sparta-led rebellion against the Macedonian hegemony.23 The unknown orator argues against the proposition supported by other speakers that Athens was duty-bound to observe the agreement with Alexander. He does so by trying to show that Alexander himself had already repeatedly broken it. In particular, he reproaches Alexander with hav18 19

20 21 22

23

Pol. 9.28.8 (Speech by the Aetolian Chlaineas). Open criticism of Alexander was not, of course, opportune in Thebes while the city, which had been rebuilt with the help of Cassander in 314 BCE and was later the home of a garrison of Demetrius, was dependent on Macedonian kings; it even appears that Alexander coins were minted in Thebes under Cassander: Mørkholm 1991: 86. Cf. Habicht 1995: 19 ff. Schwenk 1985: 33–41, no. 6. On monarchy in Archaic and Classical Greece see now Luraghi 2013a, although Berve 1967: vol. 1, 190–206 and vol. 2, 625–629 (5th century); 343–372 and vol. 2, 695–704 (4th century); 476–509 and vol. 2, 737–753 (Hellenistic period) remains indispensable as a work of reference. For the Hellenistic period, authoritative overviews are provided by Walbank 1984 and Gauthier 1986. On tyrannicide cf. now Luraghi 2013b. The law from Eretria concerning tyrants (IG XII 9, 190), which was passed in around 340 BCE, is now much better known thanks to the discovery of new fragments: SEG 51, 1105 and Knoepfler 2001; Knoepfler 2002. On the date see Schäfer 1887: 203–210. For a different view, cf. Will 1983: 67 ff., who dates the speech to 333.

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ing appointed tyrants in other cities. At the same time, he calls the king a tyrant and attributes him the qualities conventionally associated with that:24 Alexander contravenes law and justice by breaking at will the contract sworn to by all, “as if his power of authority as supreme commander also included committing perjury”; moreover, he forces the Athenians to destroy their own legal system through his paid followers.25 The orator also appeals to the hegemonial tradition of Athens: that a Macedonian warship entered the Piraeus in contravention of the treaty is, so he claims, the height of hybris.26 The Athenians did not follow the anonymous orator’s advice that they declare war on the Macedonians, and for this reason, they had no part in the devastating defeat which Agis and his army suffered at the hands of Alexander’s regent Antipater. From now on, however, anti-Macedonian policy no longer was a realistic option. Nevertheless, Alexander’s legitimacy as ruler always remained questionable in the eyes of the Athenians, and he was never given the title basileus.27 Not even Aischines dared to employ this title for Alexander, even less to praise him as a benefactor of the Athenians. In 330, shortly after Agis’ rebellion had been put down, in the lawsuit concerning the award of a golden crown to Demosthenes, Aischines argued that his opponent was to blame for all the desasters that had struck Athens.28 Aischines claimed that Demosthenes had brought divine anger onto the polis by preventing the Athenians from participating in the “holy war” against the Lokrians of Amphissa, although bound by oath to do so. It was only this perjury, he claimed, that had made Alexander’s unprecedented success possible, as all those who had perjured themselves then, now lay completely defeated, whereas the command in the war against the Persians had come to those who had freed the sanctuary of Delphic Apollo:29 24 25

26 27 28 29

Demosth. 17.4: ἆρ᾽ ἐφρόντισε τοῦ δικαίου, ἀλλ᾽ οὐκ ἐχρήσατο τῷ αὑτοῦ ἤθει τῷ τυραννικῷ, βραχὺ φροντίσας ὑμῶν καὶ τῆς κοινῆς ὁμολογίας; 12: τοῦ τυράννου στρατοπέδοις; 25: τῶν τυραννικῶν στρατοπέδων. Demosth. 17.12: ἀλλ᾽ εἰς τοῦθ᾽ ὕβρεως ἥκουσιν ὥστε δορυφορούμενοι τοῖς τοῦ τυράννου στρατοπέδοις ἐν μὲν τοῖς παραβεβασμένοις ὅρκοις ἐμμένειν ὑμῖν διακελεύονται, ὡς καὶ τῆς ἐπιορκίας αὐτοκράτορος ὄντος ἐκείνου, τοὺς δ᾽ ἰδίους ὑμᾶς νόμους ἀναγκάζουσι λύειν, τοὺς μὲν κεκριμένους ἐν τοῖς δικαστηρίοις ἀφιέντες, ἕτερα δὲ παμπληθῆ τοιαῦτα βιαζόμενοι παρανομεῖν. Demosth. 17.26. An exception which proves the rule is found, if the text is properly amended, in Hypereides’ prosecution speech against Demosthenes (col. 32); there, the defendant is accused of having made an application to στῆσαι εἰκόνα Ἀλεξάνδρου βασιλέως τοῦ ἀνικήτου θεοῦ. Aischin. 3.106–136. On the trial concerning the crown cf., e. g., Harris 1995: 138–148. Still useful as a guide to the speeches of Aischines and Demosthenes is Fox 1880; in addition to this, cf. the exhaustive commentary by Wankel 1976. Aischin. 3.132–134: τοιγάρτοι τί τῶν ἀνελπίστων καὶ ἀπροσδοκήτων ἐφ᾽ ἡμῶν οὐ γέγονεν; οὐ γὰρ βίον γε ἡμεῖς ἀνθρώπινον βεβιώκαμεν, ἀλλ᾽ εἰς παραδοξολογίαν τοῖς μεθ᾽ ἡμᾶς1 ἔφυμεν. οὐχ ὁ μὲν τῶν Περσῶν βασιλεύς, ὁ τὸν Ἄθω διορύξας, ὁ τὸν Ἑλλήσποντον ζεύξας, ὁ γῆν καὶ ὕδωρ τοὺς Ἕλληνας αἰτῶν, ὁ τολμῶν ἐν ταῖς ἐπιστολαῖς γράφειν, ὅτι δεσπότης ἐστὶν ἁπάντων ἀνθρώπων ἀφ᾽ ἡλίου ἀνιόντος μέχρι δυομένου, νῦν οὐ περὶ τοῦ κύριος ἑτέρων εἶναι διαγωνίζεται, ἀλλ᾽ ἤδη περὶ τῆς τοῦ σώματος σωτηρίας; καὶ τοὺς αὐτοὺς ὁρῶμεν τῆς τε δόξης ταύτης καὶ τῆς ἐπὶ τὸν Πέρσην ἡγεμονίας ἠξιωμένους, οἳ καὶ τὸ ἐν Δελφοῖς ἱερὸν ἠλευθέρωσαν;

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Hans-Ulrich Wiemer What unanticipated and unexpected events have, thus, not occurred in our time? We have not led the lives of humans, but were born in order to give future humans cause for astonishment. The king of the Persians, who has dug a channel through Athos, who has built a bridge across the Hellespont, who demands earth and water from the Greeks and who dares to write in his letters that he is the lord of all men from the rising of the sun to its setting, is he not struggling, no longer for his domination of others, but in order to save his own life? And do we not see that the very same people who also liberated the sanctuary in Delphi are deemed worthy of this glory and leadership (in the war) against the Persians? But Thebes, Thebes our neighboring city, has been torn out of the middle of Greece in one day; even though justly, for they had passed bad resolutions regarding existential questions, yet their delusion and folly was not acquired in a human but in a demonic way. The wretched Spartans, however, who only participated in these matters at the beginning in connection with the seizure of the sanctuary, they, who once demanded to be the leaders of the Greeks, they are now on the point of sending hostages to Alexander and of giving a demonstration of their misfortune; they themselves and their home city will suffer what he considers to be appropriate, and they will receive their judgment according to the moderation of the victor who himself suffered injustice from them before. Our city, however, the general refuge of the Greeks to which the embassies from Greece used to come in order to find rescue with us city by city, is now no longer fighting for the leadership of the Greeks but is already fighting for the soil of the fatherland. And this has befallen us since Demosthenes has been politically active.

Aischines paints an unsparing picture of Greek powerlessness when faced with Alexander: Thebes has been destroyed, Sparta defeated and humiliated, Athens is powerless and under extreme threat. According to Aischines, no one but Demosthenes is to blame for all the misfortune of the Athenians. Demosthenes, however, countered that there was no one in all mankind who had not suffered as a result of first Philip’s and now Alexander’s despotic rule (dynasteia). Consequently, he, Demosthenes, could not be held to blame. Rather, the general fate of all men, an impersonal and overwhelming force, was responsible for every disaster:30

30

Θῆβαι δέ, Θῆβαι, πόλις ἀστυγείτων, μεθ᾽ ἡμέραν μίαν ἐκ μέσης τῆς Ἑλλάδος ἀνήρπασται, εἰ καὶ δικαίως, περὶ τῶν ὅλων οὐκ ὀρθῶς βουλευσάμενοι, ἀλλὰ τήν γε θεοβλάβειαν καὶ τὴν ἀφροσύνην οὐκ ἀνθρωπίνως, ἀλλὰ δαιμονίως κτησάμενοι. Λακεδαιμόνιοι δ᾽ οἱ ταλαίπωροι, προσαψάμενοι μόνον τούτων τῶν πραγμάτων ἐξ ἀρχῆς περὶ τὴν τοῦ ἱεροῦ κατάληψιν, οἱ τῶν Ἑλλήνων ποτὲ ἀξιοῦντες ἡγεμόνες εἶναι, νῦν ὁμηρεύσοντες καὶ τῆς συμφορᾶς ἐπίδειξιν ποιησόμενοι μέλλουσιν ὡς Ἀλέξανδρον ἀναπέμπεσθαι, τοῦτο πεισόμενοι καὶ αὐτοὶ καὶ ἡ πατρίς, ὅ τι ἂν ἐκείνῳ δόξῃ, καὶ ἐν τῇ τοῦ κρατοῦντος καὶ προηδικημένου μετριότητι κριθησόμενοι. ἡ δ᾽ ἡμετέρα πόλις, ἡ κοινὴ καταφυγὴ τῶν Ἑλλήνων, πρὸς ἣν ἀφικνοῦντο πρότερον ἐκ τῆς Ἑλλάδος αἱ πρεσβεῖαι, κατὰ πόλεις ἕκαστοι παρ᾽ ἡμῶν τὴν σωτηρίαν εὑρησόμενοι, νῦν οὐκέτι περὶ τῆς τῶν Ἑλλήνων ἡγεμονίας ἀγωνίζεται, ἀλλ᾽ ἤδη περὶ τοῦ τῆς πατρίδος ἐδάφους. καὶ ταῦθ᾽ ἡμῖν συμβέβηκεν ἐξ ὅτου Δημοσθένης πρὸς τὴν πολιτείαν προσελήλυθεν. εὖ γὰρ περὶ τῶν τοιούτων Ἡσίοδος ὁ ποιητὴς ἀποφαίνεται. λέγει γάρ που, παιδεύων τὰ πλήθη καὶ συμβουλεύων ταῖς πόλεσι τοὺς πονηροὺς τῶν δημαγωγῶν μὴ προσδέχεσθαι. Demosth. 18.270–271: εἰ μὲν γὰρ ἔχεις, Αἰσχίνη, τῶν ὑπὸ τοῦτον τὸν ἥλιον εἰπεῖν ἀνθρώπων ὅστις ἀθῷος τῆς Φιλίππου πρότερον καὶ νῦν τῆς Ἀλεξάνδρου δυναστείας γέγονεν, ἢ τῶν Ἑλλήνων ἢ τῶν βαρβάρων, ἔστω, συγχωρῶ τὴν ἐμὴν εἴτε τύχην εἴτε δυστυχίαν ὀνομάζειν βούλει πάντων αἰτίαν γεγενῆσθαι. εἰ δὲ καὶ τῶν μηδεπώποτ᾽ ἰδόντων ἐμὲ μηδὲ φωνὴν ἀκηκοότων ἐμοῦ πολλοὶ πολλὰ καὶ δεινὰ πεπόνθασι, μὴ μόνον κατ᾽ ἄνδρα, ἀλλὰ καὶ πόλεις ὅλαι καὶ ἔθνη, πόσῳ δικαιότερον καὶ ἀληθέστερον τὴν ἁπάντων, ὡς ἔοικεν, ἀνθρώπων τύχην κοινὴν καὶ φοράν τινα πραγμάτων χαλεπὴν καὶ οὐχ οἵαν ἔδει τούτων αἰτίαν ἡγεῖσθαι.

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If you, Aischines, can give me the name of one person who lives under this sun who did not suffer under Philip’s despotic rule in earlier times and now under Alexander’s, be it amongst the Greeks or the barbarians, then it may be the case, and I admit that my – you may call it fortune or misfortune – has been to blame for everything. But if even of those who have never seen me or heard my voice, many have suffered many terrible things, not just individuals, but entire cities and peoples, how much fairer and truer is it then to hold responsible the general fate of all men, as it seems, and an evil fundamental tendency of matters as it should never have occurred?

Even Demosthenes does not dispute that the Greeks are helpless against Alexander. Unlike Aischines, however, who describes Alexander’s rule as a victorious advance without equal, Demosthenes depicts it as ill fate for all of mankind. By using the term dynasteia, he denies Alexander’s rule legitimacy, even if he does avoid calling the king tyrannos for reasons of political expediency.31 Furthermore, by identifying tyche as the cause of the Greeks’ misfortune, he at least implies that the situation may improve again at some point.32 After his return from India, Alexander ordered the Greek cities to allow those who had been exiled to return. As for the Athenians this would have meant vacating Samos, they made feverish efforts to persuade the king to rescind this order, seriously considering the possibility of showing him cultic honors. But the elevation of the tyrant to the status of god was highly controversial,33 and those who supported it were suspected of having an antidemocratic disposition: in the Harpalos case, Demosthenes was accused of having supported the suggestion of showing Alexander divine honors.34 Immediately after Alexander’s death, pent-up hatred openly erupted in the so-called Lamian War. It is most clearly discernible in Hypereides’ speech for those who had fallen in the first year of the war.35 Hypereides describes the Macedonian hegemony as tyranny which suspends all human and divine law: human will rather than law ruled, and crimes against wives, unmarried girls and young boys were everyday occurrences. One had to witness how great care was taken over giving divine honors to humans – to Alexander, that is –, while the cult of the gods was neglected. Furthermore, one was forced to honor the slaves of these very people – Hephaistion, that is – as heroes.36 As a result of the defeat in the Lamian War, oligarchic regimes came to power which were dependent on the support of the Macedonian rulers. Under these cir31 32

33 34 35 36

On the dynasteia as a political concept cf. Martin 1978. Philip II’s breaches of the law are denounced by Demosthenes in §§ 69–79. Demosthenes distinguishes between his personal fate (τύχη ἰδία), the fate of Athens, which he claims is still better than that of the other Greeks (§ 252; cf. Ep. 4.7), and the general fate of mankind (τύχη κοινή): 18.252–275 and Fox 1880: 190–200. If the first of the letters, which has been transmitted under Demosthenes’ name, is authentic – for: Goldstein 1968: 394; Clavaud 1987: 8–57, against: Bickermann 1937 – then Demosthenes, while in exile, wrote to the Athenians soon after Alexander’s death (Ep. 1.13) that fortune would not have smiled on Alexander, had he sat around idly; now, however, he claims, it is the Athenians’ turn to be active in order for Tyche to attach herself to them. On this subject, see Habicht 1970: 28–36 with the modification made on pp. 246–250. Din. C. Dem. 94; Hyp. C. Dem. col. 31. On this subject, cf. Engels 1993: 373–384. Hyp. Epit. col. 8.20–22. On this subject, cf. Bickerman 1963.

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cumstances, there was no longer any room for polemic against the dead tyrant Alexander.37 In the theater, amusement was now provided by dramas in which the king was the subject of harmless mockery. In one of Menander’s comedies, a man who boasted of having emptied a tankard of ten cotylae – almost three litres – three times in a row was said to have drunk more than Alexander; this feat was proudly confirmed by the carouser.38 Another comedy presented a parody of the story, disseminated by Callisthenes, that the sea had withdrawn from the Pamphylian coast in order to allow Alexander and his army to march through.39 When, with the help of Demetrius, the Athenians were able to return to a democratic constitution, they immediately embraced the tradition of anti-Macedonian policy again. Following a proposal by Stratocles, it was decided to erect in the agora a bronze statue for Lycurgus, who, shortly before his death in 323 BCE, had declared himself against bestowing divine honors on Alexander.40 Furthermore, his oldest male descendent was to have the right to a meal at public expense in the prytaneion. The reason given for this extraordinary honor was that Lycurgus had opposed Alexander in the interest of his home town as well as all Greeks and had always fought for the freedom and autonomy of Athens.41 The traditional topoi associated with tyrants were now employed once again. During the court case concerning the legitimacy of the law, proposed in 307 and initially passed, according to which the teaching of philosophy was to be placed under state control,42 Demosthenes’ nephew Demochares charged Plato and Xenokrates with having produced tyrants and accused Aristotle of having been an agent of Philip II, whom he apparently also considered to have been a tyrant.43 It is, admittedly, impossible to tell from the sources whether Demochares also mentioned Alexander in this context.44 In any case, his polemic made no great impression on the Athenians; the law concerning the teaching of philosophy was repealed almost as soon as it had been passed. 37 38 39 40 41

42 43 44

Service to “King Alexander” is mentioned in the motive clause of the honorific decree, passed in 319/8 BCE, for the Rhodian Ainetos who had taken part in Alexander’s campaign: ISE I 3, ll. 16–20. Men. Kolax F 2 Körte = Athen. 10.43.434C. Pernerstorfer 2009: 147–150 suggests dating the performance of “Kolax” to 315 BCE but does not rule out a later date. Men. F 598 Kassel-Austin = Plut. Alex. 17.7. [Plut.] Vit. dec. or. 842D. Although the version preserved as an inscription (IG II2 457 = Syll.3 326 + IG II2 3207) is very fragmentary, it is, nevertheless, possible to tell that the version preserved by Pseudo-Plutarch (851F–852E) has been abbreviated in the section concerning Alexander. Cf. Faraguna 2003: 487–491 (SEG 53, 41). Diog. Laert. 5.38; Athen. 13.92.610E/F = Alexis F 99 Kassel-Austin; Pollux 9.42; on this cf. Lynch 1972: 103–104, 117–118; Marasco 1984: 42–47; Haake 2008. Academics: Demochares F 1 Marasco = Athen. 11.119.508F–509B; Aristotle: F 2 Marasco = Aristokles in Eus. Praep. Ev. 15.2.6; cf. also F 3 Marasco = Athen. 5.55.215C + 5.12.187D. Menander, too, who is called a pupil of Theophrastus’ (Pamphile in Diog. Laert. 5.36 = T 8 Kassel-Austin), is said to have been attacked and nearly taken to court after the fall of Demetrius of Phalerum because he was friends with him. However, he escaped this through the intercession of a certain Telesphoros, the nephew of Demetrius: Diog. Laert. 5.79 = T 9 KasselAustin; Phaedr. 5.1 = T 10 Kassel-Austin; cf. on this Potter 1987; Schröder 1996.

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Given that the dependency on the Macedonian rulers could not be shaken off in the decades that followed, it is likely that the de-politicisation of the figure of Alexander, which had begun under Demetrius of Phalerum, continued. However, there was no positive re-evaluation of Alexander, either. When democracy was permanently reinstituted in the 280s, the Athenians demonstratively professed loyalty to Demosthenes, for whom a bronze statue was set up in the agora in 281/80 following a proposal by his nephew, Demochares. In the motive clause of these extraordinary honors, Demosthenes is celebrated as a model citizen, but above all as a champion of freedom and democracy. His forging of the coalition against Philip II, which had been defeated at Chaironeia, is emphasised and praised; furthermore, he is said to have prevented the Peloponnesians from supporting Alexander against Thebes, and, finally, to have been murdered by Antipater.45 Accordingly, two opposing tendencies can be detected in the political discourse of early Hellenistic Athens: on the one hand, the anti-Macedonian polemic, which had been fed by the hegemonial claim of the democratic polis Athens and which operated with the motifs conventionally used in relation to tyrants, disappeared. In this way, the figure of Alexander was to a certain extent de-politicized. On the other hand, however, the revived democracy made Demosthenes and his anti-Macedonian policy an integral part of its remembrance culture. For this reason, and in contrast to the situation in many other cities, the recollection of Alexander was not able to fulfil a positive function in the collective memory of early Hellenistic Athens. In this regard, Athens is the exact opposite of early Hellenistic Rhodes, where Alexander had his own cult and where he, as benefactor of the town, played an identity-establishing role for the Rhodians’ view of their history.46 3. HISTORIES AND PAMPHLETS In the early Hellenistic period, images of Alexander were not only constructed in political oratory, but also by historiographical texts and political pamphlets. I am deliberately vague in speaking of histories and pamphlets, because it is only with difficulty that the works of the so-called Alexander historians can be assigned to one of the familiar genres of Greek literature. Elements of historiography were mixed with elements of biography and autobiography, geography and ethnography; in addition to complete accounts of Alexander’s campaigns, there were works which described only parts or certain aspects of the venture. While many of these 45

46

Demochares’ application is preserved in [Plut.] Mor. 850F–851C; on this matter, cf. Ladek 1891: 72–111. The epigram on the statue is quoted in Plut. Dem. 30.5 and the anonymous Demosthenes biography in P. Oxy. XV 1800 F 3, col. 2, ll. 29–39 (where, however, the Kerameikos is wrongly named as the place in which the statue was erected). Diod. 20.81.3, following a Rhodian source, probably Zenon (cf. Wiemer 2001: 222 ff.), reports that Alexander preferred Rhodes above all other cities and for this reason also entrusted the Rhodians with his will. The earliest evidence for the Rhodian cult of Alexander is a list of priests from around 200 BCE, published by Segre 1941 (cf. Habicht 1970: 26–28). On the will of Alexander forged in Rhodes, cf. the fundamental study by Merkelbach 1977: 121–151.

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texts aimed at expressing a personal view of Alexander for a future well beyond the lifetime of their author, others seem to have been written with the aim of making an immediate impact on political issues, like pamphlets in the Early Modern period. Among the many authors, who wrote about Alexander as contemporaries and who are still recognizable to us, Ephippos of Olynthos is exceptional in several ways:47 soon after Alexander’s death, Ephippos wrote an angry polemic against the king, entitled “On the deaths of Alexander and Hephaistion”. His work was not, therefore, a complete history of Alexander; it only covered the last months of the king’s life. We know very little about the author: there is evidence that, like Callisthenes, he came from Olynthos; it appears from his account that he knew Alexander’s court from personal experience in the form it had developed after the latter’s return from India.48 Less still can be said about his readers: all five quotations come from Athenaios; for Pliny the Elder, who includes him in a list of authors who had written about exotic trees,49 he was merely a name. It hardly needs stating, therefore, that in Ephippos’ case the sociological approach to literature yields results that are meagre at best.50 Ephippos’ view of Alexander, however, is very clear in the surviving fragments.51 Ephippos depicts the king as an excessive, megalomaniac and cruel tyrant. He accuses Alexander of frequently drinking himself senseless, like all Macedonians, and of having wasted vast sums of money for his banquets.52 According to Ephippos, Alexander died of the consequences of a drinking competition, as the god Dionysus was angry with him because of the destruction of Thebes.53 For Ephippos, the golden throne on which Alexander, having returned from India, was accustomed to sit while holding audiences was proof of the excessive luxury which the king maintained.54 However, excess is but the mildest of the accusations which Ephippos levels against Alexander. According to Athenaios, he says the following about the king:55 47

48

49 50 51 52 53 54 55

The two fragments of a work, preserved by Athenaios, which circulated under the name of a certain Nikoboule (FGrHist 127) suggest that Ephippos’ pamphlet was not the only one of its kind. However, the remains are too meagre to say anything more specific regarding intention and context. The detailed description of the state of affairs at the court in Ekbatana (F 5), which is confirmed by the Samian honorific decree Syll.3 312, indicates his presence at the court of Alexander. Berve 1926: vol. II, 161 No. 331, argues for an identification with the episkopos of the same name (Arr. an. 3.5.3 = FGrHist 126 T 2) who was appointed in Egypt in 332/1, but this is rather unlikely, especially as the ethnic Χαλκιδέα is based on conjecture; the manuscripts give the patronymic Χαλκιδέως: it is not clear how the episkopos from Egypt is supposed to have got to the court at Ekbatana (as noted by Heckel 2006: 118 s. v. Ephippus [2]). FGrHist 126 T 3 = Plin. nat. 1.12.13. There are no certain traces in the works of later authors. Jacoby, FGrHist IIb: 438: “es geht nicht an, Plut. Alex. 75 und Ael. VH VII 8 gerade auf E zurückzuführen”. Cf. Pearson 1960: 61–67. FGrHist 126 F 1 = Athen. 3.91.120C/D; F 2 = Athen. 4.27.146C/D. FGrHist 126 F 3 = Athen. 10.44.434A/B, where, following Kaibel, one should read ἐπόρθησε instead of ἐπολιόρκησε, the form which has been preserved but does not make sense. FGrHist 126 F 4 = Athen. 12.53.537D. FGrHist 126 F 5, ll. 1–34 = Athen. 12.53.537E–538A: ἔφιππος δέ φησιν ὡς Ἀλέξανδρος καὶ τὰς ἱερὰς ἐσθῆτας ἐφόρει ἐν τοῖς δείπνοις, ὁτὲ μὲν τὴν τοῦ Ἄμμωνος πορφυρίδα καὶ περισχιδεῖς καὶ κέρατα καθάπερ ὁ θεός, ὁτὲ δὲ τὴν τῆς Ἀρτέμιδος, ἣν καὶ ἐπὶ τοῦ ἅρματος ἐφόρει πολλάκις,

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Ephippos says that Alexander also wore the sacred vestments at his banquets, sometimes the purple robe of Ammon, the light sandals and the horns like the god, sometimes the garment of Artemis, which he often wore even in his chariot, dressed in Persian attire, with bow and quiver showing above his shoulders, und sometimes the dress of Hermes. The following he wore almost daily: a purple cloak with a purple garment with a central, white stripe underneath (chiton mesoleukos) and the flat felt hat (kausia) with the royal diadem; when in informal company, however, he wore the winged sandals and the broad-brimmed hat (petasos) and he carried a herald’s staff in his hand, but often also a lion’s skin and a club like Herakles (…). Alexander soaked the ground with good oil and pleasant-smelling wine. Myrrh and other incenses were burnt in his honor. All present were silent and still because of their fear. For he was intolerable and bloodthirsty. He was considered to be a melancholic (tending to unpredictable fits of rage).

There follows a passage, unfortunately mutilated in the course of transmission, in which Alexander appears as the object and initiator of excessive flattery:56 In Ekbatana he offered a sacrifice to Dionysus. After everything had been amply prepared for the feast, the satrap Satrabates showed hospitality to all the soldiers. Ephippos says that when many people had gathered to watch the proceedings, arrogant proclamations were made, which were even more brazen than the haughtiness of the Persians. For as some called out this and others that, while placing a wreath on Alexander’s head, one of the keepers of arms, following a plan agreed on with Alexander, went beyond every imaginable flattery by asking the herald to make the following proclamation: “Gorgos, the keeper of arms, crowns Alexander, the son of Ammon, with a garland worth three thousand pieces of gold. And if he lays siege to Athens, then he will present him with 10000 complete suits of armour and the same number of catapults and as many of all other kinds of missiles as are needed for the war.”

Excess (tryphe), arrogance (hybris), cruelty, and flattery (kolakeia) – Ephippos depicts Alexander as the archetypical tyrant. He judges Alexander from the perspective of a Greek who feels committed to the values shared by the citizens of a polis, and he considers him to a be a monarch who tramples on these values. For this reason, there is clearly something to be said for the supposition that Ephippos wrote his pamphlet during the Lamian War, as it explains why he uses the anti-Athenian political agitation at Alexander’s court as an example of the flattery prevailing

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ἔχων τὴν Περσικὴν στολήν, ὑποφαίνων ἄνωθεν τῶν ὤμων τό τε τόξον καὶ τὴν σιβύνην, ἐνίοτε δὲ καὶ τὴν τοῦ Ἑρμοῦ: τὰ μὲν ἄλλα σχεδὸν καὶ καθ᾽ ἑκάστην ἡμέραν χλαμύδα τε πορφυρᾶν καὶ χιτῶνα μεσόλευκον καὶ τὴν καυσίαν ἔχουσαν τὸ διάδημα τὸ βασιλικόν, ἐν δὲ τῇ συνουσίᾳ τά τε πέδιλα καὶ τὸν πέτασον ἐπὶ τῇ κεφαλῇ καὶ τὸ κηρύκειον ἐν τῇ χειρί, πολλάκις δὲ καὶ λεοντῆν καὶ ῥόπαλον ὥσπερ ὁ Ἡρακλῆς … ἔρρανε δὲ ὁ Ἀλέξανδρος καὶ μύρῳ σπουδαίῳ καὶ οἴνῳ εὐώδει τὸ δάπεδον. ἐθυμιᾶτο δὲ αὐτῷ σμύρνα καὶ τὰ ἄλλα θυμιάματα: εὐφημία τε καὶ σιγὴ κατεῖχε πάντας ὑπὸ δέους τοὺς παρόντας. ἀφόρητος γὰρ ἦν καὶ φονικός. ἐδόκει γὰρ εἶναι μελαγχολικός. On this passage, cf. Neuffer 1929: especially 30 ff. FGrHist 126 F 5, ll. 35 ff. = Athen. 12.53.538A/B: ἐν Ἐκβατάνοις δὲ ποιήσας τῷ Διονύσῳ θυσίαν καὶ πάντων δαψιλῶς ἐν τῇ θοίνῃ παρασκευασθέντων, καὶ Σατραβάτης ὁ σατράπης τοὺς στρατιώτας εἱστίασε πάντας. ἀθροισθέντων δὲ πολλῶν ἐπὶ τὴν θέαν, φησὶν ὁ Ἔφιππος, κηρύγματα ἐγίνετο ‘ ὑπερήφανα καὶ τῆς Περσικῆς ὑπεροψίας αὐθαδέστερα. ἄλλων γὰρ ἄλλο τι ἀνακηρυττόντων καὶ στεφανούντων τὸν Ἀλέξανδρον, εἷς τις τῶν ὁπλοφυλάκων ὑπερπεπαικὼς πᾶσαν κολακείαν κοινωσάμενος τῷ ‘ Ἀλεξάνδρῳ ἐκέλευσε τὸν κήρυκα ἀνειπεῖν ὅτι ‘ Γόργος ὁ ὁπλοφύλαξ Ἀλέξανδρον Ἄμμωνος υἱὸν στεφανοῖ χρυσοῖς τρισχιλίοις, καὶ ὅταν Ἀθήνας πολιορκῇ, μυρίαις πανοπλίαις καὶ τοῖς ἴσοις καταπέλταις καὶ πᾶσι τοῖς ἄλλοις βέλεσιν εἰς τὸν πόλεμον ἱκανοῖς.

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there. The Samians saw the affair differently: after they had managed to return, they awarded citizenship to Gorgos because he had supported their cause before Alexander and because, together with the other Greeks who were present, he had garlanded the king following the announcement that the Samians were to regain their home.57 Ephippos is, therefore, taking sides on an issue which was highly topical during the Lamian War, but finally settled in favor of the Samians after the war’s end.58 If Ephippos really was writing during the Lamian War, perhaps in Athens, it is easy to understand why his work was forgotten so quickly.59 After the defeat, anti-Macedonian polemic was unwanted, even dangerous. At any rate, Ephippos’ work had no recognisable effect on the literature about Alexander written in later centuries. Almost the opposite is true of Kleitarchos’ “History of Alexander”, published in c. 310 BCE within the first Ptolemaic ruler’s sphere of influence: his work was considered authoritative in the late Hellenistic period and it was read more widely than any other, up into Roman imperial times.60 It is, however, questionable whether this was already the case in the early Hellenistic period. To be sure, the lack of relevant evidence does not say much given that only meagre fragments of Hellenistic historiography have been preserved. It is certain, however, that Kleitarchos was closely connected to the court of the first Ptolemaic rulers, both on a personal level and as an author. Up to now, this connection could only be inferred from his affiliation to the city of Alexandria and the pro-Ptolemaic bias of his work,61 but it has

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Syll.3 312 = IG XII 6, 1, 17; Syll.3 307 = I. Iasos 30. Gorgos on his own was also honored in Epidauros: IG IV2 1, 616–617. On this matter, cf. Heisserer 1980: 169–203. The extent of the solidarity which the exiled Samians were shown by other Greeks can be seen from the series of honorific decrees which the Samians passed after their return for those who had been their benefactors in exile: IG XII 6, 1, 17–41: those honored from Iasos, Kos, Amphipolis, Kardia, Elaia, Argos, Arkadia, Lykia, Kyrene, Phaselis, Gela, Magnesia (on the Maiander?), Byzantium, Miletos, Herakleia (by Latmos?), Ephesus. On this matter, cf. Shipley 1987: 161 ff. The supposition goes back to Berve 1926: 161; similarly, Pearson 1960: 64. Meister 1990: 113, however, prefers a psychological explanation: “Vielleicht wollte Ephippos sich für die Ermordung seines Landsmannes Kallisthenes durch Alexander rächen, doch mögen auch persönliche Motive im Spiel gewesen sein”. Jacoby 1921 is fundamental; Brown 1950; Pearson 1960: 212–242; Goukowsky 1978–1981: 136–166; Prandi 1996. On the sources of Diodorus’ seventeenth book, see the convincing arguments of Hamilton 1977. The publication date can be established with some certainty from the fact that, according to Diod. 17.118.2, Kleitarchos mentioned the reconstruction of Thebes and the murder of Olympias but not the murder of Alexander IV. If Kleitarchos really was the teacher of the second Ptolemaic ruler, born in 308 (cf. note 61 below), the traditional dating is further supported, as his work is likely to have been finished when he was given this task. Philod. Rhet. 4.1. col. 21, p. 180 Sudh = FGrHist 137 T 12 preserves the ethnic Ἀλεξανδρεύς. There are two instances in Diodorus’ excerpt which leave no doubt about the pro-Ptolemaic bias: In the first Kleitarchos presents Ptolemy as Alexander’s savior in the Mallian citadel in addition to the otherwise widely recognised Perdikkas (FGrHist 137 F 24 = Curt. 9.5.21), in the second he told the story of how Ptolemy was miraculously cured by Alexander and added his praise of the one thus healed to the passage: Diod. 17.103.6–8.

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since been confirmed by a list of Hellenistic historians which shows that Kleitarchos had been given the task of educating the second (or fourth?) Ptolemaic ruler.62 Being so close to the Ptolemaic dynasty can hardly have recommended Kleitarchos’ work within the sphere of influence of rival dynasties. With Kleitarchos, an author without roots in the world of the citizen-states but employed by kings of Macedonian origin gained a formative influence on the creation of the historiographical tradition concerning Alexander. One should not, therefore, jump to the conclusion that because authors of the Roman imperial period who were critical of Alexander, above all Curtius, took their material from a tradition which ultimately goes back to Kleitarchos,63 he himself had already taken a hostile view of his subject.64 This is by no means the case. Kleitarchos depicted Alexander as an irresistible hero and repeatedly stressed his clemency towards those he defeated. He did not, it is true, shrink from dealing in detail with aspects of Alexander’s life to which contemporaries took exception. When broaching such controversial topics, he did, however, usually excuse the king. Thus, he assigned responsibility for the destruction of Thebes to the folly of the Thebans themselves and to the hatred of their Boiotian neighbours65 and he attributed the killing of the Hetairos Kleitos to the anger of the god Dionysus.66 Kleitarchos did, however, hold Alexander at least partly responsible for the death of the pankratiast and Olympic winner Dioxippos, who had fallen from the king’s grace and, having been falsely accused of theft, committed suicide; but he stressed that Alexander immediately recognized his own error and bitterly regretted it.67 Furthermore, Kleitarchos described the fire at the palace in Persepolis as the regrettable outcome of a komos which had got out of hand,68 observed that Alexander had imitated the luxury and pomp of the Persian

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P. Oxy. LXXI 4808, written in around 100 CE, contains the remnants of a list of Hellenistic historians including brief details of their life and work; those referred to are Onesikritos, Chares, Kleitarchos, Hieronymos and Polybius. The information on Kleitarchos takes up col. I, ll. 9–17. Although the syntactic context remains unclear due to the fragmentary nature of the text’s preservation, it is still possible to make out that Kleitarchos is described as the holder of a particular office but above all as the teacher of a member of the Ptolemaic dynasty. The latter is, admittedly, called Philopator in the text, but this statement is probably due to a mix-up since, according to the evidence of several reports (T 2–5), Kleitarchos must have been a contemporary of Alexander’s. Philippus of Megara, too, who is cited in the papyrus text, dated Kleitarchos this early, as he describes him as a pupil of Stilpon, according to T 3 = Diog. Laert. 2.113. Schwartz 1901 was influential in the analysis of the formation of the tradition; similarly, Hoffmann 1907: 30–43. Cf. now, however, Baynham 1998. Droysen 1877: 390, drew this false conclusion; corrected already by Jacoby 1921: 641. Diod. 17.8–14. Alexander wants to avoid the battle: 17.9.2–4; the suggestion of destroying Thebes comes from the Greek allies: 17.14.2–4; cf. 17.13.5 (hatred felt by the Thespians, Plataians and Orchomenians). Diod. Arg. I κζ: περὶ τῆς εἰς τὸν Διόνυσον ἁμαρτίας καὶ τῆς παρὰ τὸν πότον ἀναιρέσεως Κλείτου; cf. Arr. an. 4.8.1–2; Curt. 8.2.6. Diod. 17.100–101, especially 101.6. On Dioxippos, cf. Berve 1926: 146–147 No. 284; Heckel 2006: 115 and 308 (n. 304). Diod. 17.72; cf. FGrHist 137 F 11 = Athen. 13.37.576 D/E.

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kings as soon as he had defeated Darius,69 and declared that Alexander’s behavior in the so-called trial of Philotas had not fitted in with his decent character.70 The examples cited show that even when Kleitarchos criticized Alexander, he was far from questioning his legitimacy as king. The criticism he levelled at Alexander did not draw on the stock topoi of the anti-tyrannical discourse circulating within Greek citizen-states, but instead reflected the concerns and worries of Greeks and Macedonians who had regarded Alexander as their king and who did not consider it dishonorable to serve one of his Diadochi. Kleitarchos opposed the Persian court etiquette and he wanted a king who was moderate and accessible to his Macedonian and Greek subjects. This conformed to the image, which the early Ptolemaic rulers promoted of themselves,71 and it was not intended as a barb against monarchy as such. The fact that in narrating Alexander’s expedition Kleitarchos allowed so much space for episodes which provided opportunity for criticism is probably the result of his literary technique: as the excerpt in the 17th book of Diodorus’ universal history shows, Kleitarchos aimed to impress his reader by means of an exciting, varied and colorful account. For this reason, he did not just narrate military events, but also considered geographical, ethnographical, botanical and zoological matters; he particularly enjoyed recounting field-battles, sieges, duels and drinking bouts. At first sight, therefore, it seems paradoxical that Roman authors, who turned Alexander’s story into a lesson about the problems of monocracy, chose to follow Kleitarchos, of all people, notwithstanding the fact that, already during Cicero’s time, he had the reputation of being an unreliable informant.72 The main reason why they relied on Kleitarchos seems to be the fact that his work provided so much material that could, contrary to the author’s main intention, be interpreted in a negative way. This abundance of material that could be used for critical reflections on monarchy makes Kleitarchos’ work stand out not just among the many authors who sang Alexander’s praises. It also seems to have set him apart from the rhetor Hegesias from Magnesia by Sipylos, one of the very few authors who are known to have drawn a sombre picture of the Macedonian king. Very little is known of Hegesias’ “History of Alexander”, but in the only fragment of any length the capture of Gaza is depicted as an orgy of violence led by Alexander; it is at least possible that the 69

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Diod. 17.77.4: μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα δόξας ἤδη κεκρατηκέναι τῆς ἐπιβολῆς καὶ τὴν βασιλείαν ἀδήριτον ἔχειν ἤρξατο ζηλοῦν τὴν Περσικὴν τρυφὴν καὶ τὴν πολυτέλειαν τῶν Ἀσιανῶν. This criticism is, however, partly revoked in § 7: τούτοις μὲν οὖν τοῖς ἐθισμοῖς Ἀλέξανδρος σπανίως ἐχρῆτο, τοῖς δὲ προϋπάρχουσι κατὰ τὸ πλεῖστον ἐνδιέτριβε, φοβούμενος τὸ προσκόπτειν τοῖς Μακεδόσιν. Diod. 17.79.1: κατὰ δὲ τούτους τοὺς καιροὺς περιέπεσε πράξει μοχθηρᾷ καὶ τῆς ἰδίας χρηστότητος ἀλλοτρίᾳ. This seems to be based especially on the murder of Parmenion – τὸν πατέρα τοῦ Φιλώτου Παρμενίωνα ἐδολοφόνησε (17.80.3) –, for Philotas himself admits the plot under torture: Diod. 17.80.2. See, e. g., Schubart 1937. Cic. Brut. 42 = FGrHist 137 T 7: quoniam quidem concessum est rhetoribus ementiri in historiis, ut aliquid dicere possint argutius… sic Clitarchus, sic Stratocles; cf. Quint. inst. 10.1.75 = T 6: Clitarchi probatur ingenium, fides infamatur.

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work also contained speeches in which the destruction of Thebes was verbosely lamented.73 Furthermore, if Hegesias never became an alternative to Kleitarchos for those who had a critical view of Alexander this seems also to have been due to his manner of writing: he was considered a prime example of foolishness and bad taste long before the victory of Atticism.74 As Hellenistic historiography has, apart from slight vestiges, been lost, a control test cannot provide sure results. In any case, we only find occasional critical statements, which often do not allow us to make inferences with regard to the overall assessment of Alexander.75 In his “History of Sicily”, Timaios, who was writing in exile in Athens, accused Callisthenes of having corrupted Alexander by elevating him to the divine sphere in his portrayal.76 This is an isolated statement and therefore difficult to assess. In his work on the period of the Diadochi, Phylarchus, about whom hardly anything tangible is known, criticises the excessive lifestyle of Alexander’s Hetairoi – but this fragment, too, lacks context and is, therefore, impossible to interpret precisely.77 It is also beyond our reach to reconstruct the picture of Alexander drawn by Agatharchides, who worked as a philologist in Alexandria in Egypt. As we know that he also objected to the tryphe of the Hetairoi one might be tempted to rank among the writers critical of Alexander. At the same, however, Agatharchides thoroughly pulled apart Hegesias’ discussion concerning the destruction of Thebes as an example of bad style.78 By contrast, the attitude of Polybius, a man from the “political class” of the Achaean League, whose life and work we know reasonably well,79 is illuminating, as his view of Greek history reflects the political ideas of a polis in mainland Greece. It is true that Polybius disapproves of

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Conquest of Gaza: FGrHist 142 F 3 = Dion. Hal. comp. 18. According to Jacoby, the speech fragments preserved in Agatharchides’ polemic (cf. note 77 below) also come from the “History of Alexander”: F 6–20 (cf. F 25–26). On Hegesias, who was writing in the first half of the 3rd century, cf. in addition to Pearson 1960: 246–248, now also Staab 2004, who, however, ascribes the speech fragments to another work with the title Φιλαθήναιοι. The damning indictment was first given by Agatharchides of Knidos (cf. note 77 below), followed by Cicero (Brut. 286 = T 2; or. 226; 230 = T 6) and Dionysius of Halicarnassus (comp. 4 + 18 = T 4 + T 5). It is unclear how the statement, evidenced for Duris of Samos (FGrHist 76 F 49 = Athen. 1.31.17F), that Alexander once entertained about 6000 leaders, who sat on silver chairs and couches which were covered with purple textiles, is to be interpreted. FGrHist 566 F 155 = Pol. 12.12b. FGrHist 81 F 41 = Athen. 12.55.539B–540A. Tryphe of the Hetairoi: FGrHist 86 F 2 = Athen. 4.42.155C/D; F 3 = Athen. 12.55.539B–D. Polemic against Hegesias: De mare rubro V, GGM I, p. 119 Müller = Phot. Cod. 250 § 21. It is not necessary to decide here whether all three passages come from one and the same work of universal history, as Ameling 2008: 19–26, has recently argued against the generally accepted view. On Polybius’ image of Alexander cf. Errington 1976: 174–179; Billows 2000: 286–302. Billows’ suggestion (291–293), however, that Polybius wanted to expose Alexander as a brutal and ruthless tyrant by writing (16. 22a.5) that the Gazans had offered resistance to Alexander although there was hardly any hope of rescue when faced with Alexander’s aggressiveness and violence (πρὸς τὴν ὁρμὴν καὶ βίαν τὴν) is not convincing.

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the destruction of Thebes.80 On the other hand, he praises Alexander’s military proficiency, his piety and generosity.81 He stresses that the Hetairoi had a big share in the success of the pan-Hellenistic retaliation campaign against the Persians,82 but at the same time he emphasizes that Alexander was a man whose abilities exceeded those of ordinary humans.83 Therefore, when in accordance with Demetrius of Phalerum Polybius sees the destruction of the Persian Empire as an act of tyche, this in no way means that he intends to diminish Alexander’s achievement: as in the case of the Romans, there was an immanent teleology at work here, too.84 4. OPINIONS OF HELLENISTIC PHILOSOPHERS If it is true that neither Athenian politicians nor the historians and pamphleteers of the early Hellenistic period made any lasting contribution to the development of a negative image of Alexander such as it is found in early imperial times in the writings of Seneca, Lucan and Curtius, it remains to consider whether at least in the Hellenistic philosophers we find traces of a discourse which is critical of Alexander and perhaps even antimonarchic. This subject has been covered often and is fraught with difficulties: the teachings of the Hellenistic philosophers are only known from quotations, which have been taken out of their original context, and from reports of dubious reliability; furthermore, only a vague outline of their lives can be reconstructed. The contextualisation of this testimony thus poses considerable risk. Nevertheless, it has long been recognized that in the course of the Hellenistic period representatives of different philosophical schools for various reasons formed negatively accentuated images of Alexander. Theophrastus seems to have been the first to do this.85 It comes as no surprise that Alexander became an issue for Aristotle and his circle. After all, one of their own, Callisthenes, had died at the instigation of Alexander. Aristotle himself, to be sure, appears to have considered the impetuosity of his nephew responsible for the conflict with Alexander.86 Theophrastus, however, blamed Alexander at least in part. According to Cicero, he lamented the death of his friend Callisthenes and 80 81 82 83 84 85 86

Pol. 4.23.8, 5.10.6–8, 9.28.8 (speech of the Aetolian Chlaineas); 9.34.1 (speech of the Acarnanian Lykiskos); 38.2.13–14. Competence in war: Pol. 12.22.5 (τὴν ἐν τοῖς πολεμικοῖς ἐμπειρίαν καὶ τριβὴν ἐκ παιδός); piety: Pol. 5.10.6–8; generosity: Diod. 30.21.3 (following Polybius). Pol. 5.10.8, 8.10.7–8, 9.34.1–4 (speech of the Acarnanian Lykiskos). Pol. 12.23.4–5: ἐκεῖνος (sc. Callisthenes) μὲν οὖν ἀποθεοῦν Ἀλέξανδρον ἐβουλήθη, Τίμαιος δὲ μείζω ποιεῖ Τιμολέοντα τῶν ἐπιφανεστάτων θεῶν, καὶ Καλλισθένης μὲν ἄνδρα τοιοῦτον, ὃν πάντες μεγαλοφυέστερον ἢ κατ᾽ ἄνθρωπον γεγονέναι τῇ ψυχῇ συγχωροῦσιν… Pol. 29.21 = FGrHist 228 F 39 = Demetrius of Phalerum F 81 Wehrli. On Theophrastus cf. – in addition to Fraser 1994 – now Millet 2007. Plut. Alex. 54.1 = T 28c in Düring 1957; Diog. Laert. 5.4 = T 28a Düring, following Hermippos. Of course there were also political differences of opinion, as Aristotle disapproved of Alexander’s policy of amalgamation: Arist. F 658a Rose = Plut. mor. 329B; F 658b Rose = Strab. 1.4.9.

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showed his annoyance about Alexander’s good fortune in a work for which the title “Callisthenes, or on death” has been transmitted. Theophrastus apparently stated that in Alexander Callisthenes had encountered a man who had the greatest power and the greatest good fortune but who did not know how to deal with his good fortune.87 It is possible that Theophrastus emphasized this criticism by way of a comparison with Philip II; at any rate, a quotation preserved by Plutarch, which unfortunately only survives in mutilated form, appears to indicate that Theophrastus described Alexander’s father as “greater” and “more restrained”.88 To that extent, matters seem to be fairly clear. According to older scholarship, Theophrastus took the view that Alexander turned into a tyrant after his decisive victory over Darius. Evidence for this opinion was considered to come from a letter from Cicero to Atticus, which states that Aristotle’s pupil originally was of an extremely moderate character but turned out to be arrogant, cruel and excessive after he had been given the title of king.89 This deduction, however, is problematic for a number of reasons. An argument against it is provided by the unanimous testimony of the readers of Theophrastus’ “Callisthenes” in antiquity: according to them, Theophrastus argued that a person’s natural disposition could become his fate.90 The theory of a change from a good king into an evil tyrant does not sit well with this. Instead, one could suppose that Theophrastus put the conflict between Alexander and Callisthenes down to flaws in the characters of both men. It is, of course, hardly possible to say what effect Theophrastus’ depiction of Alexander had. Aristotle’s pupils did not hold a uniform view,91 and there is evidence that Aristoxenos of Tarent, at least, passed a very positive verdict 87

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Theophrastus F 505 Fortenbaugh = Cic. Tusc. 3.21: Theophrastus interitum deplorans Callisthenis, sodalis sui, rebus Alexandri prosperis angitur, itaque dicit Callisthenem incidisse in hominem summa potentia summaque fortuna, sed ignarum quem ad modum rebus secundis uti conveniret. Title: Diog. Laert. 5.45. F 606 Fortenbaugh = Plut. mor. 177C: Φίλιππον τὸν Ἀλεξάνδρου πατέρα Θεόφραστος ἱστόρηκεν οὐ μόνον † μεταξὺ τῶν βασιλέων, ἀλλὰ καὶ τῇ τύχῃ καὶ τῷ τρόπῳ μείξονα γενέσθαι καὶ μετριώτερον. The verb γενέσθαι is to be taken as meaning “to have been” here (pace Fortenbaugh). The text-critical problem is described by Fuhrmann 1988: 259 (n. 3). Attempts to solve it are listed by Nachstädt in the critical apparatus of the Teubner edition (Leipzig 1935). Cic. Att. 13.28.3: Tu non vides ipsum illum Aristotelis discipulum summo ingenio, summa modestia, postea quam rex appellatus sit, superbum, crudelem, immoderatum fuisse? F 504 Fortenbaugh = Alex. Aphr. De an. 25, p. 186 Bruns: Λείπεται ἄρα τὴν εἱμαρμένην μηδὲν ἄλλο ἢ τὴν οἰκείαν εἶναι φύσιν ἑκάστου. οὐ γὰρ δὴ ἐν τῷ καθόλου καὶ κοινῷ τὸ τῆς εἱμαρμένης, οἷον ἁπλῶς ξώῳ, ἀνθρώπῳ, ἀλλ᾽ ἐν τοῖς καθ᾽ ἕκαστα, Σωκράτῃ τε καὶ Καλλίᾳ. ἐν δὲ τούτοις ἡ ἰδία φύσις ἀρχὴ καὶ αἰτία, τοιάδε οὖσα, τῆς κατὰ ταύτην γιγνομένης τάξεως. ἀπὸ γὰρ ταύτης ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ πᾶν καὶ οἱ βίοι καὶ αἱ τῶν βίων γίγνονται καταστροφαί, μὴ ἐμποδισθείσης ὑπὸ τινων … ἤδη δὲ τοῦ εἱμαρμένης ὀνόματος Ἀριστοτέλης μνημονεύει … φανερώτατα δὲ Θεόφραστος δείκνυσιν ταὐτὸν ὂν τὸ καθ᾽ εἱμαρμένην τῷ κατὰ φύσιν ἐν τῷ Καλλισθένει; cf. F 502 Fortenbaugh = [Plut.] De Hom. 2.120; F 503 Fortenbaugh = Stobaios 1.6.17c. For Theophrastus, τύχη was, therefore, not an impersonal fate, even if he approved of the following sentence in “Callisthenes”: vitam regit fortuna, non sapientia (F 493 Fortenbaugh = Cic. Tusc. 5.25). Alexander’s sex life seems also to have attracted attention: Hieronymos of Rhodes cites Theophrastus for the statement that Alexander was not particularly interested in sex with women (Ἀλέξανδρος οὐκ εὖ διέκειτο πρὸς τὰ ἀφροδίσια): F 38 Wehrli = Athen. 10.45.435A. Dikaiar-

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on Alexander.92 One has, therefore, quite rightly given up talking about the Peripatetic image of Alexander. But it is certain, at least, that in the context of Peripatetic thought significant flaws in Alexander’s character were observed at an early stage, and that, henceforth, they were the subject of discussion. We can still see that representatives of the early Stoa, too, diagnosed considerable character deficits in Alexander. The early Stoics, however, did not ascribe these faults to the king’s innate characteristics but to his flawed upbringing, an explanation that was out of the question for friends and pupils of Aristotle because, from their point of view, Alexander had had the best teacher that one could imagine. This early Stoic teaching can, admittedly, first be observed with Diogenes of Babylon, the Stoa’s representative at the famous embassy of Athenian philosophers in 156/5 BCE. Diogenes declared that Leonidas, Alexander’s tutor, had failed to tame Alexander’s typhos, his arrogant and overbearing nature.93 Panaitios, Diogenes’s pupil, appears to have held the view that Philip was exceeded by his son in glorious deeds, but surpassed the latter when it came to facilitas and humanitas, affability and mildness. That was the reason why Philip always proved himself to be great, but Alexander often proved himself to be disgraceful.94

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chos of Messana found fault with Alexander’s excessive passion for boys: F 23 Wehrli = Athen. 13.77.603A/B. Cf. on this Badian 1958: 153–157; Mensching 1963. Plutarch read in Aristoxenos that a pleasant fragrance emanated from Alexander’s body which also spread to his clothes: Aristoxenos F 132 Wehrli = Plut. Alex. 4.3. Given that Plutarch, with reference to Theophrastus (F 417 No. 22 Fortenbaugh; likewise, Plut. mor. 623E/F = Theophrastus F 417 No. 22 Fortenbaugh), attributed the fragrance to Alexander’s high body temperature, the statement must refer to Alexander while he was alive. Demetrius of Phalerum gave Alexander’s destruction of the Persian Empire as an example of the unreliability and fickleness of good fortune in his work “On Tyche”: F 81 Wehrli = FGrHist 228 F 39 = Pol. 29.21. It is dated to the time of his Alexandrian exile by Wehrli, but Billows 2000: 297–299, uses good arguments to date it to ca. 310. Diogenes of Babylon SVF 3.2.51 = Quint. inst. 1.1.9: De pueris, inter quos educabitur ille huic spei destinatus, idem quod de nutricibus dictum sit. De paedagogis hoc amplius, ut aut sint eruditi plene, quam primam esse curam velim, aut se non esse eruditos sciant. Nihil est peius iis, qui paulum aliquid ultra primas litteras progressi falsam sibi scientiae persuasionem induerunt. Nam et cedere praecipiendi partibus indignantur et velut iure quodam potestatis, quo fere hoc hominum genus intumescit, imperiosi atque interim saevientes stultitiam suam perdocent. Nec minus error eorum nocet moribus, si quidem Leonides Alexandri paedagogus, ut a Babylonio Diogene traditur, quibusdam eum vitiis imbuit, quae robustum quoque et iam maximum regem ab illa institutione puerili sunt persecuta. As Stroux 1933: 224–229 has shown, Clem. Al. Paed. 1.7 reproduces the same early Stoic teaching as Quintilian and can therefore be used for the purpose of reconstruction. Cf. also Strab. 15.1.5: Ἀλέξανδρον… τετυφωμένον ταῖς τοσαύταις εὐτυχίαις. Inferred from Cic. off. 1.26.90: Atque etiam in rebus prosperis et ad voluntatem nostram fluentibus superbiam magnopere fastidium arrogantiamque fugiamus. Nam ut adversas res, sic secundas inmoderate ferre levitatis est praeclaraque est aequabilitas in omni vita et idem semper vultus eademque frons, ut de Socrate idemque de C. Laelio accepimus. Philippum quidem Macedonum regem rebus gestis et gloria superatum a filio, facilitate et humanitate video superiorem fuisse. Itaque alter semper magnus, alter saepe turpissimus, ut recte praecipere videantur, qui monent ut, quanto superiores simus, tanto nos geramus summissius. Panaitios is, admittedly, only quoted by name for the comment about Scipio Africanus which immediately

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At their core, these teachings are probably considerably older; they may possibly go back to the third century. If they really did come into being in the early Hellenistic period, then they should probably be viewed in the context of reflections on the relationship between philosophy and kingship: for a king to exercise his power well, he had to have been educated in the spirit of Stoic philosophy; conversely, a legitimate task of the philosopher was to advise kings.95 When the Greek world came under Roman rule, however, the function of the exemplum Alexandri also changed. Panaitios used it as an illustration of a form of virtue ethics which is no longer directed just at the elites of the Greek cities but also at the Roman aristocracy; with Panaitios, Alexander became the epitome of the negative qualities of which anyone must beware who wants to rule well, regardless of whether as king or as senator.96 The Academic philosopher Carneades seems to have interpreted the figure of Alexander against the background of Rome’s rise to power over the Greek world in the same way. If he really did tell the anecdote, handed down by Cicero, about the pirate who exposes Alexander as a robber afflicting the whole world, then it must have served to illustrate the problematic nature of any kind of world domination.97 Finally, in Cynic circles that unfortunately we are unable to pin down exactly, the figure of Alexander underwent a metamorphosis which is as fascinating as it is puzzling.98 One of the earliest “Alexander histories” comes from a pupil of Diogenes, Onesikritos of Astypalaia, who was “chief helmsman” (archikybernetes) during the fleet’s voyage across the Persian Gulf. Onesikritos recounted that, on Alexander’s instructions, he had established contact with Indian ascetics, so-called gymnosophists. One of these, a certain Mandanis, apparently praised the king as a “philosopher in arms” who used his power in order to force prudence on those who could not be persuaded by words.99 Megasthenes appears to have responded to this

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follows. For this reason, Fears 1974: 117–121, considers the comparison between Alexander and Philip to be an addition by Cicero. The fact that Cicero demonstrably follows Panaitios very closely in the first two books of De Officiis is an argument against this; cf. Dyck 1996: especially 18–21, who also claims this passage for Panaitios (230). Furthermore, Ferrary 1988: 419–421, rightly points out that the positive verdict concerning Philip is unlike Cicero, who was just at this time looking to Demosthenes as a model. Cf. also off. 2.14.48; 2.15.53, where letters of Philip to Alexander are mentioned, in which the former appears as a fatherly adviser and admonisher. Chrysippos already held the teaching, that the Stoic sage should attach himself to a king if he could not be king himself: cf. Erskine 1990: 64–66 (with the relevant evidence). On the date and circle of addressees of Panaitios’ work περὶ τοῦ καθήκοντος cf. Ferrary 1988: 395–400, who declares himself in favor of the early date of ca. 140 BCE. For a different view, see, for example, Erskine 1990: 159–161 (after 129). Carneades himself has left no writings (Diog. Laert. 4.65), but Cicero attributes a speech to him in the third book of De re publica, in which Roman rule was shown to be unjust. The quotation 3.24, preserved by Nonius Marcellus, proves that this speech contained the anecdote, told by Augustine (civ. 4.24), which describes Alexander as a robber. Cf. Wilcken 1923; Hansen 1965. FGrHist 134 F 17 = Strab. 15.1.63–65. On Onesikritos cf. Strasburger 1939; Brown 1949b; Pearson 1960: 83–111; Pédech 1984: 71–158. The writing of this text is generally dated to be-

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depiction, which was published soon after Alexander’s death,100 by reporting that an Indian gymnosophist, whose name is rendered as Mandanis or Dandamis, refused a request, which was accompanied by promises and threats, to visit Alexander. Furthermore, he denied Alexander’s claim to being the son of Zeus with the argument that he barely ruled a fraction of the whole world. Alexander was said to have been so impressed by this, that he praised the man and relented. Kalanos, on the other hand, who came from the same circle and who later gained fame on account of his self-immolation, fell into disrepute with the gymnosophists, because he had accepted the request and succumbed to excesses at the king’s court.101 Onesikritos’s report regarding the gymnosophists is implicitly corrected here, and it may be that there is also criticism of the idea that Alexander had attained world domination which, according to Kleitarchos’s work, had been prophesied to him in the Siwa Oasis.102 Alexander himself, however, does not cut a bad figure as he respects the true sage’s pursuit of independence.

tween 323 and 310: Jacoby, FGrHist IIb (as cited in note 49): 469; Strasburger 1939: 465–466; Pearson 1960: 85; Pédech 1984: 76. Given that Kleitarchos and Nearchos appear to have been writing after Onesikritos, one should not attach too much importance to Plutarch’s statement (FGrHist 134 T 8 = Plut. Alex. 46.4) that Onesikritos read to “the king” Lysimachus from the fourth book of his work (for a different view, see Brown 1949b: 6–7, who deduces from this that Book Four was published after 305). 100 On Megasthenes cf. Stein 1931; Brown 1955 and 1957; Zambrini 1982 and 1985, who support the traditional dating of the “Indika” to the years following 300; according to this, Megasthenes would have been writing ten to twenty years after Onesikritos. By contrast, Bosworth 1996 dates the “Indika” to around 310, referring to FGrHist 715 T 2b = Arr. Ind. 5.3, where he defends the actually transmitted form Πώρῳ ἔτι τούτου μείζονι against the conjectural καὶ Πώρου ἔτι τούτῳ μείζονι, commonly accepted since Schwanbeck; according to Bosworth, Megasthenes was not travelling to Chandragupta on behalf of Seleucus but Sibyrtios, and in fact before the latter had extended his authority as far as Sindh. However, this interpretation does not explain how Clemens of Alexandria (Strom. 1.72.4 = FGrHist 715 F 3) came to hold the view that Megasthenes was in close contact with Seleucus (συμβεβιωκώς). Furthermore, the wording of T 2b as it has been preserved in no way excludes the possibility of connecting the embassy to Chandragupta with Seleucus as already done by Brown 1957: 12–15. But even if Bosworth’s early dating of Megasthenes is correct, priority should probably lie with Onesikritos, who was after all writing soon after Alexander’s death. 101 FGrHist 715 F 34a = Strab. 15.1.68: οἷος ἦν καὶ ὁ Κάλανος, ἀκόλαστος ἄνθρωπος καὶ ταῖς Ἀλεξάνδρου τραπέζαις δεδουλωμένος: τοῦτον μὲν οὖν ψέγεσθαι, τὸν δὲ Μάνδανιν ἐπαινεῖσθαι, ὃς τῶν τοῦ Ἀλεξάνδρου ἀγγέλων καλούντων πρὸς τὸν Διὸς υἱὸν πειθομένῳ τε δῶρα ἔσεσθαι ὑπισχνουμένων ἀπειθοῦντι δὲ κόλασιν μήτ᾽ ἐκεῖνον φαίη Διὸς υἱὸν ὅν γε ἄρχειν μηδὲ πολλοστοῦ μέρους τῆς γῆς, μήτε αὐτῷ δεῖν τῶν παρ᾽ ἐκείνου δωρεῶν ὧν οὐδεὶς κόρος, μήτε δὲ ἀπειλῆς εἶναι φόβον ᾧ ζῶντι μὲν ἀρκοῦσα εἴη τροφὸς ἡ Ἰνδική, ἀποθανὼν δὲ ἀπαλλάξαιτο τῆς τετρυχωμένης ὑπὸ γήρως σαρκός, μεταστὰς εἰς βελτίω καὶ καθαρώτερον βίον: ὥστ᾽ ἐπαινέσαι τὸν Ἀλέξανδρον καὶ συγχωρῆσαι. Arrian’s parallel account (an. 7.2.2), printed as F 34b, admittedly shows some divergences: in his account the Indian sage is called Dandamis; he, Dandamis, declares that, just as Alexander, he, too, is a son of Zeus, and this removes the political barb from the reply. On the subject cf. Brown 1949b: 38–51; Pearson 1960: 96–99; Brown 1960; Bosworth 1998. 102 Diod. 17.51.2; cf. Curt. 4.7.26; Iust. 11.11.10.

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In around 100 BCE, however, a text circulated, which recounted a personal encounter between Alexander and ten Indian gymnosophists. Alexander is said to have posed the gymnosophists ten trick questions and to have threatened to kill anyone who did not answer correctly. When the gymnosophists manage to answer the first nine questions correctly, Alexander changes the rules of the game, asking the last one, who of the others has given the worst answer. He replies that each of them answered worse than the other, thereupon Alexander wants to have them all killed. However, when it is pointed out to him that breaking one’s word by changing the rules during a game is not proper behavior for a king, he admits that the gymnosophists are indeed wise.103 Alexander does not come off well in this story, which was very popular in Roman imperial times. He wants to demonstrate his power by first shaming and then killing the Indian sages, and he does not shrink from shabby tricks in order to achieve this aim. At the same time, however, this parable is not primarily about unmasking a tyrant. The story shows that the Cynic sage, who does not allow himself to be intimidated by anything or anyone, is superior to every king, even if that king is Alexander. It is the same attitude which is also propagated by the famous anecdote about the encounter between Alexander and Diogenes that by the time of Cicero had already become a common-place of philosophical discourse. The stoic Plutarch tells the anecdote in its basic form: Was Diogenes lacking in fame? When Alexander saw him sitting in the sun, he stopped to ask if he needed anything. When the latter merely requested that he stand a little out of his light, the king, impressed by such high spirit, said to his friends: “Were I not Alexander, I should be Diogenes.”

In Cynic interpretations, the point was made explicit; according to Cicero, Diogenes was wont to declare that he surpassed the ‘king of the Persians’ by far, as he needed nothing whereas the king never had enough.104

103 Van Thiel 1972 has reconstructed the text on the basis of a papyrus from Berlin (No. 13044 = FGrHist 153 F 9) and Plutarch’s adaptation (Alex. 64) (cf. van Thiel 1974: 242–247). In the meantime, a papyrus from Geneva has become available as another witness to the text: Maresch/Willis 1988. 104 Plut. de exil. 15.605E: ἄδοξός ἐστι Διογένης ὂν ἰδὼν Ἀλέξανδρος ἐν ἡλίῳ καθήμενον ἐπιστὰς ἠρώτησεν, εἴ τινος δειται· τοῦ δὲ μηδὲν ἀλλ᾽ ἤ σμικρὸν ἀποσκοτίσαι κελεύσαντος, ἐκπλαγεὶς τὸ φρόνημα πρὸς τοὺς φίλους εἶπεν· εἰ μὴ Ἀλέξναδρος ἤμην, Διογένης ἂν ἤμην. For the Cynic interpretation cf. Cic. Tusc. 5.32.92: at vero Diogenes liberius, ut Cynicus, Alexandro adroganti, ut diceret, si quid opus esset, ‘nunc quidem paululum’, inquit, ‘a sole’. offecerat videlicet apricanti. et hic quidem disputare solebat, quanto regem Persarum vita fortunaque superaret; sibi nihil deesse, illi nihil satis umquam fore; se eius voluptates non desiderare, quibus numquam satiari ille posset, suas eum consequi nullo modo posse. A comprehensive collection of sources for this – probably fictitious – encounter is provided by Giannantoni 1983: 422–431 as T 31–49; cf. Giannantoni 1985: 397–404.

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5. SUMMARY The figure of Alexander did not become a vehicle of an influential and lasting antimonarchic discourse in the Hellenistic period, even if his memory did not, by any means, evoke positive emotions everywhere in the Greek world: in Athens, Alexander’s claim to authority encountered a democratic polis’s desire for autonomy and hegemony. For this reason, he could always be delegitimized as a tyrant whenever the opportunity of shaking off Macedonian rule appeared to arise. After Alexander’s death and Athens’s defeat in the Lamian War, polemics against the tyrant Alexander disappeared from Athenian political discourse. The identification with Demosthenes, however, posed an obstacle to referring to Alexander in a positive way at a later date, too. At any rate, neither the political discourse of early Hellenistic Athens nor that of Sparta or Thebes had any lasting influence on the image of Alexander in later centuries. The same holds true for Ephippos’s pamphlet “On the deaths of Alexander and Hephaistion”, the only work on Alexander known to us that during the period of the Diadochi painted an entirely negative picture of the king. Ephippos makes use of the same conventions of the representation of a tyrant which also determined Athenian political discourse while Athens was independent. The text appears to have been written in the context of the Lamian War and was soon forgotten after the conflict had ended. In Kleitarchos’s “History of Alexander”, on the other hand, which appears to have been very successful with readers, Alexander is not judged by the norms of a Greek citizen-state. Kleitarchos, who was writing as a servant of the first Ptolemaic ruler in Alexandria, did not consider monarchy to be fundamentally problematic. On the whole, he depicted the king in a positive way, but he also described controversial actions and occasionally even voiced cautious criticism. This way of criticizing Alexander accorded with an implicit ideal of a ruler, which emphasized Macedonian and rejected Persian traditions. In Roman times, Kleitarchos’s “History of Alexander” came to be used as a point of reference for a tradition hostile to Alexander because it contained a great deal of controversial material, but in itself, Kleitarchos’s work was anything but hostile to the king. In the fragments of the great historiography of the Hellenistic period, too, there are only very occasional indications which suggest a critical discussion of Alexander. For Polybius the king was a man of superhuman abilities, an experienced and competent military leader and king, generous and pious. Only in the area of philosophy do we find clear signs of a critical examination of Alexander which lasted beyond the period of the Diadochi. It began with Theophrastus, but it was not peculiar to the Peripatetic philosophers. Among Aristotle’s friends and pupils, the interest in Alexander was determined to a very great degree by biographical constellations: Aristotle’s role as teacher of the king and Callisthenes’s catastrophe at the latter’s court. The meagre and ambiguous tradition does, however, still allow us to see that, by the second century at the latest, Stoics and Cynics took possession of the figure of Alexander in order to convey teachings concerning the relationship between intellectuals and rulers. In detail, these teachings were quite different and changed over the course of time. Alexander served as an example to illustrate the necessity of philosophical education for a ruler but he

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also served as the embodiment of negative characteristics of which a good ruler had to beware. His figure was evoked in order to show the superiority of the sage over the ruler, but also in order to make clear the dubious nature of conquests which did not lead to the establishment of just governance. The philosophers’ discourse transcended the scope of imagination of the polis by addressing everyone who exercised authority; for this reason, it was flexible enough also to appeal to the political elite of the new world power, Rome. That in this discourse Alexander serves above all as a negative example is primarily due to the fact that the philosophers were at pains to distinguish themselves through non-conformism: because Alexander was viewed as a youthful and god-like hero almost everywhere in the Hellenistic world, he was the very person philosophers chose again and again as example or foil when it was a matter of demonstrating the value and use of their profession – regardless of whether they defined the relationship between intellectuals and rulers as complementary or antinomic.

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Knoepfler, D. 2002. “Loi d’Érétrie contre la tyrannie et l’oligarchie 2”. BCH 126: 149–204. Koulakiotis, E. 2006. Genese und Metamorphosen des Alexandermythos im Spiegel der griechischen nicht-historiographischen Überlieferung bis zum 3. Jh. n. Chr. Konstanz: UVK. Kühnen, A. 2008. Die Imitatio Alexandri in der römischen Politik. Münster: Rhema-Verlag. Ladek, F. 1891. “Über die Echtheit zweier auf Demosthenes und Demochares bezüglichen Urkunden in Pseudo-Plutarchs Βίοι τῶν δέκα ῥητόρων”. WS 13: 63–128. le Rider, G. 1986. “Les alexandres d’argent en Asie Mineure et dans l’Orient séleucide au IIIe siècle av. J.-C. (c. 275–c. 225): Remarques sur le système monétaire des Séleucides et des Ptolemées”. JS 1986: 3–51. le Rider, G. / de Callataÿ, F. 2006. Les Séleucides et les Ptolemées. L’héritage monétaire et financier d’Alexandre le Grand. Paris: Rocher. Luraghi, N. 2013a. “One-Man Government: The Greeks and Monarchy”. In A Companion to Ancient Greek Government, Beck, H. ed., 131–145. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. Luraghi, N. 2013b. “To Die Like a Tyrant”. In The Splendors and Miseries of Ruling Alone, Luraghi, N. ed., 49–72. Stuttgart: Steiner. Lynch, J. P. 1972. Aristotle’s School. A Study of a Greek Educational Institution. Berkeley: University of California Press. Marasco, G. 1984. Democare di Leuconoe. Politica e cultura in Atene fra il IV e III sec. a. C. Florence: Università degli Studi di Firenze. Maresch, K. / Willis, W. H. 1988. “The Encounter of Alexander with the Brahmans. New Fragments of the Cynic Diatribe P. Genev. Inv. 271”. ZPE 74: 59–83. Martin, J. 1978. “Dynasteia. Eine begriffs-, verfassungs- und sozialgeschichtliche Studie”. In Historische Semantik und Begriffsgeschichte, Koselleck, R. ed., 228–241. Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta. Meister, K. 1989. “Das Bild Alexanders des Großen in der Historiographie seiner Zeit”. In Festschrift Robert Werner zu seinem 65. Geburtstag, Dahlheim, W. / Ungern-Sternberg, J. eds., 63–79. Konstanz: UVK. Meister, K. 1990. Die griechische Geschichtsschreibung. Von den Anfängen bis zum Ende des Hellenismus. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Mensching, E. 1963. “Peripatetiker über Alexander”. Historia 12: 274–282. Merkelbach, R. 1977. Die Quellen des griechischen Alexanderromans. 2nd ed. Munich: Beck. Millet, P. ed. 2007. Theophrastus and His World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Mørkholm, O. 1991. Early Hellenistic Coinage from the Accession of Alexander to the Peace of Apamea (336–186 B. C.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Neuffer, E. 1929. Das Kostüm Alexanders d. Gr. Diss. Gießen. Pearson, L. 1960. The Lost Histories of Alexander the Great. New York: Hunter College. Pédech, P. 1984. Historiens compagnons d’Alexandre (Callisthène – Onésicrite – Néarque – Ptolemée – Aristoboule). Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Pernerstorfer, M. J. ed. 2009. Menanders Kolax: Ein Beitrag zur Rekonstruktion und Interpretation der Komödie. Mit Edition und Übersetzung der Fragmente und Testimonien sowie einem dramaturgischen Kommentar. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Potter, D. 1987. “Telesphorus, Cousin of Demetrius: A Note on the Trial of Menander”. Historia 36: 491–495. Prandi, L. 1996. Fortuna e realtà dell’opera di Clitarco. Stuttgart: Steiner. Rice, E. E. 1983. The Grand Procession of Ptolemy Philadelphus. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Schäfer, A. 1887. Demosthenes und seine Zeit, vol. III. 2nd ed. Leipzig: Teubner. Schepens, G. 1998. “Das Alexanderbild in den Historikerfragmenten”. In Politische Theorie und Praxis im Altertum, Schuller, W. ed., 85–99. Darmstadt: WBG. Schröder, S. 1996. “Die Lebensdaten Menanders”. ZPE 113: 35–48. Schubart, W. 1937. “Das hellenistische Königsideal nach Papyri und Inschriften”. APF 12: 1–26. Schwartz, E. 1901. “Q. Curtius Rufus 31”. RE IV, 2: 1871–1891. Schwenk, C. J. 1985. Athens in the Age of Alexander. The Dated Laws & Decrees of ‘the Lycurgan Era’ 338–322 B. C. Chicago: Ares.

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Segre, M. 1941. “Il culto rodio di Alessandro et di Tolomei”. BSAAlex 34: 29–39. Shipley, G. 1987. A History of Samos 800–188 B. C. Oxford: Clarendon. Staab, G. 2004. “Athenfreunde unter Verdacht. Der erste Asianist Hegesias aus Magnesia zwischen Rhetorik und Geschichtsschreibung”. ZPE 148: 127–150. Stewart, A. 1993. Faces of Power. Alexander’s Image and Hellenistic Politics. Berkeley: University of California Press. Stein, O. 1931. “Megasthenes”. RE XV, 1: 230–326. Strasburger, H. 1939. “Onesikritos”. RE XVIII, 1: 460–467. Stroux, J. 1933. “Die stoische Beurteilung Alexanders des Großen”. Philologus 88: 222–240. Thompson, D. J. 2000. “Philadelphus’ Procession: Dynastic Power in a Mediterranean Context”. In Politics, Administration and Society in the Hellenistic and Roman World, Mooren, L. ed., 365–388. Leuven: Peeters. van Thiel, H. 1972. “Alexander’s Conversation with the Gymnosophist”. Hermes 100: 343–358. van Thiel, H. ed. 1974. Leben und Taten Alexanders von Makedonien. Der griechische Alexanderroman nach der Handschrift L herausgegeben und übersetzt. Darmstadt: WBG. Walbank, F. W. 1984. “Monarchy and Monarchic Ideas”. In The Cambridge Ancient History, vol. 7, 1: The Hellenistic World, Walbank, F. W. et al. eds., 62–100. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wankel, H. ed. 1976. Demosthenes: Rede für Ktesiphon über den Kranz. Erläutert und mit einer Einleitung versehen. 2 vols. Heidelberg: Winter. Wiemer, H.-U. 2001. Rhodische Traditionen in der hellenistischen Historiographie. Frankfurt: Clauss. Wiemer, H.-U. 2009. “Bild der Polis oder Bild der Stadt? Zur Repräsentationsfunktion städtischer Feste im Hellenismus”. In Stadtbilder im Hellenismus, Matthaei, A. / Zimmermann, M. eds., 122–137. Berlin: Akademie. Wilcken, U. 1923. “Alexander der Große und die indischen Gymnosophisten”. SPAW 1923: 150– 183. Will, W. 1983. Athen und Alexander. Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der Stadt von 338 bis 322 v. Chr. Munich: Beck. Yardley, J. / Heckel, W. ed. 1984. Curtius Rufus: Historiae Alexandri Magni. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Zahrnt, M. 2006. “Von Siwa bis Persepolis. Überlegungen zur Arbeitsweise des Kallisthenes”. AncSoc 36: 143–174. Zambrini, A. 1982. “Gli Indika di Megastene”. ASNP 12: 71–149. Zambrini, A. 1985. “Gli Indika di Megastene II”. ASNP 15: 781–853.

6 DEMETRIUS POLIORCETES AND ATHENS: RULER CULT AND ANTIMONARCHIC NARRATIVES IN PLUTARCH’S LIFE OF DEMETRIUS Steffen Diefenbach 1. SOLE RULE AND THE HELLENISTIC POLIS: ANTIMONARCHIC TRADITIONS AND NEW CULTURAL MODELS “He knew full well that the Hellenes were not accustomed to submit to the rule of one man, while the other races were incapable of ordering their lives without the control of some such power.”1 With these words of praise for Amyntas, the father of Philip II of Macedon, the Athenian orator Isocrates recalled in 346 that sole rule had a markedly negative image in the world of the Greek polis. The traditional discursive expression of this hostility was the cultural paradigm of tyranny. From as early as the late seventh century, statements particularly about the physical demise of tyrants reveal the extent to which tyranny was dreaded in the political culture of the polis. Whoever aspired to tyranny could expect no less than that his fellow citizens would do everything in their power to kill him and his entire family: neither respect for the gods nor for the law could protect a tyrant from the unquenchable hatred of the citizens.2 This stigmatization of tyranny exerted a long-lasting influence on the perception of sole rule in the polis. Granted, in the fifth and fourth centuries, accusations of tyranny were not limited to sole rulers; they might also be made metaphorically against non-monarchic rulers, such as the demos or the aristocratic opponents of democracy.3 In principle, however, it was the exercise of monarchic power in the polis that was connected to and discredited by the concept of tyranny. The fact that this form of monarchic rule was rejected just as absolutely in the Hellenistic period as in Archaic and Classical times is illustrated by the abiding celebration of tyrannicide. A law issued in Ilion during the reign of Antiochus I ca. 280 BCE decrees extensive honors for anyone who kills a tyrant.4 Toward the end 1 2 3

4

Isocr., or. 5.107. Cf. Luraghi 2013. On the designation of the Athenians as polis or demos tyrannos since Periclean times, see Henderson 2003; Kallet 2003. For the affinity of tyranny and oligarchy in fourth-century Athenian democratic discourse, see Bayliss 2011: 74. On the adaptability of the concept of tyranny to political configurations other than sole rule in the polis, see also Trampedach 2006: 9. I. Ilion 25 (= OGIS 218), 19–36.

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of the fourth century, the citizens of Eresos commemorated the death sentences handed down against the tyrants Agonippus and Eurysilaus, who were overthrown in 333/332 BCE, and the citizens’ successful efforts to prevent the tyrants’ descendants from returning.5 At approximately the same time in Clazomenae, the memory of a local tyrannicide was renewed.6 These decrees and the fates of individual tyrants, such as Aristotimus of Elis, who was slain at the altar, or Aristomachus of Argos, who was brutally tortured to death,7 illustrate the ruthlessness and resolve with which the citizens of Hellenistic poleis still opposed tyranny. Alongside this ongoing, stereotypical hostility to sole rule, alternative conceptualizations of monarchic rule emerged in the Hellenistic period.8 Already from the fourth century on – especially in Isocrates and Xenophon – we encounter a positive conception of monarchic rule based on voluntary submission and the rule of law9 and with the establishment of the Hellenistic basileia, eventually a fundamentally new historical form of monarchy began to emerge. In contrast to tyranny, basileia was not considered negative per se, but rather tyranny was regarded as a degeneration and distortion of monarchic rule and not as a normal manifestation of it. What was decisive for this new conceptualization of sole rule was the fact that it rested on completely different structural premises, which made a discursive reassessment of monarchic rule by polis society possible. A fundamental and, with respect to the relationship between monarchy and the polis, decisive difference between basileia and tyranny was the fact that basileia was not limited to a single polis: the Hellenistic monarchs embodied power and expansionism that stretched far beyond the horizon of any single city.10 The major reason behind the purely negative assessment of sole rule thus fell away. Tyranny had been abominated so intensely since Archaic times essentially because of the existential threat that the image of the tyrant posed to his fellow citizens: to rule as a tyrant in popular opinion meant unlimited power and the means to use it against other citizens in the polis by robbing them of their property, their women, their honor, and their life.11 A basileus, in contrast, may have had far greater power than a tyrant, yet in general he did not make it felt within the polis. Already the fact that Hellenistic monarchs defined themselves principally by ongoing military successes and campaigns meant that their claim to power was not based on cities and not focused on them. Kings were 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

IG XII (2) 526 (= OGIS 8); see also below, n. 81. I. Erythrai 503 (restoration of an honorary statue for the tyrannicide Philitus). Cf. Paus. 5.5.1; Plut. mul. virt. 15 (= mor. 249–253) (Aristotimus); Phylarch (FGrHist 81 F 54) (Aristomachus). Cf. Mari 2009. Cf. Eder 1995; Leppin 2010. On unlimited power as a characteristic trait of Hellenistic basileia, cf. Gotter 2013: 220 f. On Hellenistic basileia as a fundamentally new form of monarchic rule, cf. Gruen 1985. For emphasis on the unlimited scope of tyrannical power and its fascinating “appeal” in the collective imagination, cf. Trampedach 2006: 5–10. Gotter 2008: 183–199 convincingly places the extreme phenomenon of tyranny in the broader context of a political culture in which a claim to rule was based on constantly reenacted demonstrations of power and symbolic violence.

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located outside the polis. Even when they frequently made their claim to rule visible in a city in the form of garrisons,12 only in exceptional circumstances were they personally present there for long periods of time.13 The Hellenistic kings, moreover, took to heart the words of Isocrates with which we began by normally leaving the autonomy of the polis as a political entity intact, at least in formal terms, and attempted instead to make their influence felt in other ways.14 The question arose, however, as to how this new kind of monarchic rule, which decisively influenced the fate of an individual polis yet extended far beyond the scope of any single polis, could be integrated in the perceptional and conceptual framework of the citizens and polis community. In the early Hellenistic period, when relations between the new monarchs and the poleis first began to take shape, there virtually existed no cultural model besides the traditional discourse of tyranny for a form of monarchic rule not limited to a single polis.15 What had to be found were new cultural models that could serve as a discursive reference point for communication and interaction between the Hellenistic cities and the monarchs. According to a widespread scholarly view, civic ruler cults in particular16 helped to bridge this “cognitive gap”, which from the cities’ perspective opened up between the new realities of monarchic rule and the traditional antimonarchic attitudes in the poleis’ political culture. Already Christian Habicht, in his fundamental study of Hellenistic ruler cults, demonstrated that civic cults for individual rulers, which are sporadically attested already in the fourth century BCE and proliferated after Alexander’s death, were established essentially at the initiative of the cities, not the rulers. A general desire on the part of the basileis for deification in the territory they controlled was not a decisive factor in the creation of civic ruler cults. Every city was free to decide whether it wished to establish a ruler cult if it considered it appropriate or useful.17 12 13 14

15

16

17

On the relationship between the civic population and garrisons, cf. Chaniotis 2002; Ma 2002. This was most often true of their residences (Weber 2007), yet in most cases these cities were not pre-existing poleis with independent political traditions and institutions, but rather had been established as new royal foundations. The proximity of civic elites to royal courts in particular gave rulers opportunities to exert influence and bind cities to them while simultaneously recognizing their autonomy. On the role of these civic “intermediaries” at Hellenistic courts, see Paschidis 2008: 469–505; Dreyer/ Weber 2011. This is also true of the literature alluded to above in n. 9: in terms of discourse, the behavioral expectations formulated in the encomia of Isocrates and Xenophon are not directed at monarchs but at the polis community, specifically, the civic elites, to whom they appeal for euergetic action (thus convincingly Eder 1995). The confrontation of monarch and philosopher may be seen as another important device to reflect on the emerging relationship between monarchic rulers and cities in Hellenistic times by creating new cultural models. Literary encounters between philosophers and kings and the peri basileias writings of philosophers are not to be situated in a courtly context of interaction and communication: Though formally addressed to kings, the implied audience of these texts was the public of the polis (see the important remarks in Haake 2013: 174–188). In terms of changing cultural models it was therefore no longer the orator but the philosopher who embodied the values of the polis community in a political world that was dominated by monarchs. Cf. Habicht 1970: 185–195.

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Scholars on Hellenistic ruler cults now generally presume that the establishment of cultic honors was a key element of cities’ positioning vis-à-vis Hellenistic basileis.18 If we scrutinize the different levels of communication such cults opened up between poleis and monarchs, however, we find a wide variety of scholarly opinions and approaches. Most studies of civic ruler cults focus exclusively on a single and very specific aspect: the establishment of a cult by civic decree and the related honors on the part of a city for the ruler. This process is placed in the broader context of civic honorary decrees, which had a long pre-Hellenistic tradition in the political culture of Greek cities. By establishing ruler cults, the cities supposedly adhered to a traditional political behavioral norm, whereby the outstanding merits of individual citizens on behalf of the community were rewarded with commensurate honors: the poleis reciprocated the exceptional accomplishments of the Hellenistic monarchs, such as saving the city from external dangers or averting a threat to its inner stability – deeds that were so extraordinary that they could be rewarded only with extraordinary, that is, divine honors. This worship was possible because the Greeks made no categorical distinction between non-cultic and cultic honors; in other words, to worship a benefactor instead of merely honoring him was a question of degree rather than quality. The significantly greater potential monarchs enjoyed in the Hellenistic period to exert their power on behalf of cities logically resulted in the conferral of new, extraordinary honors by the cities in response.19 In contrast to this interpretation of ruler cult, which focuses on the political nature of a euergetic gift-exchange between city and monarch, and thus virtually sidesteps the specific religious nature of the phenomenon,20 Simon Price has studied precisely this aspect. Price views the divinity of the ruler as a key to overcoming the inherent tension between the polis and monarchic rule.21 In his opinion, civic ruler cults were not merely a form of gift-exchange taken to extremes, but rather something qualitatively new. Communication with the ruler as a god and ritual practices served a basic cognitive purpose: conferring divine honors was not just a political instrument in relations between a city and ruler, but rather was a vital channel of communication that in fact constituted this relationship. Thus, for the polis, 18

19 20

21

Recent work on the divinity of Hellenistic monarchs has in the meanwhile gradually shifted from the civic cults to other aspects, like the forerunners of ruler cult in the 4th century and the dynastic cults and divine images created by the Hellenistic monarchs themselves (cf. the articles in Iossif et al. 2011 and Gnoli/Muccioli 2014). For the ruler cults of the Hellenistic poleis Habicht’s views are still fundamental (see e. g. Chankowski 2011: 4). This line of interpretation was developed substantially by Habicht himself (cf. Habicht 1970: 206–213). Similarly, Walbank 1987: 376; Mikalson 1998: 81–83; Bringmann 2000: 143–151; Buraselis 2004: 178; Mari 2009: 110 f. Habicht himself gave his opinion on this question very carefully: He acknowledges that civic cults were based on genuine religious feeling at least until ca. the mid-third century and that rulers were initially not placed on par with the gods through a conferral of religious honors, but rather, on the contrary, had manifested their divinity through their extraordinary accomplishments. Accordingly, civic ruler cults were essentially declaratory, not constitutive in character: “Die Stadt,” Habicht laconically states, “kann keine Götter machen” (Habicht 1970: 171). Habicht thus does not ignore the religious side of ruler cults, but he shows little interest in it. On the following, cf. Price 1984: 23–40.

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the divinity of the ruler was a essential condition of what Price regards as “coming to terms”22 with monarchic power – a way to associate a novel political phenomenon (the Hellenistic basileia) with a familiar cultural model (divinity)23 and thus find a language with which the polis could appropriate as its own a form of rule that was not based on civic structures and thereby integrate the king in the city.24 In the following, I would like to take up this approach and attempt to define more precisely the role of religious communication in “coming to terms” with monarchic power. It seems basically correct that civic ruler cults and the divinity of the ruler created a channel of communication that reconciled two contrasting political entities and established a modus vivendi between the cities and monarchs. It remains an open question, however, to what extent within this general cognitive framework – the perception of the ruler as a god – we can distinguish different levels of communication and interaction and how these affected the positive or negative assessment of the ruler. In light of scholars’ view that the divinity of the ruler was the key to successful communication between the polis and Hellenistic monarchy, I hope above all to bring the ambivalence of this cultural model more prominently to the fore. To pose the question in concrete terms: what opportunities did ruler cults and the divinity of the ruler create, and what were the limits on the appropriation of the monarch by the polis? To what extent did ruler cults foster a positive attitude toward sole rule in the polis, and under what conditions did this cultural model translate into an antimonarchic reflex and could the divinity of the monarch vice versa inspire criticism? Lastly, how did this antimonarchic discourse relate to the traditional antimonarchic stereotype of tyranny, which – as stressed above – continued to thrive in the Hellenistic period both in discourse and practice? Did critics make use of traditional negative stereotypes, or did they highlight new aspects that emerged from the fact that sole rule was not considered negative per se in the Hellenistic period, and that criticism of monarchy instead targeted only the degenerate form of a basically approved form of rule? To this end, I would like to focus on a prominent example, namely, Demetrius Poliorcetes and his relationship with the city of Athens. To choose this example makes sense for a number of reasons. First, the relatively good sources for Deme22 23

24

Price 1984: 34. A felicitous phrase, also taken up by Ma 1999: 219. The coincidence of divinity and power was the crucial basis for connecting gods and rulers (Price 1984: 234–248): what united gods and basileis was not immortality, but rather locally unlimited power that extended far beyond the horizon of a single city. In light of this, Price forcefully argues against explaining Hellenistic ruler cult as outgrowths of traditional local hero cults. Although the power of a basileus could only ever manifest itself in the context of a single city, it was perceived as universal – accordingly, it was the Olympian gods, not heroes, who served as the cultural model of the divinity of Hellenistic monarchs (Price 1984: 32–36). This aspect of appropriation and integration of the monarch in the conceptual framework of the city is crucial for Price. In contrast to the Achaemenid Great King, for example, the Hellenistic basileis were not foreign entities vis-à-vis the cities: though they did not become part of the political institutions of the Greek city, they nonetheless were – by virtue of their cults – integrated in it (“Persian rule was resented or rejected, rather than accommodated within the city”; Price 1984: 26).

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trius make it possible to differentiate between several different communicative contexts in which the citizens’ relationship to the divine Demetrius came into play. Second, the events occurred at a time when relations between the nascent monarchies and the cities were just beginning to take shape and various solutions were still being tested.25 Third and last, Athens can be considered a typical example of the deep-rooted tension between sole rule and the polis order outlined above: the discourse of tyranny exerted a formative influence on democratic self-understanding in Athens and had been recalled to the political consciousness of the citizens just before the Hellenistic period by the law of Eucrates in 337/6 BCE.26 Every historical analysis of Demetrius and his relationship with Athens must address the problem that contemporary perspectives on his person have been refracted already in the ancient tradition in a variety of ways: Our most important literary sources – Plutarch and Athenaeus – only indirectly and distortedly reflect the different opinions and traditions which had been formed on Demetrius in early Hellenistic times. In order to keep the various historical and discursive levels of the evidence as distinct as possible, I will begin by giving a brief historical overview of the most important moments in the relationship between Demetrius and the polis Athens with respect to religious communication in the years 307 to 287 BCE.27 I will then attempt to assign the actions of the two protagonists to structurally different levels of communication and interaction and develop a series of hypotheses on the possibilities and the limitations that these levels posed for the precarious relationship between polis and monarchic rule in the early Hellenistic period. On this basis, I shall then attempt to reconstruct various types of antimonarchic narratives from the negative responses to the conduct of Demetrius and his Athenian supporters. The resulting observations make it possible, in conclusion, to formulate some general hypotheses about the extent to which ruler cults and religious communication between cities and rulers contributed to a coming to terms with monarchic rule from the perspective of the early Hellenistic polis. 2. DEMETRIUS AND ATHENS FROM 307 TO 287 BCE – STAGES OF A RELATIONSHIP In the early summer of 307 BCE, Demetrius Poliorcetes unexpectedly appeared before Athens with a fleet and occupied the city’s harbor, which at the time was controlled by Cassander or rather his long arm, Demetrius of Phaleron. Already a few years previously, Demetrius Poliorcetes’ father, Antigonus Monophthalmus, 25

26 27

Habicht 1970: 241 f., rightly observes that from the mid-third century BCE, the establishment of a ruler cult no longer necessarily followed an extraordinary accomplishment for the polis, but increasingly became a standard honor. The Nicuria decree of the League of the Islanders for Ptolemy II (IG XII 7.506) is one of the earliest examples of this development. SEG 12, 1955, No. 87; trans. Rhodes/Osborne 2003, No. 79. The scholarly literature on this subject – the political history of Athens in the Age of the Diadochs – has become too extensive to cover exhaustively. In the following, I will cite only the studies and scholarly disputes that are essential to my argument.

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had proclaimed the liberation of the Greek cities in order to win their support against a coalition of the other Diadochs. Demetrius implemented this slogan in Athens: he promised the citizens that he would restore their democracy, which had been curtailed under Demetrius of Phaleron, and remove the Macedonian garrison that Cassander had stationed in Munychia.28 The Athenians’ spontaneous reaction to Demetrius’ unexpected appearance and his proclamation took the form of acclamations hailing Demetrius as benefactor (euergetes) and savior (soter) – a term with explicit religious implications.29 The spontaneity of the scene as transmitted by Plutarch may be more than mere literary dramatization and faithfully report the historical facts. At least, we can infer as much from similar scenes that are attested already for the fourth century, for example, in 357/356 BCE, when Dion saved Syracuse from Dionysius II’s marauding mercenaries and was accordingly celebrated with acclamations as savior and god.30 Only after some time had passed did the Athenians take measures that gave this spontaneous and ephemeral attribution of divinity a permanent form. When Demetrius returned to Athens after leaving for several weeks to liberate Megara from Cassander’s troops, the Athenians decreed numerous honors for him and his father Antigonus, including measures of a religious nature. Among other things, it was decreed that they should be called saving gods – theoi soteres – and receive an altar, their own priest, and annual festivals with processions and sacrifices. Their likenesses, moreover, were sewn into the peplos, the ceremonial garment of the poliadic goddess Athena, which now showed the two Antigonids side by side with the goddess in a depiction of the Gigantomachy. Two new phylai were also named after Demetrius and Antigonus, which entailed that they were now integrated into the circle of the heroes of the Attic phylai.31 Not long afterward – potentially in early 306 BCE – Demetrius left Athens for the eastern Aegean theater of war, not returning until fall 304. After he again helped the city resist Cassander’s efforts to conquer it, he made Athens his residence from 304 to 302: Athens would serve as his base of operations in Greece for creating an overarching alliance of poleis, which came to an interim conclusion with the cre28

29

30 31

Antigonus had launched his slogan of the autonomy of the Greek poleis first in 316/15 BCE; in 307 BCE he renewed this promise in reaction to similar announcements by Ptolemy I. On the historical context of Demetrius’ liberation of Athens see Buraselis 1982: 46–53; Marasco 1983–1985: 85–90; O’Sullivan 2009a: 276–278. Plut. Demetr. 9.1: “On hearing this proclamation, most of the people at once threw their shields down in front of them, and with clapping of hands and loud cries urged Demetrius to land, hailing him as their saviour and benefactor” (ἀναρρηθέντων δὲ τούτων οἱ μὲν πολλοὶ παραχρῆμα τὰς ἀσπίδας θέμενοι πρὸ τῶν ποδῶν ἀνεκρότησαν καὶ βοῶντες ἐκέλευον ἀποβαίνειν τὸν Δημήτριον, εὐεργέτην καὶ σωτῆρα προσαγορεύοντες). Plut. Dion 46.1 with Buraselis 2003: 187 f. Contra Zahrnt 2000: 174, who doubts that the scenery in Plutarch’s Life of Dion gives a faithful account of the historical course of events. The reconstruction is based primarily on the evidence of Plut. Demetr. 10.3–4 and Diod. 20.46.2. For a comparison of the evidence of Plutarch and Diodorus, see Landucci Gattinoni 1981. The single honors are discussed by Habicht 1970: 44–48 and Mikalson 1998: 78–81; on the kings’ priest cf. Dreyer 1998.

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ation of the Corinthian Hellenic League in early summer 303 or early 302 BCE.32 Numerous religious honors for Demetrius are also transmitted from this period. At the place where, upon arriving in the city, Demetrius dismounted from his horse or car after his successful battles against Cassander, an altar for “Demetrios Kataibates,” the “descending Demetrius,” was built – obviously recalling traditional cult names such as “Zeus Kataibates.”33 On the motion of Stratocles, one of the most influential politicians of the restored democracy after 307, it was further decreed that envoys to Demetrius would be called theoroi like the messengers who offered sacrifices on behalf of the polis at the Pan-Hellenic festivals at Delphi and Olympia.34 The same Stratocles made a further proposal in the popular assembly to the effect that “whatsoever King Demetrius should ordain in future, this should be held righteous towards the gods and just towards men.”35 The background and dating of this remarkable motion cannot be determined with certainty. Presumably it was a reaction on Demetrius’ initiation in the Eleusinian Mysteries, which was celebrated in a single step in early 303 BCE,36 flouting the traditional procedure and disregarding the different grades of mysteries. Demetrius’ expedited initiation, suspending the usual period of fourteen months between the lesser and greater mysteries, met with serious criticism in the Athenian citizenry. In conferring authority on Demetrius over “everything that is righteous towards the gods,” hence, ritual questions, Stratocles reacted on Demetrius’ wrath against his critics and took this opportunity to get rid of his political rivals in Athens.37 What is perhaps the most striking thing, though, is that, during his stay in Athens, Demetrius and his court resided in the opisthodomos of the Parthenon on the Acropolis – as the guest of Athena and thus virtually as theos synnaos, whose divinity was vividly expressed by his sharing the temple and dwelling of the most important goddess of the city.38 32 33 34 35 36

37

38

For the arguments in favor of dating the founding of the Hellenic League already in early 303 BCE, one year earlier than the usual date of 302, see below, n. 36. Plut. Demetr. 10.5 and mor. 338A with Habicht 1970: 48 f. Plut. Demetr. 11.1. The dating of this proposal is uncertain, but following the sequence of events in Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius it should be placed in the time after 304 BCE (Habicht 1970: 49 f.; Mikalson 1998: 88). Plut. Demetr. 24.4: ὅ τι ἂν ὁ βασιλεὺς Δημήτριος κελεύσῃ, τοῦτο καὶ πρὸς θεοὺς ὅσιον καὶ πρὸς ἀνθρώπους εἶναι δίκαιον. Epigraphic evidence leaves no doubt that Demetrius’ initiation took place already in early 303 (cf. SEG 39, 1989, No. 101; accepted by Thonemann 2005: 75, n. 45; Paschidis 2008; 92 f.). The traditional dating to early 302 BCE, following the sequence of events in Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius (see most recently Mikalson 1998: 89; Wheatley 2003: 34; Kuhn 2006: 266) must accordingly be corrected. On the consequences for the chronology for the years 304 to 302 BCE, cf. Paschidis 2008: 90–95, who speculates whether the founding of the Hellenic League should not be dated already to early summer 303 BCE. Thus convincingly Paschidis 2008: 97. Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius however conjures a different context: Plutarch interprets Demetrius’ expedited initiation as a direct consequence of Stratocles’ decree thereby attributing it a conceptual range which it in fact did not have. Many scholars have followed Plutarch in this (see below, n. 85). Plut. Demetr. 23.3. Scheer 2000: 271–279 assumes Demetrius stayed in the Parthenon for purely pragmatic reasons and makes the same assumption for Demetrius’ billeting in a Delian temple or temenos that must have occurred according to the evidence of IG XI 2.146 A, l. 76 f.

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After 302 came the Battle of Ipsos and the years in which Demetrius’ territory was limited to a series of coastal cities. Not until early 295 did he appear before Athens again39 – this time not as the liberator of the city, as in the years 307 and 304, but rather as its conqueror: The Athenians had defected from Demetrius in fall 301 after the devastating defeat at Ipsos and had proclaimed that they would never again welcome a king within their walls. In the years after 295, Demetrius concentrated his efforts on the Peloponnese, Central Greece, and especially Thessaly and Macedon, where he had acquired Cassander’s territory after the latter’s death. As Demetrius’ geostrategic interests shifted to Macedon and Thessaly, embodied in the construction of his monumental residence Demetrias, Athens no longer served as a royal residence – in contrast the years 304 to 302. Athens nonetheless remained an important power base for the king, who repeatedly visited the city and even transferred the Pythian Games to Athens in 290, since Delphi was occupied by the Aetolians at the time. Also after 295, the ruler’s communication with the citizens of Athens was shaped by the divine persona of the basileus on several occasions. Already when Demetrius entered Athens in March 295 around the middle of the month Elaphebolion, when the Great Dionysia were being celebrated, he chose to address the Athenians at a place that unmistakably placed his relationship with the citizens of Athens in a religious interpretive framework. The king entered the theater to address the Athenians and magnanimously forgive them for defecting after the Battle of Ipsos.40 Demetrius had carefully chosen the site: the dramatic performances at the Dionysia had emerged from a processional ritual that commemorated the arrival of the god Dionysus from Eleutherae in Athens. The procession, which conducted the image of Dionysus to the theater on the eve of the festival, recalled the cultic origin of the Dionysia and reenacted the arrival of the god in the city with the ritual welcoming of his cult image. Demetrius, who had himself depicted with the attributes of Dionysus on his coinage from approximately this time,41 took advantage of the

39 40 41

Kuhn 2006. 272–275, in contrast, emphasizes that Demetrius received divine honors in person that were usually reserved for rulers’ statues, namely, being received in a temple as theos synnaos. Clement of Alexandria records that on this occasion the Athenians even planned to celebrate a sacred marriage (hieros gamos) between Demetrius and Athena (Clem. Alex. Protr. 4.54.6). Although this report is accepted by many scholars (cf. most recently Ogden 1999: 263 f.; Wheatley 2003: 36; Kuhn 2006: 273; Müller 2010: 568–570), it in fact appears to be a late construction (convincingly argued by O’Sullivan 2008). Ferguson 1929: 1–20; Habicht 1995: 92–94; Thonemann 2005: 66–71. Alternatively, some consider a date in early 294 (thus, among others, Habicht 1979: 1–21; Dreyer 1999: 19–49). Plut. Demetr. 34.3 f. Demetrius appears with horns on bronze and silver coinage issued by various Aegean mints after 301 BCE; this attribute was also adopted in the plastic arts. Some scholars (e. g. Newell 1927: 72 f.; Brenk 1995: 68–72; Ehling 2000; Müller 2010: 565) interpret the horns as an iconographical reference to Poseidon, since he is very prominent in Demetrius’ coinage and Demetrius was also addressed by the Athenians as “son of Poseidon” in the ithyphallikos of 290 BCE (on which, cf. n. 45). This interpretation, however, is unconvincing for several reasons: 1) horns are not an iconographical attribute of Poseidon, but rather of river gods considered the sons of Poseidon. Ehling 2000: 159 f. stresses precisely this point and notes that Demetrius is

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fact that Athens’ capitulation in early 295 fell precisely during the Dionysia to stage his arrival in Athens as that of a new Dionysus.42 This interpretation would also survive beyond the year 295. Thus, in 293 or 292, the Dionysia were extended by the addition of a newly created festival of Demetria, which apparently were intended to connect Demetrius’ arrival permanently to the xenismos, the ritual reception of Dionysus, and create an intimate relationship between the mythical arrival of the god and the present circumstances that reenacted the myth.43 The same decree also prescribed that Demetrius should be received with the same religious honors as Demeter and Dionysus whenever he visited Athens.44 An eloquent witness to this measure is a cult song probably composed in 290, the famous ithyphallikos sung to welcome Demetrius together with Demeter, which linked the ruler’s divinity precisely to the occasion of his arrival in stressing that at this moment it became obvious how powerful and indeed nearby he, Demetrius, was in comparison to the other gods.45 Finally, the same period also saw a decree of the popular assembly to obtain an oracle from Demetrius to receive his divine instructions regarding Athenian plans to restore dedicatory offerings in Delphi.46

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called “son of Poseidon” in the ithyphallikos. Yet this language used by the Athenians cannot simply be identified as Demetrius’ self-representation: the Athenians’ use of the specific appellation “son of Poseidon” corresponds to other analogous attempts to bring Demetrius into familial relationships with deities closely connected to Athens – thus Demetrius is also addressed as “brother of Athena” in Athens already in 304 BCE (Plut. Demetr. 24.1). The appellation “son of Poseidon” in this context should be viewed as an effort to associate Demetrius with Athena and Poseidon as Athenian gods. It is highly unlikely that none other than the “thalassocrat” Demetrius would have had himself depicted as a simple river god on his coinage outside of Athens. 2) Although no other Dionysian motifs appear in Demetrius’ coinage, horns are an iconographical attribute that most probably refer to Dionysus. Virtually in tandem with Demetrius, Seleucus I also had himself depicted with horns on his coinage, referring according to scholarly consensus to Dionysus (cf. Hoover 2011: 201–203, who however also stresses the Babylonian and Iranian associations of Seleucus’ taurine imaginary). 3) The literary sources are in agreement in attributing to Demetrius imitatio of Dionysus – not just Plutarch, but also Diodorus, who connects it to the events of the year 305 (Diod. 20.92.4; cf. Plut. Demetr. 19.3). Plutarch’s claim that Demetrius “used to make Dionysus his pattern, more than any other deity” (Plut. Demetr. 2.3) is thus not a fabrication of the Athenocentric sources Plutarch used; it derives from an independent historiographical tradition also shared by Diodorus (Sweet 1951: 179). – It accordingly is highly likely that Demetrius’ horns should be interpreted as a reference not to Poseidon but to Dionysus (thus also most recently Thonemann 2005: 83 f.). Convincingly argued by Thonemann 2005. Cf. Plut. Demetr. 12.2 with Thonemann 2005: 78 f. Plut. Demetr. 12.1. The regulations in Demetr. 12.1 f. (from γράφει γάρ τις ἄλλος […] to τὰ Διονύσια μετωνόμασαν Δημήτρια) obviously belong to the same decree (Habicht 1970: 51). FGrHist 76 F 13 (= Duris of Samos F 33 [Landucci Gattinoni]). Plut. Demetr. 13. Habicht initially dated this psephisma, introduced by the Athenian politician Dromocleides of Sphettos, to the years 304 to 302 BCE (Habicht 1970: 49 f.), but he later corrected this view in favor of 292/1 BCE (Habicht 1979: 34–44; Habicht 1995: 99 f.). Despite the skepticism of Dreyer 1999: 128–135, Habicht’s reconstruction seems sound and has generally been accepted (Kuhn 2006: 277; Paschidis 2008: 130 f.). Mikalson 1998: 87 f. and Green 2003: 265, however, without further justification, continue to date Dromocleides’ psephisma to the period between 304 and 302 BCE.

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Athens’ second defection in 287 put an end to this final phase of relations between the city and Demetrius, whose subsequent fate does not interest us here. Let us then draw an interim balance and try to systematize the incidents presented in the preceding section. In the first place, it is instructive to differentiate between the different levels of communication and interaction in which the Athenians related to Demetrius as a god. 3. DEMETRIUS’ DIVINITY – LEVELS OF RELIGIOUS COMMUNICATION AND INTERACTION BETWEEN POLIS AND MONARCH The acclamations of Demetrius as euergetes and soter in early summer 307 should be viewed as a communicative act that occurred in a liminal situation and in response to an extraordinary event. Similar to religious festivals of a transitional ritual nature, welcoming and introducing the soter into the city created a liminal situation in which the traditional social order could temporarily be suspended.47 The ritual reception of a ruler, which marked the welcoming of Demetrius in 307, may thus be understood as a rite de passage, characterized by its fundamentally ephemeral and exceptional nature: the Athenians’ face-to-face communication with the ruler as a god left him no stable place in the social order of the polis. Our sources also underline the exceptional character of the situation but they tend to explain it exclusively with the external circumstances of Demetrius’ arrival: his completely unexpected appearance in the Piraeus – the Athenians had anticipated not Demetrius but rather a Ptolemaic fleet – resembled an epiphany-like intrusion of the divine in the everyday world, which was answered by the Athenians with spontaneous acclamations.48 This focus on the historical circumstances and the spontaneity of the action is however misleading. Though Demetrius’ surprising appearance will have had a certain effect on the Athenians it would be mistaken to overstress the singularity of the situation. The Athenians’ reaction in 307 was presumably not that spontaneous as the sources make us believe but based on similar models of ritual reception.49 We further can and must presume that Demetrius was hailed with similar ritual acclamations on other occasions – for example, at the performance of the ithyphallikos of 290 BCE. The decisive factor in the ephemeral character of the communicative situation of Demetrius’ first appearance in Athens accordingly was not the historical circumstances of his epiphany, but rather the 47

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For the phenomenon of liminality from an anthropological perspective see Turner 1969 (esp. 94–97, 106–113, 125–130), building on the theories of Arnold van Gennep. The three-tiered model of a rite de passage, leading an individual or a group from a fixed social position to a changed state with a stable social structure via an unstable period of liminal transition may also be applied to polis and monarch (polis society before the advent of the ruler – liminal reception of the monarch – reintegrated polis society with the ruler now included). Turner identifies a “limbo of statuslessness” (97) as the paramount characteristic of groups which pass through the liminal phase of transition. Plut. Demetr. 8.3–9.1. See above, n. 30.

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form of communication in which the momentary intrusion of the divine in the everyday world was conveyed in ritual. Acclamations and passage rituals of welcoming and reception underscored the momentary and ephemeral nature of liminality. As such they created an exceptional situation for the citizenry without limiting it to exceptional historical circumstances: Rituals of acclaiming and welcoming a god – despite all suggestion of the uniqueness of the event – aimed for repetition. The divine honors that the Athenians decreed in 307 for Antigonus and Demetrius must be clearly distinguished from this ephemeral and liminal communication. The decrees established a fixed and permanent sacral topography in the city, where the savior-gods could be invoked at any time without having to be present in person. These divine honors were the outcome of a popular decree that must have been preceded by a detailed justification – customary in Athenian psephismata – of the establishment of the cult. In this way, the citizenry stressed the aspect of attribution of divinity (or, more precisely, of honors on par with those for gods) much more emphatically than on the occasion of the soter acclamations, which had in fact been “declaratory”.50 To put it bluntly, the demos was not “overwhelmed” by the epiphany of Demetrius, but on the contrary decided what sort of relationship it wished to have with the savior-gods. The fact that the acclamations and the decree were not addressed to the same persons – the soter acclamation was addressed only to Demetrius, while the psephisma conferred divine honors on Antigonus and Demetrius – makes it clear that the latter did not simply and inevitably result from the former.51 The questions to whom the Athenians wanted to give divine honors, and what honors, opened up a range of possible decisions that underscored the citizens’ agency. The events of the years 304–302 in turn reveal new features of the Athenians’ religious communication with Demetrius. There are several indications that during this period Demetrius acted the part of a deity also outside exceptional liminal situations. This is suggested not only by his residence in the Parthenon but also by the decree that all embassies to Demetrius should be categorized as Pan-Hellenic ceremonial delegations, which were of a religious nature. Drawing any inferences from such measures about Demetrius’ self-understanding or character is of course highly problematic – for example, that he developed an inflated understanding of his rule and perceived himself as a deity.52 It is indisputable, though, that by residing in the Parthenon and receiving embassies as a god Demetrius signaled his readiness to make his divinity the basis of stable and regular communication with the Athenians. In other words: if interaction between the citizens and the ruler as a god in 307 was limited to a momentary epiphany and the liminal nature of the ruler’s entrance into the city, in 304 this model became the stabilized foundation of an ongoing communication. The denomination “Demetrios Kataibates” should also potentially be interpreted in this sense. In contrast to the soter cult of 307, the awareness of a special and superhuman achievement on behalf of the polis does not seem to have been 50 51 52

For this aspect of declaring, not constituting the ruler’s divinity, see above, n. 20. Contra Bayliss 2011: 160, who considers the decrees of the Athenian popular assembly as the “natural sequel” to the acclamations. For such reflections on Demetrius’ character cf., e. g., Bengtson 1975: 87; Wheatley 2003: 36.

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paramount in the creation of the cult site. That Demetrius’ dismounting from his horse was qualified as an epiphany would suggest that Demetrius’ divinity was increasingly becoming a constant feature of his existence uncoupled from the exceptional achievements that had been its basis in 307. This aspect of the Athenians’ religious communication with Demetrius persisted also in the last phase of their relations – that is, the period from 295 to 287 BCE. Demetrius may have concentrated predominantly on Macedon after 295 and – in contrast to 304 to 302 – resided for an extended period of time outside of Athens, yet the above noted tendency to consider divinity a constant trait of the basileus is also characteristic of this period. We have already noted that, by creating the Demetria and adding them to the Dionysia, Demetrius not only recalled the historical moment of Athens “liberation” during the Dionysia in 295; the Demetria were simultaneously a deliberate reference to the mythical arrival of Dionysus (and Demetrius) in the city, which was reenacted annually in ritualized form. Any interpretation of this close relationship between Demetrius and Dionysus must take into account that Demeter was also included: Demetrius should be received in Athens in the same way as Dionysus and Demeter. As he set foot in the city, the basileus would thus by placed alongside the two deities whose image was fundamentally shaped by the fact that they came to Athens from abroad.53 On the basis of myth and pre-existing rituals, Demetrius thus became the myth-historical embodiment of a god54 who visited the city of Athens at certain times55 but generally resided and remained outside the city. Dromocleides’ psephisma that an oracle regarding the dedications in Delphi should be obtained from Demetrius seems to point in the same direction. “Classifying” Demetrius as an oracle likewise exploited a cultural model of divinity that pointed not to the city but rather to its exterior – typically, one left the city in order to consult an oracular deity. Although Demetrius was not present as a deity within the city walls of Athens itself, as he had been from 304 to 302 BCE, he thus remained permanently connected to the city through his religious role. This also affected the reception and entrance of the ruler in the city, a sensitive juncture in communications between the polis and the Hellenistic basileus.56 We have already seen that rituals of welcoming the king as god were based on the idea of a divine manifestation which suspended the social order temporarily. This aspect was still alive in the ritual communication with Demetrius after 295, but the suggestion of an ephemeral and epipha53

54

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On this aspect of Dionysus’ and Demetrius’ arrival in Attica cf. Henrichs 1999: 242; for Demeter it is spelled out e. g. by Isocr. or. 4.28. In my opinion this explanation for the reference to Demeter is more promising than interpretations based on the etymological relationship between the names of the goddess and the king (Demeter – Demetrius) or on donations of grain made by Demetrius in 295 BCE (cf. Chaniotis 2011: 162 f.). The intertwining of myth and contemporary present in early Hellenistic visual art and literary culture has been emphasized by Henrichs 1999. See esp. pp. 242–247 for an interpretation of the ithyphallikos along these lines. Demetrius’ divine image as a myth-historical deity should be interpreted in this context. The word xenismos (Plut. Demetr. 12.1) does not imply the reception of a new god, but the welcoming and greeting him when he came to his feast (see Chaniotis 2011: 167). Cf. Perrin-Saminadayar 2004–2005.

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ny-like intrusion of the divine in the everyday world was now undermined by the fact that it was the result of a popular decree. The Athenian citizenry determined in advance that that every reception of Demetrius had to be staged as a xenismos. The ritual of reception was no longer predetermined by Demetrius’ divinity but by the political institutions of the polis.57 In this regard the tendency to understand Demetrius’ divinity as a constant feature and to make this cultural model the basis of a regular communication and interaction also affected passage rituals and the way in which they were perceived. The inherently liminal nature of the ruler’s entrance into the city thus lost a substantial part of its suggestive power to suspend the social order without giving the divine ruler a stable and permanent place in it. 4. THE DIVINITY OF THE RULER AND THE POLIS: LIMITS OF A CULTURAL MODEL As the preceding discussion has made clear, very distinct variations of religious communication and interaction can be identified in Demetrius Poliorcetes’ relations with Athens that have frequently been given the unifying and oversimplified label “ruler cult.” They offer fascinating insights in how the Athenians and Demetrius tried to explore the potential of religious communication for integrating monarchic rule in the conceptual framework of the Hellenistic polis. Civic decrees of divine honors which figure so prominently in our historical tradition on Hellenistic ruler cults were only one aspect and convey a too optimistic idea of a rather smooth coming to terms of the cities with monarchic power. The example of Demetrius rather shows to which extent both sides negotiated the possibilities and limits of a cultural model. Whether the divinity of the monarch facilitated a successful communication between ruler and city or proved to be a liability was a matter of ongoing adaptions and readaptions which extended over a period of nearly twenty years. To a certain extent the success and failure of these negotiations can be determined by the criticism they evoked. It would be too simplistic and misleading though to determine any precise limits of ruler cults for a viable relationship between monarch and polis along these lines. An example can illustrate this best. The ithyphallikos of 290 BCE should obviously be understood as the expression of a positive attitude toward Demetrius: in it the Athenians challenged the basileus to undertake military efforts against the Aetolians and revealed genuine confidence in the helpful proximity of their god Demetrius. The ithyphallikos is accordingly cited in virtually every study of Hellenistic ruler cults as perfect evidence that the Hellenistic kings not only received divine honors but were also in fact perceived as gods. The contemporary historian Duris of Samos nonetheless gave a damning verdict on the ithyphallikos and the Athenians’ behavior, branding it an act of base sycophancy before the basileus Demetrius.58 57 58

This aspect is also emphasized by Chaniotis 2011: 169. Athen. 6.253 f (= FGrHist 76 F 13): “This is what the victors at Marathon sang (…) the people who put to death the man who made proskynesis before the Persian king” – a cutting commen-

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Two methodological inferences may be drawn from this. First, whether or not interaction between the polis and the basileus as a god served as the basis for criticism depended heavily on the political orientation of the protagonists, which cannot be reduced to a uniform attitude of “the” Athenian polis community.59 Politicians like Stratocles of Diomeia or Dromocleides of Sphettos saw the situation quite differently from their opponents, such as, for example, Philippides of Cephale or Demochares of Leuconoe – with the difference that our literary tradition preserves almost exclusively the voices of Demetrius’ Athenian critics, who ultimately prevailed in 287 and would permanently shape Demetrius’ image. Second – and this causes almost greater methodological problems – the tradition gives us only highly selective insight into the various communicative contexts of affirmative or antimonarchic discourses. Thus there is a significant difference whether cult songs such as the ithyphallikos were performed in the context of ritual communication or in turn became the subject of metadiscourses, for instance, in the form of psephismata or retrospective depictions, such as, for example, the historical work of someone like Duris of Samos or Demochares of Leuconoe. This distinction of different discursive contexts might even intersect a purely political classification of different protagonists. What could have been regarded as an unproblematic and permissible behavior under the conditions of a liminal communicative situation60 might have seemed to the same person to transgress the bounds of decency when the action was made the subject of reflection – whether during deliberations of the popular assembly or in literary form on stage, in speeches, or in historiographical texts.61 The following attempt to sound out the strains and limitations of religious communication between the polis of Athens and Demetrius is thus subject to considerable reservations. It is impossible to draw all too schematic conclusions about the

59

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61

tary on the Athenians’ servile conduct immediately following the text of the ithyphallikos, which Athenaeus had previously quoted from the historical work of Duris of Samos. These disparaging remarks are now regarded as Athenaeus’ own commentary (see most recently Whitmarsh 2000: 309 f. and above all Baron 2011: 100–104). Pownall 2013: 46 f., however, adheres to the interpretation that Athenaeus has adopted the critical assessment of his source Duris. The assumption of many scholars that Duris’ narrative is based on Demochares of Leuconoe is far from certain (see below, n. 114). Emphasized by Mari 2009: 94–98: antimonarchic statements are not only directed against the monarchs themselves in the Hellenistic period, but rather primarily against the forces within the polis that held an intermediary position vis-à-vis the basileis and thereby sought to enhance their political influence in the city. In this respect, the situation in Athens under Demetrius Poliorcetes is a perfect example of political communication in the world of the Hellenistic polis generally (see Mari 2009: 98–102). This “inner logic” of rituals and their socially constitutive meaning can be regarded as the common element of various ritual-theoretical approaches. On this and on the consequences of the “performative turn” from an ancient historian’s perspective, see most recently Hölkeskamp 2014: 359–369. To come back again on the ithyphallikos: Was Duris’ critical attitude directed against the ritual itself? Or against the fact that the ithyphallikos was also sung in private symposia (FGrHist 76 F 13: ταῦτ᾽ ἦιδον οἱ Μαραθωνομάχοι οὐ δημοσίαι μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ κατ᾽ οἰκίαν) and thereby lost its cultic purpose (see Ehrenberg 1965: 505)? Or against the civic decree that instituted the xenismos for Demetrius? All seems possible.

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limits and range of religious communication between the polis and the Hellenistic ruler because we know far too little about the contexts of the practices and discourses in question. This is also true of criticism of Demetrius, which fundamentally shapes our image of the king’s relationship with Athens. These critical voices reach us only in fragmentary form and through several gaps in the literary tradition, because Plutarch and Athenaeus – the most important surviving authors for our purposes here – used their sources in part only at second hand and reorganized them to their own purposes.62 To a considerable extent, therefore, we can only speculate about how exactly Demetrius’ relationship with Athens became the subject of criticism. These difficulties can neither be resolved nor explained away, but they can be confronted to an extent by trying to identify consistent narratives behind isolated critical statements and asking what kind of limitations they indicate in the relations between the polis and divine ruler. In the following, I will investigate to what extent Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius contains traces of various narratives of antimonarchic criticism and the discursive contexts to which these critical attitudes should be assigned. 5. VARIATIONS OF ANTIMONARCHIC DISCOURSE IN PLUTARCH’S LIFE OF DEMETRIUS Chapters 10 to 13 of the Life of Demetrius are a suitable place to start. Plutarch here gives an overview of the divine honors conferred on Demetrius in the years 307 to 287 BCE, which leads Plutarch to harshly criticize the Athenians’ behavior toward Demetrius. In these four chapters, Plutarch interrupts the chronological narrative of his bios in order to give a comprehensive assessment of Demetrius’ relationship with Athens; they thus constitute a self-contained and independent excursus that is based on a consistent antimonarchic narrative. Although Plutarch is overall critical of what he considers excessive honors,63 he does not rate all forms of the Athenians’ religious communication and interaction with Demetrius equally in his excursus. While he merely notes disapprovingly the honors listed at the end of chapter 10 – the epithet theoi soteres for Antigonus and Demetrius, the erection of an altar for “Demetrios Kataibates”, the appointment of a priest for the savior-gods, their declaration as phylai heroes, and their pictorial integration into Athena’s peplos64 – Plutarch’s criticism subsequently becomes much harsher. In chapters 11 to 13, he cites three decrees of the Athenian ecclesia proposed respectively by three different politicians – Stratocles of Diomeia, an unnamed Athenian, and Dromocleides of Sphettos – which he views as evidence of

62 63 64

For Athenaeus, cf. Zecchini 1989: 25–196; Pelling 2000. The question of Plutarch’s sources will be discussed in greater detail below. Plut. Demetr. 10.2. Plut. Demetr. 10.3 f.

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progressively increasing aneleutheria.65 Plutarch begins by stating, “the most monstrous thing that came into the head of Stratocles,” namely, “his motion that envoys sent by public decree and at public expense to Antigonus or Demetrius should be called sacred deputies, instead of ambassadors, like those who conducted to Delphi and Olympia the ancient sacrifices in behalf of the cities at the great Hellenic festivals.”66 This is then outdone by the proposal of the unnamed Athenian that Demetrius should be received in the same manner as the gods Demeter and Dionysus whenever he visited Athens. In Plutarch’s words, “But there are things hotter even than fire, as Aristophanes puts it. For someone else, outdoing Stratocles in servility, proposed that whenever Demetrius visited the city he should be received with the hospitable honors paid to Demeter and Dionysus, and that to the citizen who surpassed all others in the splendor and costliness of his reception, a sum of money should be granted from the public treasury for a dedicatory offering.”67 The climax of Plutarch’s criticism arrives in chapter 13: “But there was one honor proposed for Demetrius which was more strange and monstrous than any other. Dromocleides the Sphettian moved, when the dedication of certain shields at Delphi was in question, that the Athenians should get an oracle from Demetrius.”68 With this final and, in Plutarch’s opinion, must disgraceful psephisma, his excursus on the history of the Athenians’ relations with Demetrius comes to a close. Plutarch’s depiction, according to which the Athenians’ religious communication with Demetrius led to the progressively greater servility of the polis does not slavishly follow the diachronic historical course of events. Although the stages of Plutarch’s increasing disapproval correspond grosso modo to the historical course of Demetrius’ relations with Athens, Plutarch does not follow this principle consistently.69 The progressive deterioration of the Athenians’ relationship with Demetrius thus cannot be explained simply by arguing that Demetrius was hailed as a liberator in 307, but after 304 and then definitely after 295 was felt by broad segments of the Athenian polis community to be a burden and detriment to the democratic order. In other words, Plutarch’s criticism in chapters 10 to 13 does not adhere to a chronological paradigm according to which Athens’ relations with Demetrius progressively deteriorated. Instead, Plutarch has arranged his historical material in 65 66

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68 69

Cf. Plut. Demetr. 12.1. What Plutarch says there about the aneleutheria of the unnamed author of the proposal is a leitmotif that also applies to Stratocles and Dromocleides. Plut. Demetr. 11.1: τὸ δὲ ὑπερφυέστατον ἐνθύμημα τοῦ Στρατοκλέους (…) ἔγραψεν ὅπως οἱ πεμπόμενοι κατὰ ψήφισμα δημοσίᾳ πρὸς Ἀντίγονον ἢ Δημήτριον ἀντὶ πρεσβευτῶν θεωροὶ λέγοιντο, καθάπερ οἱ Πυθοῖ καὶ Ὀλυμπίαζε τὰς πατρίους θυσίας ὑπὲρ τῶν πόλεων ἀνάγοντες ἐν ταῖς Ἑλληνικαῖς ἑορταῖς. Plut. Demetr. 12.1: ἦν δὲ ἄρα καὶ πυρὸς ἕτερα θερμότερα κατὰ τὸν Ἀριστοφάνη. γράφει γάρ τις ἄλλος ὑπερβαλλόμενος ἀνελευθερίᾳ τὸν Στρατοκλέα, δέχεσθαι Δημήτριον, ὁσάκις ἂν ἀφίκηται, τοῖς Δήμητρος καὶ Διονύσου ξενισμοῖς, τῷ δ᾽ ὑπερβαλλομένῳ λαμπρότητι καὶ πολυτελείᾳ τὴν ὑποδοχὴν ἀργύριον εἰς ἀνάθημα δημοσίᾳ δίδοσθαι. Plut. Demetr. 13.1: ὃ δὲ μάλιστα τῶν τιμῶν ὑπερφυὲς ἦν καὶ ἀλλόκοτον, ἔγραψε Δρομοκλείδης ὁ Σφήττιος ὑπὲρ τῆς τῶν ἀσπίδων ἀναθέσεως εἰς Δελφοὺς παρὰ Δημητρίου λαβεῖν χρησμόν. Plutarch puts the erection of an altar for “Demetrios Kataibates”, which actually occurred after 302 BCE, in the context of the honors conferred on Demetrius after 307 BCE.

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a climactic sequence according to a specific criterion for assessing religious communication between the polis and monarch.70 Calling the envoys sent to Demetrius theoroi, receiving Demetrius with the same honors as those for Demeter and Dionysus, and finally even consulting Demetrius in person as an oracular deity: these are three gradually intensifying stages of a religious communication that does not take place before an altar or cult image, but rather before the living ruler himself, reaching its climax (or nadir) in even accepting utterances of the king als divine instructions. For Plutarch, it was obviously one thing to acknowledge Demetrius’ power with honors such as only gods receive; bowing down to this power in direct communication and interaction with him was quite another. One might object to this interpretation on the grounds that Plutarch does not explicitly condemn the soter acclamations of 307 BCE, although already this occasion was an encounter between the Athenians and Demetrius as a god. What was decisive in 307, however, as already stated, was the liminal character of this communicative situation, which is lacking in the cases Plutarch severely criticizes. In the latter, his criticism is directed against the fact that the Athenians by decrees of the popular assembly signaled their readiness to submit their regular relations with Demetrius to a religious interpretation.71 Any liminality of a ritual acclamation was out of the question in the case of a decision made in advance to approach Demetrius as a god on all future occasions of communication and interaction. The excursus in chapters 10 to 13 encompasses all phases of the Athenians’ relations with Demetrius over the period from 307 to 287 BCE and represents this relationship as a linear development that reaches an unsurpassable climax in Dromocleides’ psephisma regarding the dedication of shields in Delphi. It is thus all the more remarkable that the criticism is taken up again in a different context a few chapters later in the Life of Demetrius. After chapters 10 to 13 Plutarch resumes his chronological narration and relates the events from 306 to 304 BCE (chapters 14 to 22), before he turns his attention in chapters 23 to 27 to Demetrius’ campaign against Cassander and the period between 304–302 BCE, when Demetrius resided several times in Athens. Plutarch seizes this moment to make more critical remarks about the Athenians’ relationship with Demetrius. Plutarch’s condemnation of the citizens’ servility, with which he opens his second excursus on Demetrius and Athens, reprises and extends the criticism already voiced in chapters 10 to 13: “They (sc. the Athenians), although before this they had used up and exhausted all the 70

71

Paschidis 2013: 125 f. arrives at a different conclusion: “Plutarch (…) merely juxtaposes a series of honors for Demetrius with no chronological order (…) focusing on honors which could be – and were – considered risqué from a religious or moral point of view.” This appears to be mistaken. In constructing his excursus Plutarch followed a precise and consistent model, namely Demetrius in person being the addressee of religious communication on the part of the Athenians and the destructive moral implications of this relationship that gradually transforms a monarch into a tyrant. The impression of a “mere juxtaposition” arises from the fact that Plutarch’s basic narrative in chapters 10–13 is interrupted by additions that betray the hand and conception of a different author (on this, see below, at n. 99). For the categorical difference between criticizing a ritual and a popular decree that implemented it, see above, n. 57 and 61.

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honors that could be bestowed upon him, nevertheless devised a way to show themselves then also the authors of new and fresh flatteries. For they assigned him the rear chamber of the Parthenon for his quarters.”72 While in his first excursus on Athens Plutarch had spoken somewhat reservedly of the Athenians’ obsequious favors (areskeumata),73 the term kolakeia, which appears here for the first time, already merely in terminological terms indicates an intensification74 of the moral criticism essential to Plutarch’s depiction in chapters 10 to 13. It is remarkable precisely whom Plutarch here targets with his critical statements. In the first excursus on Athens, it was the Athenians, who “corrupted” Demetrius with their extravagant honors: they were responsible for making “a great and splendid” man “odious and obnoxious.”75 Plutarch’s criticism thus is not primarily directed against Demetrius himself, but rather against those whose exaggerated honors had given the monarchy a despotic face: the Athenians’ self-abasement, especially that of individual Athenian politicians like Stratocles or Dromocleides, contributed to make Demetrius’ sole rule ever more oppressive, not vice versa. Plutarch also remains beholden to this view at the beginning of the second excursus on Athens. His remarks about the Athenians’ kolakeia, which introduce the narrative from chapter 24 on,76 seamlessly mesh with the interpretive model of the first excursus. In what follows, however, a clear conceptual break can be observed. When Demetrius takes up residence in the Parthenon, Plutarch suddenly changes his perspective. While the act of billeting Demetrius in the Parthenon is still reckoned among the “new and fresh flatteries” perpetrated by the Athenians, Plutarch subsequently ceases to describe their voluntary servility to the sole ruler, but on the contrary focuses on the brutal oppression of the city by Demetrius, which takes the shape of sexual transgressions and assaults against the citizens’ wives and freeborn boys. The aneleutheria that, in chapters 10 to 13, Plutarch had attributed especially to individual Athenian politicians and those who had proposed motions in the assembly77 now applies to the entire citizen body and is the main theme of Plutarch’s comments in chapter 24: Demetrius’ crimes assault the honor of the city as a whole and are not the expression of voluntary servility, but rather of the collective humiliation of the entire city.78 72 73 74 75 76 77 78

Plut. Demetr. 23.2 f.: οἱ (sc. Ἀθηναῖοι) δὲ καίπερ ἐκκεχυμένοι πρότερον εἰς αὐτὸν καὶ κατακεχρημένοι πᾶσαν φιλοτιμίαν, ἐξεῦρον ὅμως καὶ τότε πρόσφατοι καὶ καινοὶ ταῖς κολακείαις φανῆναι. τὸν γὰρ ὀπισθόδομον τοῦ Παρθενῶνος ἀπέδειξαν αὐτῷ κατάλυσιν. Cf. Plut. Demetr. 11.1 on Stratocles as the author of the areskeumata cited thus far: οὗτος γὰρ ἦν ὁ τῶν σοφῶν τούτων καὶ περιττῶν καινουργὸς ἀρεσκευμάτων. On the distinction between the areskos and the kolax, whose motives are more reprehensible, because they are self-serving, cf. Arist., eth. 2.7.1108a; cf. Arist. eth. 4.12.1217a. Plut. Demetr. 10.2: οὕτω λαμπρὸν ἐν ταῖς εὐεργεσίαις καὶ μέγαν φανέντα τὸν Δημήτριον ἐπαχθῆ καὶ βαρὺν ἐποίησαν τῶν τιμῶν ταῖς ἀμετρίαις ἃς ἐψηφίσαντο. Plut. Demetr. 13.2: οὕτω καταμωκώμενοι τοῦ ἀνθρώπου προσδιέφθειραν αὐτόν, οὐδὲ ἄλλως ὑγιαίνοντα τὴν διάνοιαν. Cf. Plut. Demetr. 23.2 on “new and fresh flatteries” (see above, n. 72). See above, n. 65. Plutarch would like to spare the reader the details of Demetrius’ assaults on individual citizens’ wives and boys “for the sake of the city,” thus making them into a collective loss of face by the polis (τὰ μὲν οὖν ἄλλα σαφῶς ἀπαγγέλλειν οὐ πρέπει διὰ τὴν πόλιν; Plut. Demetr. 24.2). He

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Here and in the following chapters, Plutarch’s narrative noticeably reprises motifs from the basic repertoire of topoi related to tyrants. Control of the acropolis, violent attacks on the citizens’ honor, which in their extreme form target their wives and their integrity, the monetary payments that Demetrius allegedly extorted from the Athenians for his hetaera Lamia79 – all these are not just typical traits of a general picture of tyrannical behavior, which persisted in the political discourse of the Hellenistic period and could be applied to the Hellenistic kings. Plutarch (or his source) here in fact takes up precisely elements connected to the “classical” conception of tyranny, understood as sole rule in and over a polis.80 The general relevance and discursive viability of the traditional, pre-Hellenistic image of the tyrant at the end of the fourth century emerges from the dossier of laws against tyrants from the Lesbian city of Eresos, which was compiled at roughly the same time as Demetrius’ residence in the Parthenon.81 Parts of it read like a paraphrase of Plutarch’s text. It is stated there regarding the tyrants Eurysilaus and Agonippus, who were overthrown and executed presumably in 333/332 BCE: He [sc. Eurysilaus] seized their arms and shut them out of the city, and he arrested their women and their daughters and confined them in the acropolis; and he exacted two thousand three hundred staters; and he looted the city and the sanctuaries with the pirates and set fire to them and burned the bodies of the citizens (…). He [sc. Agonippus] made war on Alexander and the Greeks, and from the citizens he seized their arms and shut them all out of the city, and he arrested their women and daughters and confined them in the acropolis; and he exacted three thousand two hundred staters; and he looted the city and the sanctuaries with the pirates and set fire to them and burned the bodies of the citizens (…).82

79

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81 82

limits himself to the fate of a single youth, who escaped Demetrius’ advances by suicide and thus showed “a spirit worthy of this country” (ἄξια τῆς πατρίδος φρονήσας; Plut. Demetr. 24.3). From Plutarch’s perspective, the rape of women and boys is thus not only and not primarily a moral, but rather a political offense and an attack on the honor of the citizens; on this aspect, see also Trampedach 2006: 8. Cf. Plut. Demetr. 27. Here Plutarch discusses the feasts organized by the hetaera Lamia and the expenses incurred for maintaining Demetrius’ court, especially his hetaerae. These events cannot be dated more precisely, but are part of the “many lawless and shocking things done by Demetrius in the city at this time” (Plut. Demetr. 27.1). Lamia’s financial demands on the Athenians – like Demetrius’ assaults on their wives and boys – inflicted disgrace (aischyne) and humiliation on them. Tyrannical rule in Archaic Greece had been regularly confined to the polis (cf. Berve 1967: 164–167). From the 4th century BCE onwards tyranny became to be employed as a general term for lawless rule, which could be applied to various types of monarchic power (Berve 1967: 383–385). Although the negative image of tyrants in the literary tradition is rather stereotyped (Berve 1967: 476–509), Plutarch’s Demetrius in chapters 24–27 shows typical traits of a “classical” tyrant, ruling over and in the polis. On the continued existence of tyrants of this kind (“echte Stadttyrannen”) in Hellenistic times see the material collected by Berve 1967: 381– 475) and above n. 4–7. On this dossier, cf. most recently Koch 2001 and Ellis-Evans 2012. IG XII (2) 526 (= OGIS 8); trans. Rhodes/Osborne 2003, no. 83, β. side §i, 1–14 and γ. front §ii, 5–13.

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Plutarch unmistakably casts Demetrius’ residence on the Athenian acropolis in the lurid light of this ‘classical’ stereotype of monarchic rule over and in the polis. The excesses Plutarch denounces are not primarily topoi related to tyrants that were especially adaptable to Hellenistic basileis: life at court and the corrupting influence of flatters, hetaerae, and luxury.83 These elements of moral depravity retreat into the background before a traditional pathology of the tyrannical exercise of power in the polis, which – as illustrated above – was still prominent both in historical and discursive terms in the late fourth and early third century BCE. The subjection of the citizens under Demetrius’ tyrannical rule is not only a motif for the residence of Demetrius and his court in the Parthenon, but rather also in the following chapters of the Life of Demetrius, which cover subsequent events down to Demetrius’ departure from Greece and the Aegean in fall 302 BCE. It is notable that Plutarch or his source consistently applies tyranny – in the traditional sense of sole rule limited to a polis context – to Demetrius’ basileia. Thus a psephisma passed after a proposal by Stratocles provided that all letters Demetrius addressed to the city should be legally binding in religious and political questions: “Whatsoever King Demetrius should ordain (keleuein) in the future shall be considered righteous (hosios) towards the gods and just towards men.”84 Demetrius was thus practically entrusted with institutional authority over the religious and political order of the polis, even in the event that he did not reside in the city but corresponded with the Athenians from outside.85 Formulated in the programmatic manner transmitted by Plutarch,86 Stratocles’ gnome transformed Demetrius’ monarchy 83

84 85

86

This aspect is generally not given sufficient attention in the scholarly literature. It concentrates above all on Demetrius’ life at court, which provided his opponents an angle to attack him on moral grounds (most recently argued by Müller 2010). Chapters 24–27 of the Life of Demetrius, however, in my opinion, have a different focus: here it is clearly the oppression and exploitation of the citizens by master of the city Demetrius, whose immoral conduct is judged from this perspective, that take center stage. When Plutarch formulates moralizing criticism of Demetrius’ life at court in his Life of Demetrius, we can observe the influence of other discourses targeting Demetrius and his supporters that complement the image of Demetrius as a traditional tyrant (on this, see below, n. 105–110). Plut. Demetr. 24.4 (ὅ τι ἂν ὁ βασιλεὺς Δημήτριος κελεύσῃ, τοῦτο καὶ πρὸς θεοὺς ὅσιον καὶ πρὸς ἀνθρώπους εἶναι δίκαιον). On the legal meaning of ὅσιος (legally right with respect to religion; correct conduct vis-à-vis the gods) cf. Dihle 1988: 10 f. Plutarch immediately gives a concrete example of how this general principle allegedly was applied: in a letter to the Athenians, Demetrius expresses his wish to be initiated in the Eleusinian Mysteries in an expedited process (Plut. Demetr. 26). Most scholars have taken Plutarch’s lead and thereby attribute Stratocles’ psephisma a far reaching programmatic scope, thus e. g. Scott 1928: 162; Kuhn 2006: 277. For Mikalson 1998: 87 f. (who obviously blends Stratocles’ decree with the contents of Dromocleides’ psephisma of 292/1 BCE) it even implied that Demetrius should “be treated as an oracular god” (similarly, Scheer 2000: 275); cf. also Green 2003: 264 (“a kind of papal infallibility avant la lettre”). Stratocles’ proposal however has to be dated after Demetrius’ initiation in the Eleusinian Mysteries (see above, n. 36), and as a reaction to a precise conflict its conceptual range should not be overstressed. The wording of the decree as transmitted by Plutarch also arouses suspicion (see the following footnote). Whether the law introduced by Stratocles was really as programmatic as the tradition hostile to Stratocles in Plutarch would have us believe is doubtful. Demetrius indeed appears to have put

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into a true tyranny in the sense of rule over the city87 – even on occasions in which one of the fundamental structural preconditions of classical tyranny, namely the presence of the sole ruler in the city, was left unfulfilled. Plutarch’s account in chapters 24 to 27 thus differs in several respects from that of the first excursus in chapters 10 to 13 on the Athenians’ relationship with Demetrius. The differences concern, on the one hand, the conceptualization of monarchic rule and, on the other, the assessment of religious communication between the Athenians and Demetrius. 1. Plutarch’s first excursus on the Athenians’ relationship with Demetrius is based on an essentially positive image of sole rule: Plutarch’s antimonarchic criticism in chapters 10 to 13 does not primarily target Demetrius himself, but rather the flatterers who supposedly corrupted him with their excessive honors and in this way gave his monarchy a despotic face.88 In chapters 24 to 27, in contrast, a completely different picture prevails. Sole rule here appears not as a morally corrupt, degenerate form of monarchy,89 but rather – just like classical tyranny, the motifs of which are amply invoked in Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius – as something negative per se. In this second excursus on Demetrius and Athens it is not on account of the flatterers that monarchic rule amounts to the oppression of the polis. This oppression appears rather as the logical consequence of the unlimited exercise of power and thus as inherent in monarchic rule as such.90

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89 90

increased pressure on the Athenians between 304 and 302 BCE to grant his wishes, for instance, with respect to the conferral of honorary decrees for his philoi (Kralli 2000: 122 f.; Paschidis 2008: 98–103; Bayliss 2011: 124 f.), and Plutarch indicates that the Athenians’ impulse to resist such “wishes” of the king expressed in his letters provoked Demetrius to anger (Plut. Demetr. 24.3–4). It is still unlikely, though, that Stratocles’ proposal gave Demetrius a kind of carte blanche: that is already contradicted by the word keleuein, which would have clearly branded the Athenians as Demetrius’ subordinates and not corresponded to the formal conventions of royal letters to Greek poleis (cf. Mari 2009: 89–94). Stratocles’ proposal was presumably polemically reinterpreted in hindsight and altered in its wording (maybe Athenian comedy played an important role here, see below, n. 99). For our investigation of Demetrius’ image and the assessment of monarchic rule in the Life of Demetrius the aspect of Stratocles’ original purpose is of secondary importance only: what matters is that Plutarch (or respectively his source) used Stratocles’ decree in order to attribute to Demetrius an institutional and thus tyrannical authority over the political and ritual order of the polis. Contra Bayliss 2011: 167–172 who excessively downplays the signal sent by the proposal as formulated in Plutarch: “It [i. e. Stratocles’ decree] allowed the King to know that his opinions mattered (…), but it was not likely to cause the average Athenian to lose much sleep provided Demetrius didn’t start expressing his opinions too frequently.” This interpretation is also highlighted by Plutarch, who frames his excursus with summary statements to the same effect: the introductory remark that the Athenians had corrupted Demetrius with their honors corresponds to the concluding statement that the Athenians were responsible for making “a great and splendid” man “odious and obnoxious” (on these passages – Plut. Demetr. 10.2 and 13.2 – see also above, at n. 75). The role of hetaerae at Demetrius’ court constitutes an exception. It is certainly a subject of chapters 24 to 27, but it belongs in a different discursive context from tyranny and reached Plutarch by way of a different source tradition (on this, see below, n. 100–105). See above, n. 11.

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2. These two sections of the Life of Demetrius also show contrasting attitudes with respect to the question in which way religious communication between the monarch and polis was a burden on relations between the two parties. While in chapters 10 to 13 regular interaction with the ruler as a deity made visible the asymmetrical power-relations between the polis and basileus, this aspect retreats into the background in chapters 24 to 27. This is especially clear in the case of Demetrius’ residence in the Parthenon, which should have been particularly awkward according to the criteria on which chapters 10 to 13 are based, since the problems raised there became even more serious with Demetrius’ billeting in Athena’s temple: when Demetrius and his court resided in the Parthenon over the entire winter of 304/3, he created a situation in which potentially the entire citizen body of Athens was confronted with the humiliating experience of continuously interacting and communicating with Demetrius as a god. It is thus all the more remarkable that this supposedly sensitive point has no perceptible significance in chapter 24 of the Life of Demetrius. The social asymmetry between Demetrius and the Athenians – completely independent of the religious role of the basileus residing in the Parthenon – arises exclusively from the fact that the sole ruler makes use of his ability to exercise unlimited power in the city. To the extent that any criticism is made of the religious implications of Demetrius’ residence in Plutarch’s account, it is limited to the fact that Demetrius thus offended the gods – specifically, Athena – but not the Athenians.91 These structural differences between chapters 10 to 13 and 24 to 27 tend to be overlooked. They are concealed because Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius contains yet another element that has influenced his narrative in both excurses on Demetrius and Athens. This is the allegation of asebeia, which is integrated in each basic narrative in a supplementary and subsidiary fashion and warrants discussion as a third independent variant of antimonarchic discourse in Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius. Its traces are especially visible in Plutarch’s second excursus on Demetrius and Athens, but it has also affected his account in chapters 10 to 13. We have just seen that the billeting of Demetrius and his court in the Parthenon in religious terms could be viewed by contemporaries as an insult to the gods and thus be connected to the crime of asebeia. The authority Plutarch owes this information is the comic poet Philippides, who emerged as Stratocles’ political adversary in Athens toward the end of the fourth century and had to flee the city before the Battle of Ipsos – presumably in 303 BCE, at the same time that Demochares of Leuconoe and other Athenian politicians were exiled.92 Soon after the Battle of Ip91

92

Suggested in Plut. Demetr. 23.3 und 24.1: as Athena’s guest friend or brother, Demetrius exhibited inappropriate behavior toward the virgin goddess. The implicit critique that Demetrius had insulted Athena by housing his hetaerae in the Parthenon and thus committed asebeia is specified further in Plut. Demtr. 26.3: Plutarch cites a couplet from the Athenian comic poet Philippides, in which Stratocles is attacked because he billeted Demetrius and his court with the virgin goddess: “Who took the acropolis for a caravansary / and introduced to its virgin goddess his courtesans.” Further verses from the same comedy make it clear that Philippides here accused Stratocles of asebeia (on which, cf. the following). On Philippides, cf. Philipp 1973; Paschidis 2008: 116–125; Luraghi 2012: 360–366. The circumstances in which Philippides left Athens and traveled to the court of Lysimachus are uncer-

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sos, when Demetrius’ star and that of his supporters began to wane, Philippides composed a comedy in which he harshly attacked Stratocles and accused him of sacrilege.93 Philippides reproved Stratocles not only for billeting Demetrius in the Parthenon and shortening the Athenian calendar, which had immediately preceded Demochares’ and Philippides’ own exile; he also included among his accusations the honors for Demetrius that had been conferred on him at Stratocles’ initiative further in the past, immediately after the liberation of Athens in 307 BCE: Who abridged the whole year into a single month, Who took the acropolis for a caravansary, And introduced to its virgin goddess his courtesans. Through him it was that hoar-frost blasted all the vines, Through his impiety the robe was rent in twain, Because he gave the gods’ own honors unto men. Such work undoes a people, not its comedy.94

It did not go unnoticed that Philippides takes a view here that otherwise does not prevail in Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius.95 In the first excursus on Athens, in chapters 10 to 13, the religious honors for Demetrius appear as the expression of a social gap between the Athenians and the divine ruler taken to extremes – they exhibit asymmetrical power-relations between the polis and the basileus that subsequently become even more exaggerated, if in non-religious terms, through the tyrannical picture of Demetrius given in chapters 24 to 27. From Philippides’ point of view, however, the religious honors for the basileus did not humiliate the Athenians but were of political interest only to the extent that they hastened the breakdown of the polis religious order. In other words: criticism of Demetrius’ divinity was firmly attached to the notion that it humiliated the gods, not the Athenians. In chapter 12 of the Life of Demetrius, we can clearly see these two perspectives placed directly side by side. Plutarch’s conception of presenting the religious interaction of the Athenians with Demetrius in chapters 10 to 13 as gradually escalating acts of submission96 is interrupted here by a series of asides that betray another author’s hand: the Athenians supposedly changed the name of the month Munychion to Demetrion, the last day of the month to Demetrias, and the Dionysia

93

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tain. It is generally assumed, though, that they are connected to the exile of Demochares, which occurred in 303 BCE; cf. Paschidis 2008: 117 and Luraghi 2012: 364 with earlier literature. Philippides’ polemic makes sense only if it was staged shortly after the events to which it refers. Scholars predominantly assume that Philippides’ comedy was performed in the period after the Battle of Ipsos; datings range between 300 and 298 BCE (Paschidis 2008: 118–120; O’Sullivan 2009b: 65 f.; Luraghi 2012: 365). Contra Philipp 1973: 506 f. (early 301 BCE). Philippides, fr. 25 (Poetae Comici Graeci, ed. R. Kassel / C. Austin, vol. 7, Berlin 1989: 347). The verses appear in various passages of Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius (Plut. Demetr. 12.4 and 26.3), but they presumably constituted a continuous section of Philippides’ comedy. For this observation, cf. Habicht 1970: 215; Habicht 1995: 86. Similarly, Landucci Gattinoni 1981: 120–123, who emphasizes that in Philippides’ view the divine honors for Demetrius offended the gods, whereas other contemporaries, like Demochares and Duris, condemned Demetrius’ divinity for its social impact on the citizen body. See above, at n. 67–70.

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to Demetria. Also, some of the honors already discussed in chapter 10 (weaving Demetrius and Antigonus into Athena’s peplos; the altars for the two theoi soteres) are mentioned again: the gods were supposedly angry at the Athenians on account of these honors and made their wrath known through foreboding omens.97 It is self-evident that the emphasis in this passage differs from that in the rest of the excursus: here Plutarch discusses Athenian religious honors for Demetrius that, on the one hand, had no immediate effect on the interaction between the polis and the monarch and, on the other, disturbed the religious but not the social order of the polis. It is very probable that this shift of perspective in the first excursus on Athens goes back to Philippides. At the end of chapter 12, Plutarch quotes a comedy by Philippides98 and there is good reason to suppose that Plutarch or his source also extracted the immediately preceding information from the same comic text.99 Similar observations can be made with respect to chapters 24 to 27, Plutarch’s second excursus on Athens. We have already seen that the comedian Philippides took a very specific view of Demetrius’ billeting in the Parthenon that does not match the basic narrative of Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius in this section. Similar to the first excursus on Athens, Philippides’ verbal attacks on Demetrius’ asebeia stand alongside criticism of a completely different nature, directed against the oppression of the polis Athens by the tyrant Demetrius. In contrast to chapters 10 to 13, Philippides and comedy have probably left even more noticeable traces behind in the second excursus on Athens. In particular, the depiction of Demetrius’ life at court, which receives ample attention in Plutarch’s second excursus on Athens,100 may derive to a significant extent from Attic comedy, even though Plutarch does not name any specific sources.101 Hetaerae and parasitic flatterers were stock characters 97 Plut. Demetr. 12.2 f.: “And finally, they changed the name of the month Mounychion to Demetrion, and that of the last day of a month, the ‘Old and New,’ to Demetrias, and to the festival called Dionysia they gave the new name of Demetria. Most of these innovations were marked with the divine displeasure. The sacred robe, for instance, in which they had decreed that the figures of Demetrius and Antigonus should be woven along with those of Zeus and Athena, as it was being carried in procession through the midst of the Cerameicus, was rent by a hurricane which smote it; again, all around the altars of those Savior-gods the soil teemed with hemlock, a plant which did not grow in many other parts of the country at all; and on the day for the celebration of the Dionysia, the sacred procession had to be omitted on account of severe cold weather that came out of season. And a heavy frost followed, which not only blasted all the vines and fig-trees with its cold, but also destroyed most of the grain in the blade.” 98 Plut. Demetr. 12.4: “Therefore Philippides, who was an enemy of Stratocles, assailed him in a comedy with these verses: ‘Through him it was that hoar-frost blasted all the vines, / Through his impiety the robe was rent in twain, / Because he gave the gods’ own honours unto men. / Such work undoes a people, not its comedy.’” In Demetr. 26.3, Plutarch presumably quotes the same comedy (see above, n. 94). 99 Thus Paschidis 2008: 119 on Plut. Demetr. 12.3; Scott 1928: 148 f. makes a similar conjecture for Plut. Demetr. 12.2. In both cases, an erroneous historical tradition has originated in comic sources. This phenomenon is by no means unusual. For a further example, also from Philippides, cf. O’Sullivan 2009b: 64–75. 100 Cf. Plut. Demetr. 24.1 (hetaerae); 25.3 f. (toasts); 27 (symposia and Lamia). 101 Marasco 1981: 63 f.

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of New Comedy,102 and the literary tradition regarding Demetrius’ hetaerae – not only in Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius – was clearly heavily influenced by comedy.103 In this context, it is significant that Plutarch closes his second excursus on Athens with the remark that he would now return from the comic to the tragic stage.104 This might well be less due to the tragic stylization that Plutarch gave his protagonist than to the circumstance that Plutarch had in fact heavily relied on comic material in chapters 24 to 27.105 Let us draw an interim balance here. Three distinct variants of antimonarchic discourse can be identified in the two excursuses on Athens in Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius. In chapters 10 to 13, religious communication and interaction with Demetrius serves as a barometer for the Athenians’ servility – a development that the Athenians or, respectively, individual Athenian politicians set in motion, leading to the hubris and self-aggrandizement of a ruler who is not assessed negatively per se. Chapters 24 to 27, however, present Demetrius as a conventional tyrant – not as a monarch corrupted by flattery but rather as the master of the polis, whose brutal regime is the logical outcome of his unfettered power. A third antimonarchic discourse cuts across these discourses and supplements the basic narratives of the two excursuses on Athens: in chapters 10 to 13, it relates to the threat to the sacral order of the polis posed by the ruler cult, yet pays no particular attention to the political scandal of the citizens’ communication and interaction with Demetrius as a god. In the second excursus on Athens, its focus on the king’s life at court and sexual indiscretions even tends to drown entirely out the basic narrative of tyrannical rule, in which these moral aspects do not play a leading part. We have already seen that this last variation of antimonarchic discourse in Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius ultimately derives from Philippides and New Comedy, the political significance of which has only recently begun to be fully appreciated.106 The provenance of the underlying narratives of Plutarch’s excursuses on Athens is more difficult to determine. Despite the significantly different biases of the two ex102 For parasites and flatterers in New Comedy see e. g. Nesselrath 1985: 15–70; Pernerstorfer 2009: 151–166; Edwards 2010: 304–307. 103 Wheatley 2003: 32 f.; O’Sullivan 2009b: 70 f. Mastrocinque 1979: 265 believes that also the anecdote reported by Clement of Alexandria, namely that Demetrius had has his way with his hetaera before the eyes of the virgin goddess Athena, ultimately derives from Attic comedy (Clem. Alex. Protr. 4.54.6). Clement reports this anecdote, however, in the context of the allegedly planned hieros gamos between Demetrius and the goddess Athena, which is the product of later legend-making (see above, n. 38). 104 Plut. Demetr. 28.1. 105 Also argued by O’Sullivan 2009b: 68–71. The fact that Plutarch’s second excursus on Athens is heavily influenced by Attic comedy could also explain obvious historical distortions, such as the alleged proposal of Stratocles that Demetrius should receive supreme authority over the religious and political order of Athens (Plut. Demetr. 24.4). As already indicated, there is little support for the historicity of this proposal, at least in this form (see above, n. 86). The use of comic material may here have influenced the historical tradition – as is also the case in chapter 12 of the Life of Demetrius (see above, n. 99). On Plutarch’s tragic stylization of Demetrius see below, at n. 116–120. 106 On the political character of New Comedy, see most recently Luraghi 2012.

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cursuses, the consensus of source-critical studies is that Plutarch in both of them has largely followed a single source.107 Scholars usually consider Duris of Samos, whose historiographical work has also probably left traces behind in other passages of the Life of Demetrius.108 Gabriele Marasco has modified this opinion, arguing that Duris has largely followed Demochares of Leuconoe in the relevant passages: Marasco accordingly sees Demochares as the original author of the underlying antimonarchic narratives in the two excursuses on Athens in Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius.109 His argument hinges above all on the voluntary submission of the Athenians or, respectively, individual Athenian politicians that Plutarch denounces as kolakeia in the first excursus.110 Marasco identifies the same reproach against the Athenians in other fragments of Demochares’ historical work transmitted by Athenaeus111 and connects it to Demochares’ political fate: exiled in 303 BCE at the initiative of his Athenian adversaries, who supported rapprochement with Demetrius, he will have had a great interest in suitably illustrating their “sycophantic misconduct.”112 The arguments with which Marasco supports his hypothesis seem plausible overall113 (although one might doubt whether Plutarch received the content of Demochares’ historical work by way of Duris of Samos).114 It remains problematic, 107 Marasco 1981 remains the most convincing source-critical analysis the Life of Demetrius. Marasco rightly stresses that Plutarch made use of several different sources, particularly in the passages of the Life of Demetrius concerning Athens (Marasco 1981: 46–48). That has no bearing, however, on the assumption that the basic tenor of the two excursuses on Athens may be traced back to a single original source (cf. the following). 108 Cf. Sweet 1951; Kebric 1977: 55–60. Although Plutarch never cites Duris of Samos explicitly in the Life of Demetrius, other references elsewhere in his oeuvre securely indicate that he was very familiar with Duris’ Macedonian History and presumably also with his Samian History (Landucci Gattinoni 1997: 47–49). On traces of Duris in Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius, see also below, n. 120. 109 Cf. Marasco 1981: 61–63; Marasco 1984: 97 f. and 199 f.; Marasco 1994: XXIV. Similar reflections already in Manni 1953: XIIf.; Kebric 1977: 25 f. 110 In his first excursus on Athens, Plutarch speaks only of areskeumata (see above, n. 73). With the remark in Plut. Demetr. 23.2 that the Athenians conferred “new and fresh flatteries” on Demetrius, however, he makes it implicitly clear that he also regards their conduct in chapters 10–13 as kolakeia. 111 FGrHist 75 F 1 and 2 (= Democh. F 8 and 9 [Marasco]). Athenaeus presents both fragments from books 20 and 21 of Demochares’ history as examples of the kolakeia that the Athenians displayed toward Demetrius (Athen. 6.252 f and 253d). The fragments do not securely attest whether Demochares himself used the term, but in choosing his examples Athenaeus may have followed the wording of his source. To that extent we may agree with Marasco 1981: 61: “Democare (…) criticava il servilismo mostrato dagli Ateniesi (…) e condannava la kolakeia dei suoi concittadini.” 112 Cf. Marasco 1981: 61: “Notevole mi sembra il fatto che Democare rivolgesse le sue critiche, più che contro Demetrio, contro gli Ateniesi, le cui adulazioni avrebbero stupito lo stesso Demetrio. Ora, Plutarco sottolinea con la medesima ostilità l’iniziativa dei demagoghi ateniesi nel proporre sempre maggiori onori per Demetrio (…).” On Demochares’ exile and its political context, see above, n. 92. 113 However, we must allow that the few preserved fragments of Demochares’ historical work permit us only to speculate about its bias. On Demochares’ Histories, see Marasco 1984: 87–95. 114 Landucci Gattinoni 1997: 127 f. rightly notes that Demochares and Duris wrote their histories at approximately the same time and it cannot be proven that Duris used Demochares. The fre-

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though, that virtually no mention is made of the Athenians’ voluntary, self-imposed servility in Plutarch’s second excursus on Athens. As already noted, the tyrant image painted there points to a conception of sole rule that is completely different from the image of the monarch corrupted by flatterers, as it emerges from the first excursus. Marasco and others have attempted to account for this difference with reference to a metabole of Demetrius: Plutarch will have conceived of the bios of Demetrius in such a way that the flattery of the Athenians lead to a negative transformation of the king’s character, which then came to light in the second excursus on Athens.115 It is indeed the case that the Life of Demetrius plays with this dramatic organizing principle. Yet Plutarch does not connect his protagonist’s metabole to events in Athens, but rather to the assumption of the title basileus by Antigonus and Demetrius after the Battle of Salamis: after assuming the diadem and the royal title, Demetrius, Antigonus, and the other Diadochs came to resemble tragic actors, acted pompously in public, and behaved in a lordly manner toward their subjects.116 Also the consequences of this metabole, characterized by luxurious clothing, a grandiose appearance, and the social distancing that accompanied them, are less prominent in the second excursus on Athens than in later passages of the Life of Demetrius, in which Plutarch discusses King Demetrius’ relationship to the Macedonian people.117 The hypothesis that Plutarch or even Demochares himself viewed the Athenians’ relationship with Demetrius in terms of a metabole thus fails to convince. quently discussed circumstance that Athenaeus cites the famous ithyphallikos first in a summary from Demochares (Athen. 6.253b-d) and then verbatim from Duris’ Macedonian History (Athen. 6.253d–f), in my opinion, does not support, but rather contradicts the assumption that Duris used Demochares’ historical work: why would Duris have included Demochares’ summary when he was willing and able to quote the ithyphallikos verbatim? 115 On Demetrius’ metabole, see Marasco 1981: 62; similarly Sweet 1951: 179 f.; Müller 2010: 563. 116 Plut. Demetr. 18.3 f.: “Now, this practice did not mean the addition of a name or a change of fashion merely, but it stirred the spirits of the men, lifted their thoughts high, and introduced into their lives and dealings with others pomposity and ostentation, just as tragic actors adapt to their costumes their gait, voice, posture at table, and manner of addressing others. Consequently they became harsher in their judicial decisions also; they laid aside that dissemblance of power which formerly had often made them more lenient and gentle with their subjects. So great influence had a flatterer’s single word, and with so great a change did it fill the whole world (ἐνέπλησε τὴν οἰκουμένην μεταβολῆς).” The kings’ self-stylization as tragic characters, which Plutarch (or better his source Duris of Samos, see below, n. 120) criticize here, is already reflected in the outer setting in which Plutarch sets this metabole: in Plut. Demetr. 17, the news of the Battle of Salamis (which leads to the assumption of the diadem by Antigonus Monophthalmus) is delivered to Antigonus in the manner of a tragic messenger’s report (I thank Ulrich Gotter for this observation). 117 Demetrius supposedly lost the good will of the Macedonians with his theatrical pomp (Plut. Demetr. 41) and, in contrast to earlier Macedonian kings, made himself inaccessible to the Macedonian people, publicly destroyed petitions, and thus insulted his subjects (Plut. Demetr. 42). Tatum 1996: 142 f. rightly draws attention to the close correspondence of the content of these sections to the characteristics of the metabole formulated by Plutarch in chapter 18 of the Life of Demetrius.

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The change in character of the “tragic figure” Demetrius took place without reference to the polis Athens118 and probably came to his biographer – so long as one does not consider Plutarch himself the actual ‘literary director’ of this Demetrius tragodumenos119 – from other sources than Demochares.120 Since there is no hint that Demochares operated with the concept of metabole we have to look for other explanations. In order to better understand the common ground between the two excursuses on Athens, it is worthwhile to reexamine the Athenians’ kolakeia toward the basileus Demetrius. As we have seen, Plutarch’s first excursus on Athens is based on the interpretive pattern that the Athenians first corrupted the sole ruler, who is not assessed negatively per se, with their flattery. The decisive question is whether Demochares also viewed the Athenians’ kolakeia this way and whether he understood their relationship with Demetrius as fraudulent and corrupting flattery. It is true both of kolakeia and of its opposite, parrhesia,121 that two distinct levels of meaning intermingle without overlapping entirely. Kolakeia thus can indicate the assumption of a social position or an ethical concept: in social terms, the kolax appears as a free but inferior figure who hires himself out to wealthy persons as a parasite and dining companion. In ethical terms, kolakeia stands for the duplicity and flattery that the kolax employs in his relations with powerful persons.122 A similar distinction can be made for the antithesis of kolakeia, parrhesia. On the one hand, parrhesia indicates the power to “say everything” without fear, independent of the social status of the person who makes use of it. On the other hand, parrhesia also has ethical implications: it indicates the integrity of a friend – in contrast to a flatterer.123 118 The fact that Plutarch presents Demetrius as a tragic actor also on the occasion of the capitulation of Athens in 295 BCE (Plut. Demetr. 34.3) should not be viewed as the outcome of Demetrius’ secondary literary stylization by Plutarch (or potentially already his source Duris). Rather, Demetrius had presented himself in this manner to the Athenian public (see above, n. 42). 119 Cf. Mossman 2014: 437 f. 120 Duris of Samos is the most obvious candidate. Plutarch’s discussion of Demetrius’ theatrical pomp (Plut. Demetr. 41.4 f.) is quite obviously inspired by Duris of Samos (FGrHist 76 F 14 [= Duris of Samos F 34 (Landucci Gattinoni)]); thus also Landucci Gattinoni 1997: 130 and the commentary by Frances Pownall on BNJ 76 F 14. Even if Duris is not regarded as inventor of so-called “tragic history” any more (Landucci Gattinoni 1997: 51–55; Pownall 2013: 43 f.), in his moralizing tendency he often presents his characters like theatrical actors. 121 On kolakeia and parrhesia as an antithesis, see Konstan 1997: 102 f. 122 Cf. Edwards 2010: 304–311. Both meanings of kolakeia can naturally overlap, but they don’t have to. Plutarch’s whole treatise on flattery (on which, see n. 125) is based on a divergence between the social and moral aspects of kolakeia: How can a fraudulent person, who does not play the socially inferior role of a kolax but appears in the guise of a friend, be identified as a flatterer? 123 On both these aspects of parrhesia, cf. Peterson 1929: 283–286, Scarpat 1964: 46–61, and Momigliano 1980: 427–430, who unanimously see a change in meaning with the dawn of the Hellenistic period and connect it to the larger changes in political culture at the time: until the end of the fourth century, the concept of parrhesia was dominated by the notion of political freedom of speech, which was a guiding principle of Athenian democracy, while with the arrival of Hellenistic court culture and the growing significance of philoi in the kings’ retinues, the notion of integrity and frankness gained considerable significance. This classical line of

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It is likely that Plutarch understood the reports of the Athenians’ kolakeia that he presumably found in Demochares differently from the Athenian orator and historian. For an author writing under the Roman Empire, the topic of kolakeia will have made him think first on the terrible consequences that flattery produced in its addressee and stress its detrimental effects on the monarchy:124 Plutarch had dedicated a moral-philosophical treatise to flattery,125 and his Lives reflect in various ways the harmful influence that flatterers had on monarchs.126 The Life of Demetrius in particular illustrates the prominence and creative force of this conceptual model: the metabole of Demetrius and Antigonus on the occasion of their assumption of the diadem brings Plutarch to reflect on the corrupting power of flattery and introduce an interpretation of the events all his own, which was probably not present in his historiographical source.127 With Demochares, however, things look rather different. If we consider the rhetorical culture of fourth-century Athens, to which Demochares as an orator and nephew of Demosthenes was obligated also in his historiographical work,128 it is likely that servility, not flattery, shaped his view of the Athenians’ kolakeia toward Demetrius. The Attic orators accused their demagogical rivals of kolakeia in the

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argument has met important qualifications. Carmignato 1998 shows that the chronological sequence – from “political” freedom of speech to “private” integrity – is too schematic and indicates that both aspects of parrhesia are equally represented already in Demosthenes. Carter 2004: 199–202 rightly warns that the translation of parrhesia with “freedom of speech” is not entirely accurate: he defines parrhesia, in contrast to isegoria, not as a positive right to express oneself, but rather negatively as freedom from fear to make oneself heard. This modification is important because – analogously to kolakeia – it brings the social aspect of parrhesia into clearer focus: in contrast to the behavior of the kolax, who acts according to his social status, this status-negating right to speak might also be exercised by persons who normally were not permitted to express themselves (e. g., slaves). In this form, parrhesia closely approaches impudence (on this, see also below, n. 131). This subject rose to great prominence in moral-philosophical texts and political discourses with the dawn of the Hellenistic period and was further developed in Roman times; cf. Konstan 1996; Konstan 1997: 93–121. Plut. de adul. et am. (= mor. 48e–74e). On Plutarch’s lively interest in this subject and its cultural and social background see Whitmarsh 2006: 93 f. Schettino 2014: 434 f. stressing the close connections between Plutarch’s Hellenistic basileis, surrounded by philoi and flatterers, and their Roman counterparts. The staging of Antigonus’ acclamation as basileus and his assumption of the diadem in Plut. Demetr. 17 was apparently carefully orchestrated by Antigonus and Demetrius and depicted by Plutarch’s source in the dramatic form of a messenger’s report (see above, n. 116). Plutarch, however, emphasizes a completely different point: in his account, the episode is focused on the messenger, Aristodemus of Miletus, the “arch-flatterer among Demetrius’ courtiers,” who in delivering the message “crowned his [sc. Demetrius’] achievement with the grossest of his flatteries” (Plut. Demetr. 17.2). Plutarch’s concluding remark – “so great influence had a flatterer’s single word, and with so great a change did it fill the whole world” (Plut. Demetr. 18.4) – is an eloquent expression of the markedly idiosyncratic perspective that Plutarch brings to the episode. Cf. Marasco 1984: 88 f. with reference to Cic. Brutus 83,286 (= FGrHist 75 T 15). Asmonti 2004 conjectures that Demochares will also have modeled his political principles on Demosthenes.

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moral sense of disingenuous and corrupting flattery at most with respect to the demos, which risked being led astray by their false counsel.129 With respect to relations with foreign monarchs, however, this aspect plays no obvious part: what was decisive here was rather the notion that orators who showed themselves as kolakes in their dealings with the Macedonian kings thereby demonstrated their servility and simultaneously abased the entire polis.130 It may be presumed that Demochares also had these social implications of kolakeia in dealing with monarchs foremost in mind. This conjecture is reinforced by the fact that it was his fearlessness in public appearances, not the integrity and selflessness of his political counsel, that won Demochares the moniker parrhesiastes in the ancient tradition.131 Demochares’ understanding of parrhesia also seems to have focused, not on an ethical postulate of integrity and selflessness, but rather on avoiding all appearance of inferiority before more powerful individuals.132 If the foregoing considerations are correct, they show how we might more precisely establish the relationship between the two excurses on Athens in Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius. Plutarch will have – similar to the metabole of Demetrius133 – substantially modified his source by stressing the moral implications of flattery: Demochares’ original narrative with his emphasis on kolakeia thus laid the basis for an entirely new interpretation, stressing the detrimental effects of flattery on the character and sole rule of Demetrius. In contrast to Plutarch, Demochares’ criticism of the kolakeia of the Athenian demagogues was not based on the ethical implications of the concept and its corrosive effect on the monarch: like his uncle Demosthenes, who accused his adversary Aeschines of leading the whole polis of Athens into servitude as the kolax of Philip II,134 Demochares was interested purely in the social implications of kolakeia, in the servility to which the Athenians succumbed through the kolakeia of their politicians toward Demetrius. He was indifferent to the effects of this conduct on the ruler Demetrius, or rather: in contrast to Plutarch, Demochares harbored an essentially negative opinion of monarchy, with which the citizens and politicians of Athens could interact only as kolakes. In this way we can resolve the tensions between the two excursuses on Athens. The tyrant paradigm that pervades the second excursus represents the culmination of the fundamentally negative image 129 On the demagogues’ kolakeia, see Whitmarsh 2000: 306; Hadjú 2002: 448 f. (for testimonies in Attic orators). 130 For the standard slander that political adversaries serve as kolakes of the Macedonian kings or other monarchs, cf. Edwards 2010: 311; on the pernicious consequences for the citizens, becoming thus kolakes themselves, see below, n. 134. 131 On Demochares’ demand that an orator should fearlessly appear before the Areopagus, see Ael. var. hist. 8.12 (= FGrHist 75 T 3). The later tradition credited the parrhesiastes Demochares not with fearlessness, but with downright brazenness, which he also showed in his treatment of the Macedonian king Philip II; cf. Sen. De ira 3.23.2 f. (= FGrHist 75 T 4): Demochares (…) parrhesiastes ob nimiam et procacem linguam appellatus (“Demochares […] surnamed Parrhesiastes because of his unbridled and insolent tongue”). 132 On this aspect of parrhesia, see above, n. 123. 133 See above, n. 127. 134 Dem. or. 19.294–296.

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of monarchy that also underpinned Demochares’ discussion of the kolakeia of Athenian politicians, which found its way into Plutarch’s first excursus on Athens. That the tyranny of Demetrius was not primarily criticized for moral reasons but as the logical outcome of monarchic rule in and over the city135 goes well with Demochares, who as a politically active orator and heir of the democratic ideology of the fourth century surely will have internalized this traditional civic discourse on tyrants. Let us now return to our initial question about the possibilities and limitations that ruler cults opened for relations between poleis and monarchs, and about the critical voices raised against the Athenians’ religious communication and interaction with the sole ruler Demetrius. The preceding observations on Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius have emphatically shown how problematic it is to approach this question without considering the different narratives that have been incorporated in the text.136 With respect to the antimonarchic narratives it contains, Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius proves to be an exceptionally multilayered text, in which various perspectives are superimposed. It is obviously problematic in methodological terms to exploit these traces in order to isolate precise sources of antimonarchic criticism: numerous early Hellenistic texts such as the Histories of Demochares, but also comic texts, were probably available to Plutarch only as transmitted by intermediate sources; Plutarch, moreover, as an experienced author knew how to reshape his sources and integrate them into a new whole.137 If we leave the question of Plutarch’s dependence on specific sources and restrict ourselves to narrative structures however, it is still possible to reveal from incoherencies the diversity of voices within the Life of Demetrius and to associate these with specific genres and discursive contexts. Accordingly, at least four different antimonarchic narratives can be detected in Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius. If we consider the Life as a whole, the year of the kings and the assumption of the diadem and the title basileus mark a watershed that inaugurated the change of Demetrius and of Hellenistic monarchy altogether for the worse. There is good reason to suppose that in depicting this metabole and its consequences, which appeared particularly in Demetrius’ relationship with the population of Macedon, Plutarch at least to a certain extent followed Duris of Samos and the moralizing historiography in the context of which Duris’ Macedonian History should be situated.138 As for Demetrius’ relations with Athens, the Life of Demetrius 135 See above, at n. 90. 136 For such an approach, cf., e. g., Heßbrüggen 2010, who conducts a purely motivic analysis of ruler criticism in the Life of Demetrius without distinguishing between the various discursive strata of the text. 137 On Plutarch’s presumably indirect use of Demochares and Attic comedy, see the discussion in Marasco 1981: 62–64. Whether Plutarch directly or indirectly used early Hellenistic authors is a quaestio vexata of Plutarchan source criticism. It now is generally acknowledged that Plutarch’s literary method makes it virtually impossible to draw any inferences about specific intermediary sources; cf., among others, the critical remarks on Plutarchan “Quellenforschung” by Marasco 1981: 39; van der Stockt 2014: 322. 138 On the critical attitude to monarchic luxury and extravagance as a characteristic trait of Duris’ Macedonian History, see Landucci Gattinoni 1997: 51–55; Pownall 2013: 44–50.

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reveals another narrative derived from a different historiographical tradition – presumably the politician and historian versed in Athens’ rhetorical culture, Demochares. Here, it is not the monarch’s change of character that stands in the foreground, but rather a fundamental hostility toward sole rule and the Athenians’ growing servility, which escalated in a regular and humiliating face-to-face communication with Demetrius as a god and reached its climax in Demetrius’ residence in the city. Both narratives were rewritten and given different emphases by Plutarch, who attributed crucial influence on the historical events to flattery: Plutarch interprets both Demetrius’ metabole and his deteriorating relations with the Athenians as the consequences of flattery, which in this way is elevated to a decisive factor in Plutarch’s own antimonarchic narrative. Attic comedy introduced a further independent emphasis that has influenced Plutarch’s depiction of the Athenians’ relationship with Demetrius: comic poets like Philippides dramatized especially the hetaerae and court life of Demetrius and – like Demochares – made the politicians who supported him the targets of criticism. These antimonarchic narratives made the ruler cult and the Athenians’ religious communication with Demetrius into targets of criticism in different ways. Plutarch himself saw the divine honors for Demetrius as the source of increasing hubris, which was what first transformed him into a bad monarch. Such a view was foreign to Philippides and Demochares, whose conception of monocracy was fundamentally negative: they were interested in the political consequences of Demetrius’ divinity on the polis Athens. The comic poet Philippides’ polemic did not differentiate between various kinds of religious honors for Demetrius: Philippides denounced them all as disturbances of the religious order and mobilized the conventional accusation of asebeia to attack their author, Stratocles.139 Demochares’ criticism, whose general structure Plutarch seems to have adopted also in his first excursus on Demetrius and Athens,140 took a different direction. Demochares reacted to several (and quite creative) attempts by Demetrius and his Athenian supporters to make the religious persona of the monarch the basis of stable relations between Demetrius and the polis Athens. In Demochares’ opinion, all such efforts were doomed to fail, because for him they meant nothing but the subjection of the citizenry to the naked power and violence of the tyrannical monarch. This is made especially clear with the billeting of Demetrius in the Parthenon, which Demochares casts in the lurid light of traditional tyrant stereotypes. The effort of Demetrius and his Athenian supporters to introduce Demetrius as the divine guest of Athena did not, in his critics’ eyes, give him a stable role from which he could translate his power into per139 On charges of asebeia as a traditional political weapon in late classical Athens, see O’Sullivan 1997; Mari 2003: 85–90. 140 While it cannot securely be confirmed whether the structure of the criticism in chapters 10–13 in the Life of Demetrius, discussed above, is the result of Plutarch’s own overarching conception or that of the source he used, it is notable that Plutarch elsewhere in his oeuvre selects a slightly different number of honors to criticize Demetrius’ inflated self-image (Plut. de Alex. fort. et virt. 2, 5 [= mor. 338A]). The argument should not be pressed too far, but this is at least suggests that in Demetr. 10–13 Plutarch may have followed a conception different from his own.

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manent, accepted authority without resorting to symbolic violence. The same is also true of the later modifications of this model, which brought Demetrius into proximity with Demeter and Dionysus. By deliberately associating himself with deities that only came to Athens from time to time yet remained “foreign” gods outside the polis, Demetrius tried to “spare” himself the accusation of personal tyrannical rule in and over the city. Yet this did not produce a religious basis for regular hierarchical relations between the monarch and polis: Demochares harshly criticized every proposal made by Athenian politicians to that end. 6. THE DIVINE MONARCH AND THE POLIS: CONCLUSIONS ON A PRECARIOUS “COMING TO TERMS” To what overarching conclusions do these observations ultimately lead? It has become clear that the relationship between monarchs and the polis remained extremely precarious even with the emergence of a new cultural model of communication and interaction that arose from the worship of the ruler as a god. The ruler’s divinity was marked by great ambivalence. On the one hand, it enabled monarchic rule to be related to the polis without becoming part of its social and political order. As a deity, the sole ruler was simultaneously both integrated into the polis and citizen body and “pushed out” of it in a virtually dialectic fashion: he had no more a place in the polis than the classical gods, whose operating range was not limited to a single city. On the other hand, this cultural model also had its limits. As exemplarily illustrated by Plutarch’s Life of Demetrius, the divinity of the ruler did not provide a sound basis for establishing stable relations between Hellenistic monarchs and Greek cities. The monarch’s divine persona remained connected to a general understanding of power, that was essentially characterized by sheer compulsion and beyond which no idea of a regular and legitimate authority did evolve.141 In the case of Demetrius this is particularly obvious in the fact that nothing, not even his public appearance as a god, did protect him from being defamed as a tyrant when he was in the city.142 Yet even when the monarch remained outside the city, the ruler’s di141 Cf. the trenchant remarks of Gotter 2008: 199, on the Greeks’ lack of differentiation between ‘power’ and ‘rule’ (in Max Weber’s sense of these terms): “For the Greeks ‘rule’ and ‘power’ were identical. What was almost entirely absent in Greek theorizing on power was a concept of sovereign government based on legitimacy or traditional acceptance.” This is also true for the Hellenistic monarch as god: the ruler’s divinity did not serve as a cultural model for regular rule, based on the voluntary acceptance of an inferior authority by those who are not in power. – I would like to emphasize these analytically useful aspects of Weber’s definition of ‘rule’ (“Herrschaft”) being, of course, fully aware that more specific elements, e. g. the idea that rule rests on command and obedience (“Befehl und Gehorsam”), do not offer a comparable heuristic value, since they are not applicable to the relationship between Hellenistic rulers and poleis anyway; for similar reservatons on the heuristic usefulness of Weber’s taxonomy see Winterling 2001: 628. 142 These obvious limits on integrating the monarch in the city should be emphasized against the prevalent view that the ruler cult was a suitable means to achieve this kind of accommodation

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vinity was not capable of conveying the notion of a stable hierarchical relationship between polis and ruler. When cities directly interacted with divine monarchs, besides establishing cultic honors, they could process such moments only as liminal and extraordinary intrusions of the divine in the social and political order of polis society. These observations perhaps allow us to grasp more precisely, to what extent ruler cults opened the way for a “coming to terms” between cities and monarchs. It is true that the ruler’s divinity generally had a stabilizing effect on the addressing of monarchs and monarchic rule: Cultic decrees and rituals enabled the poleis to communicate with monarchs via routinized and controllable procedures. This stabilizing tendency however did not affect the notion of power itself. Though the divine persona of the monarch introduced a new, religious language for political power, it brought with it no fundamental changes on how power was perceived. It did not entail a concept of stable hierarchy comparable to something like Roman auctoritas, based not on coercion and the menacing power to enforce obedience, but on tacit agreement and consent:143 The Hellenistic poleis never arrived to conceive their relations to monarchs in such a way. With regard to the concept of power the cultural model of the divine ruler therefore remained limited to traditional perceptions. Even as a god the Hellenistic monarch was always on the verge of being a tyrant. BIBLIOGRAPHY Asmonti, L. 2004. “Il retore e il gabelliere. Il ruolo di Democare di Leuconoe nella trasmissione dell’ideale democratico”. Acme 57: 25–42. Baron, C. A. 2011. “The Delimitation of Fragments in Jacoby’s FGrHist: Some Examples from Duris of Samos”. GRBS 51: 86–110. Bayliss, A. J. 2011. After Demosthenes. The Politics of Early Hellenistic Athens. London/New York: Bloomsbury. Bengtson, H. 1975. Herrschergestalten des Hellenismus. Munich: Beck. Berve, H. 1967. Die Tyrannis bei den Griechen. Munich: Beck. Brenk, F. E. 1995. “Heroic Anti-Heroes. Ruler Cult and Divine Assimilations in Plutarch’s ‘Lives’ of Demetrios and Antonius”. In Teoria e prassi politica nelle opere di Plutarco, Gallo, I. / Scardigli, B. eds., 65–82. Naples: D’Auria. Bringmann, K. 2000. Geben und Nehmen. Monarchische Wohltätigkeit und Selbstdarstellung im Zeitalter des Hellenismus. Berlin: Akademie. Buraselis, K. 1982. Das hellenistische Makedonien und die Ägäis. Forschungen zur Politik des Kassandros und der drei ersten Antigoniden (Antigonos Monophthalmos, Demetrios Poliorketes und Antigonos Gonatas) im Ägäischen Meer und in Westkleinasien. Munich: Beck. Buraselis, K. 2003. “Political Gods and Heroes or the Hierarchization of Political Divinity in the Hellenistic World”. In Modelli Eroici dall’Antichità alla Cultura Europea, Barzanò, A. et. al., eds., 185–197. Rome: Bretschneider. (see above, at n. 24). In my opinion the opposite aspect of a distancing prevailed: As a deity the person of the monarch became never part of the civic community and was virtually kept out of the polis. 143 Cf. Gotter 2008: 200.

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Buraselis, K. 2004. Heroisierung und Apotheose”. In Thesaurus cultus et rituum antiquorum 2: Purification, Initiation, Heroization/Apotheosis, Banquet, Dance, Music, Cult Images, 125– 214. Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum. Carmignato, A. 1998. “Demostene e la parrhesia: diritto di critica e rifondazione dei valori democratici”. Invigilata Lucernis 20: 33–57. Carter, D: M. 2004. “Citizen Attribute, Negative Right: A Conceptual Difference Between Ancient and Modern Ideas of Freedom of Speech”. In Free Speech in Classical Antiquity, Sluiter, I. / Rosen, R. M. eds., 197–220. Leiden: Brill. Chankowski, A. S. 2011. “Introduction. Le culte des souverains aux époques hellénistique et impériale dans la partie orientale du monde méditerranéen: questions actuelles”. In: More than Men, less than Gods. Studies on Royal Cult and Imperial Worship, Iossif, P. P. et. al. eds., 1–14. Leuven: Peeters. Chaniotis, A. 2002. “Foreign Soldiers – Native Girls? Constructing and Crossing Boundaries in Hellenistic Cities with Foreign Garrisons”. In Army and Power in the Ancient World, Chaniotis, A. / Ducrey, P. eds., 99–113. Stuttgart: Steiner. Chaniotis, A. 2011. “The Ithyphallic Hymn for Demetrios Poliorketes and Hellenistic Religious Mentality”. In More than Men, less than Gods. Studies on Royal Cult and Imperial Worship, Iossif, P. P. et. al. eds., 157–195. Leuven: Peeters. Dihle, A. 1988. “Heilig”. RAC 14: 1–63. Dreyer, B. 1998. “The Hiereus of the Soteres: Plut. Dem. 10.4, 46.2”. GRBS 39: 23–38. Dreyer, B. 1999. Untersuchungen zur Geschichte des spätklassischen Athen (322–ca. 230 v. Chr.). Stuttgart: Steiner. Dreyer, B. / Weber, G. 2011. “Lokale Eliten griechischer Städte und königliche Herrschaft”. In Lokale Eliten und hellenistische Könige. Zwischen Kooperation und Konfrontation, Dreyer, B. / Mittag, P. F. eds., 14–54. Berlin: Akademie. Eder, W. 1995. “Monarchie und Demokratie im 4. Jahrhundert v. Chr. Die Rolle des Fürstenspiegels”. In Die athenische Demokratie im 4. Jahrhundert v. Chr.: Vollendung oder Verfall einer Verfassungsform?, Eder, W. ed., 153–173. Stuttgart: Steiner. Edwards, A. T. 2010. “Tyrants and Flatterers: Kolakeia in Aristophanes’ Knights and Wasps”. In Allusion, Authority, and Truth. Critical Perspectives on Greek Poetic and Rhetorical Praxis, Mitsis, P. / Tsagalis, C. eds., 303–337. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Ehling, K. 2000. “Stierdionysos oder Sohn des Poseidon: Zu den Hörnern des Demetrios Poliorketes”. GFA 3: 153–160. Ehrenberg, V. 1965. “Athenischer Hymnus auf Demetrios Poliorketes”. In Polis und Imperium. Beiträge zur Alten Geschichte, Strohecker, K. F. / Graham, A. J. eds., 503–519. Zürich/Stuttgart: Artemis. Ellis-Evans, A. 2012. “The Tyrants Dossier from Eresos”. Chiron 42: 184–201. Ferguson, W. S. 1929. “Lachares and Demetrius Poliorcetes”. CP 24: 1–31. Gnoli, T. / Muccioli, F. eds. 2014. Divinizzazione, culto del sovrano e apoteosi. Tra Antichità e Medioevo. Bologna: Bononia University Press. Gotter, U. 2008. “Cultural Differences and Cross-Cultural Contact. Greek and Roman Concepts of Power”. HSCP 104: 179–230. Gotter, U. 2013. “The Castrated King, or: The Everyday Monstrosity of Late Hellenistic Kingship”. In The Splendors and Miseries of Ruling Alone. Encounters with Monarchy from Archaic Greece to the Hellenistic Mediterranean, Luraghi, N. ed., 207–230. Stuttgart: Steiner. Green, P. 2003. “Delivering the Go(o)ds: Demetrius Poliorcetes and Hellenistic Divine Kingship”. In Gestures. Essays in Ancient History, Literature, and Philosophy presented to Alan L. Boegehold, Bakewell, G. W. / Sickinger, J. P. eds., 258–277. Oxford: Oxbow. Gruen, E. S. 1985. “The Coronation of the Diadochoi”. In The Craft of the Ancient Historian. Essays in Honor of Ch. G. Starr, Eadie, J. W. / Ober, J. eds., 253–271. Lanham: University Press of America. Haake, M. 2013. “Writing down the King: The Communicative Function of Treatises On Kingship in the Hellenistic World”. In The Splendors and Miseries of Ruling Alone. Encounters with

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Monarchy from Archaic Greece to the Hellenistic Mediterranean, Luraghi, N. ed., 165–206. Stuttgart: Steiner. Habicht, C. 1970. Gottmenschentum und griechische Städte. 2nd ed. Munich: Beck. Habicht, C. 1979. Untersuchungen zur politischen Geschichte Athens im 3. Jahrhundert v. Chr. Munich: Beck. Habicht, C. 1995. Athen. Die Geschichte der Stadt in hellenistischer Zeit. Munich: Beck. Hajdú, I. 2002. Kommentar zur 4. Philippischen Rede des Demosthenes. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Henderson, J. 2003. “Demos, Demagogue, Tyrant in Attic Old Comedy”. In Popular Tyranny. Sovereignty and Its Discontents in Ancient Greece, Morgan, K. A. ed., 155–179. Austin: University of Texas Press. Henrichs, A. 1999. “Demythologizing the Past, Mythicizing the Present: Myth, History, and the Supernatural at the Dawn of the Hellenistic Period”. In From Myth to Reason? Studies in the Development of Greek Thought, Buxton, R. ed. 223–248. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hessbrüggen, M. 2010. “Zeichen des Niedergangs. Demetrios Poliorketes in der literarischen moralisierenden Tradition bei Plutarch”. PerspektivRäume 1: 19–35. Hölkeskamp, K.-J. 2014. “Raum – Präsenz – Performanz. Prozessionen in politischen Kulturen der Vormoderne – Forschungen und Fortschritte”. In Medien der Geschichte – Antikes Griechenland und Rom, Dally, O. et. al. eds., 359–395. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Hoover, O. D. 2011. “Never Mind the Bullocks: Taurine Imagery as a Multicultural Expression of Royal and Divine Power under Seleukos I Nikator”. In More than Men, Less than Gods. Studies on Royal Cult and Imperial Worship, Iossif, P. P. et. al. eds., 197–228. Leuven: Peeters. Iossif, P. P. et al. eds. 2011. More than Men, less than Gods: Studies on Royal Cult and Imperial Worship. Leuven: Peeters. Kallet, L. 2003. “Demos tyrannos: Wealth, Power, and Economic Patronage”. In Popular Tyranny. Sovereignty and Its Discontents in Ancient Greece, Morgan, K. A. ed., 117–153. Austin: University of Texas Press. Kebric, R. B. 2001. In the Shadow of Macedon. Duris of Samos. Stuttgart: Steiner. Koch, C. 2001. “Prozesse gegen die Tyrannis. Die Vorgänge in Eresos in der 2. Hälfte des 4. Jh. v. Chr.”. Dike 4: 169–217. Konstan, D. 1996. “Friendship, Frankness and Flattery”. In Friendship, Flattery, and Frankness of Speech: Studies on Friendship in the New Testament World, Fitzgerald, J. F. ed., 7–19. Leiden: Brill. Konstan, D. 1997. Friendship in the Classical World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kralli, I. 2000. “Athens and the Hellenistic Kings (338–261 B. C.): The Language of the Decrees”. CQ 50: 113–132. Kuhn, A. B. 2006. “Ritual Change During the Reign of Demetrius Poliorcetes”. In Ritual and Communication in the Greco-Roman World, Stavrianopoulou, E. ed., 265–281. Lüttich: Université de Liège. Landucci Gattinoni, F. 1981. “La divinizzazione di Demetrio e la coscienza ateniese”. In Religione e politica nel mondo antico, Sordi, M. ed., 115–123. Milan: Vita e Pensiero. Landucci Gattinoni, F. 1997. Duride di Samo. Rome: Bretschneider. Luraghi, N. 2012. “Commedia politica tra Demostene e Cremonide”. In La commedia greca e la storia, Perusino, F. / Colantonio, M. eds., 353–376. Pisa: ETS. Luraghi, N. 2013. “To Die like a Tyrant”. In The Splendors and Miseries of Ruling Alone. Encounters with Monarchy from Archaic Greece to the Hellenistic Mediterranean, Luraghi, N. ed., 49–71. Stuttgart: Steiner. Ma, J. 1999. Antiochos III and the Cities of Western Asia Minor. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ma, J. 2002. “‘Oversexed, Overpaid, Over here’: A Response to Angelos Chaniotis”. In Army and Power in the Ancient World, Chaniotis, A. / Ducrey, P. eds., 115–122. Stuttgart: Steiner. Manni, E. 1953. Vita Demetri Poliorcetis. Florence: La Nuova Italia Editrice. Marasco, G. 1981. “Introduzione alla biografia plutarchea di Demetrio”. Sileno 7: 35–70.

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Marasco, G. 1983–1985. “Studi sulla politica di Demetrio Poliorcete”. Atti e Memorie Arcadia Accademia Letteraria Italiana 8: 61–134. Marasco, G. 1984. Democare di Leuconoe. Politica e cultura in Atene fra IV e III sec. A. C. Florence: Licosa. Marasco, G. 1994. Vite di Plutarco, vol. 5: Demetrio e Antonio, Pirro e Mario, Arato e Artaserse, Agide-Cleomene e Tiberio-Gaio Gracco. Turin: Unione Tipogr.-Ed. Torinese. Mari, M. 2003. “Macedonians and pro-Macedonians in Early Hellenistic Athens: Reflections on ἀσέβεια.” In The Macedonians in Athens, Palagia, O. / Tracy, S. V. eds., 82–92. Oxford: Oxbow. Mari, M. 2009. “La tradizione delle libere poleis e l’opposizione ai sovrani. L’evoluzzione del linguaggio della politica nella Grecia ellenistica”. In Ordine e sovversione nel mondo greco e romano, Urso, G. ed., 87–112. Pisa: ETS. Mastrocinque, A. 1979. “Demetrios Tragodoumenos (Propaganda e letteratura al tempo di Demetrio Poliorcete)”. Athenaeum 57: 260–276. Mikalson, J. D. 1998. Religion in Hellenistic Athens. Berkeley: University of California Press. Momigliano, A. 1980. “La libertà di parola nel mondo antico”. In Sesto contributo alla storia degli studi classici e del mondo antico, vol. 2, Momigliano, A. ed., 403–436. Rome: Ed. di Storia e Letteratura. Mossmann, J. 2014. “Tragedy and the Hero”. In A Companion to Plutarch, Beck, M. ed., 437–448. Malden: Blackwell. Müller, S. 2010. “Demetrios Poliorketes, Aphrodite und Athen”. Gymnasium 117: 559–573. Nesselrath, H.-G. 1985. Lukians Parasitendialog. Untersuchungen und Kommentar. Berlin/New York: de Gruyter. Nesselrath, H.-G. 1990. Die attische Mittlere Komödie. Ihre Stellung in der antiken Literaturkritik und Literaturgeschichte. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Newell, E. T. 1927. The Coinages of Demetrius Poliorcetes. London: Obel. Ogden, D. 1999. Polygamy, Prostitutes and Death. The Hellenistic Dynasties. London: The Classical Press of Wales. O’Sullivan, L. 1997. “Athenian Impiety Trials in the Late Fourth Century B. C.”. CQ 47: 136–152. O’Sullivan, L. 2008. “Marrying Athena: A Note on Clement Protrepticus 4.54”. CJ 103: 295–300. O’Sullivan, L. 2009a. The Regime of Demetrius of Phalerum in Athens, 317–307 BCE. A Philosopher in Politics. Leiden: Brill. O’Sullivan, L. 2009b. “History from Comic Hypotheses: Stratocles, Lachares, and P. Oxy. 1235”. GRBS 49: 53–79. Paschidis, P. 2008. Between City and King. Prosopographical Studies on the Intermediaries between the Cities of the Greek Mainland and the Aegean and the Royal Courts in the Hellenistic Period (322–190 BC). Athens: De Boccard. Paschidis, P. 2013. “Agora XVI 107 and the Royal Title of Demetrius Poliorcetes”. In After Alexander. The Time of the Diadochi (323 281), Alonso Troncoso, V. / Anson, E. M. eds., 121– 141. Oxford: Oxbow. Pelling, C. 2000. “Fun with Fragments: Athenaeus and the Historians”. In Athenaeus and His World: Reading Greek Culture in the Roman Empire, Braund, D. / Wilkins, J. eds., 171–190. Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Pernerstorfer, M. J. 2009. Menanders Kolax: Ein Beitrag zur Rekonstruktion und Interpretation der Komödie. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Perrin-Saminadayar, É. 2004–2005. “L’accueil officiel des souverains et des princes à Athènes à l’époque hellénistique”. Bulletin de Correspondance Hellénique 128–129: 351–375. Peterson, E. 1929. “Zur Bedeutungsgeschichte von Parrhesia”. In Reinhold-Seeberg-Festschrift, vol. 1: Zur Theorie des Christentums, Koepp, W. ed., 283–297. Leipzig: Deichert. Philipp, G. B. 1973. “Philippides, ein politischer Komiker in hellenistischer Zeit”. Gymnasium 80: 473–509. Pownall, F. 2013. “Duris of Samos and the Diadochi”. In After Alexander. The Time of the Diadochi (323–281), Alonso Troncoso, V. / Anson, E. M. eds., 43–56. Oxford: Oxbow.

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7 ROMAN DISCOURSES AGAINST THE MONARCHY IN THE 3RD AND 2ND CENTURY BCE: THE EVIDENCE OF FABIUS PICTOR AND ENNIUS Federico Russo One of the earliest and most significant occurrences in Latin of the word tyrannus is in Book I of Ennius’ Annales: o Tite tute Tati tibi tanta turanne tulisti (fr. 109 Vahlen = 104 Skutsch).1 The style and rhetoric of Ennius’ line has catalyzed the attention of ancient and modern scholars, overshadowing something equally interesting and problematic: why does Ennius define Titus Tatius as a tyrant? Of course, the strongly alliterative pace of the line might have led Ennius to pick the word tyrant instead of the more common rex, but this explanation is hardly sufficient: it is clear that tradition must have included an episode characterizing the Sabine king negatively. A connection has been suggested between the definition of Titus Tatius as a tyrant and the circumstances of the Sabine king’s death who was killed because he did not respect some legitimate requests from the inhabitants of Lavinium (based on ius gentium).2 According to Fraschetti, the sort of death chosen by the inhabitants of Lavinium for Titus Tatius reveals, in its ritualistic fierceness, that the status attributed to him was that of tyrant, perfectly matching the misdeeds he was responsible for.3 Therefore, Ennius might be merely accepting or emphasizing the tyrannical side already assigned to Titus Tatius by tradition. However, Titus Tatius is not the only tyrant within the legend of Rome’s origins. Besides the obvious example 1

2 3

“By yourself, Titus Tatius the tyrant, you took those terrible troubles” (tr. Warmington). Martianus Capella (5.514) quotes this line as an example of homoeopropheron; others, such as Isidore (orig. 1.35.14), as an example of parhomoeon, whereas the author of the Rhetorica ad Herennium mentions it as an example of eiusdem litterae nimia adsituitas (4.12.18). For the edition of the fragment, see Vahlen 1928 and Skutsch 1985. For its attribution to Ennius, see Grilli 1965: 256; Valmaggi 1967: 29; Warmington 1967: 36; Frassinetti 1975: 38; Bandiera 1978: 89–90. For views against its attribution to Ennius, see Steuart 1925: 235 and 1924: 24– 26, who claims it might be Lucilius’, though with scanty evidence. With regard to the context, it is generally agreed that the line refers to the death of the Sabine king and that it may belong perhaps to one of Romulus’ speeches. See, for instance, Warmington 1967: 36, who also perceives a nuance against Romulus. See also Bandiera1978: 90 and Skutsch 1985: 254–255. Dion. Hal. 2.51–52; Plut. Rom. 23.1–4; Liv 1.14. Fraschetti 2002: 84–89. Flores interprets the use of the word as neutral and motivated by alliterative needs only (Flores et. al. 2002: 62). On the parallel between the death of Titus Tatius and that of other tyrants (or monarchs perceived as such), see Scheid 1984. On Titus Tatius’ death and its ritualistic aspect, see Gagé 1976. For an overview, cf. Mora 1995: 217 ff.

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of Tarquinius Superbus, tradition features another tyrant, Amulius, who played an important role within the mythical prehistory of Rome.4 With the important exception of Naevius, sources agree in attributing to Amulius a particularly negative role in the events associated with Romulus and Remus.5 Furthermore, thanks to the evidence provided by Plutarch’s Life of Romulus, it is certain that Fabius Pictor, as well as Diocles of Peparethus, accepted (or even himself classified) Amulius as a tyrant. Since modern scholarship attributes a key role to Fabius Pictor in the reworking of the myth (and even chronology) of Rome’s origins, more or less cautiously scholars suggest that Fabius Pictor himself may have added the Alban dynasty to the tradition, motivated at least partially by the need to fill in the chronological gap between the fall of Troy and the founding of Rome (a gap made much more obvious by Eratosthenes’ calculations).6 Certainly, sources are not clear in this regard because they do not state specifically whether this important innovation was due specifically to Fabius Pictor;7 however, Fabius Pictor and Diocles of Peparethus undoubtedly adopted the new chronology, which made necessary the presence of the Alban kings.8 Nonetheless, it has been emphasized that this does not necessarily mean that the list of Alban kings was invented by Fabius Pictor tout court, especially if one accepts, as some do, that it was already present in Diocles of Peparethus, prior (if only by a little) to Fabius Pictor.9 Indeed, it is likely that Amulius was not introduced when the Alban list was invented (whoever its author may be), but rather that he was part of a more ancient tradition related to Alba, which was subsequently incorporated into the list of the kings of the city. In this paper, we shall not tackle the issue related to the Alban dynasty: of interest here is to underline the gap between the evidence attributed to Fabius Pictor by Plutarch, where Amulius is undoubtedly presented as a tyrant, and Naevius’ earlier tradition, where Amulius is

4 5

6 7

8

9

On the Fabian tradition related to Tarquinius Superbus, see Mastrocinque1983 and 1984. In Naevius’ praetexta Romulus sive Lupus Amulius is presented as a rex sapiens rather than a tyrant (Fest. 334 L; Naev. praet. 5 sg. Ribb.2). For a synthesis of the vulgata on the tyrant Amulius, besides Fabius Pictor’s evidence in Plutarch (Rom. 3 ff. = Fr. 7 P = Fr. 7 Ch), see a summary of the ancient sources in Bruggisser 1987: 39–63. On this chronological issue, see Mora 1995: 159–161. In this respect, see the well-known inscription of Tauromenion, where it is stated that, in Fabius Pictor’s work, “a lot of time” occurred between Aeneas’ arrival in Italy and the founding of Rome. On this inscription, see Manganaro 1976 and 1974: 394–396. More specifically in relation to Fabius Pictor, see Battistoni 2006. On the genesis of the historiographical tradition related to the Alban dynasty, see in particular Trieber 1894; Garcia Fuentes 1972; Laroche 1982; Brugnoli 1983 and 1996; important considerations are to be found in Cassola 1991: 301–309, according to whom it would be impossible to identify the “authentic” list; it would also be clear that different versions existed in competition with one another and it seems likely that the number of monarchs listed depended on the different opinions on the interval between the founding of Alba and that of Rome, from a minimum of 300 years up to a maximum of well over 400 (302). For a recent contribution, see Martínez-Pinna Nieto 2011: 86–99 and Grandazzi 2008: 610 ff. Cf. Gabba 1967; Poucet 2000; Baudou 1998: 72–74.

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instead presented as a wise and devout king.10 If, as seems likely, Naevius represents a tradition preceding Fabius’ reworking (since Naevius did not in fact know the Alban dynasty, thus presenting Romulus as a direct descendant of Aeneas)11 the version supported by Fabius becomes even more significant, because it points to the historian’s interest (or to that of the tradition accepted by him) in the tyrant’s figure, also present in the legends related to Tarquinus Superbus and Titus Tatius,12 which, once more, derive from Fabius Pictor. Such interest has been interpreted as an expression of antimonarchic sentiment in Fabius Pictor, who may thus have anticipated the later concept of odium regni, as it would later be known at the time of the conflicts between populares and optimates.13 However, whilst a specific ideological and political context exists for odium regni at the end of the republic, in Fabius Pictor’s case it is necessary to outline his personal perspective on the monarchy and the historical context in which he lived, to verify whether such a hypothetical ‘antimonarchic’ sentiment could have originated from the contemporary political and cultural debate. 1. The comparison between the figure of Amulius in Fabius and Naevius implies a dichotomy between king and tyrant, whose lexical aspect appears particularly ambiguous and problematic, even to the ancient sources. Two passages by Servius tell us that the two words were often employed as synonyms, at least in some contexts: (Aen. 4.320) tyranni: nihil intererat apud maiores inter regem et tyrannum, ut pars mihi pacis erit dextram tetigisse tyranni; (Aen. 7.266) tyranni: graece dixit, id est regis, nam apud eos tyranni et regis nulla discretio est; licet apud nos incubator imperii tyrannus dicatur, declinatur autem etiam haec τύραννος. Although Servius’ considerations are later than the period we are analysing, they are crucial to understanding the nature of the difficult semantic, and therefore lexical relationship between king and tyrant in Latin, and to clarifying that the conceptual king/tyrant overlap is not, as is usually suggested, a consequence of the political exploitation of the theme of monarchy during the troubled times of the late republic, but rather the legacy of earlier usage.14 In the first passage, Servius states that there was generally no difference between king and tyrant in ancient times, clearly suggesting a negative connotation to rex, because of the semantic and lexical overlap between king and tyrant.15 In the second passage, however, this particular usage is attributed a geographical and cultural location: it is presented as a Greek characteristic, only 10 11 12 13 14 15

On the chronological aspect of this problem, see Barchiesi 1962: 524. Serv. Aen. 1.273. On Fabius’ tradition in relation to the events surrounding Tarpeia and Titus Tatius, see a synthesis including the sources by Calderini 1995: 130–131. Cf. Giua 1967. Significantly, Cicero writes (rep. 2.49): habetis igitur primum ortum tyranni, nam hoc nomen Graeci regis iniusti esse voluerunt. On this aspect, see below.

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absorbed into Latin in the specific case of incubator imperii.16 The latter meaning corresponds to Amulius in Fabius’ characterization, as he was guilty of usurping the throne, which legitimately belonged to Numitor. Servius’ lexical clarification can be applied to Titus Tatius’ case (a king who, because of his character, could only be called a tyrant), but not to Amulius’;17 in this case it is not a matter of distinguishing between a tradition defining him as a king and one considering him a tyrant (independently from the events of which he was protagonist), but rather between a tradition portraying him as a wise king and another one presenting him as an usurping tyrant, indicating that the difference between the two versions is substantial and not merely lexical. It still needs to be verified if the usage attributed generically by Servius to the maiores is also characteristic of authors such as Fabius Pictor, Naevius or Ennius. With regard to the last king of Alba (a tyrant according to the tradition going back to Fabius Pictor), the specific characteristic of Naevius’ Amulius is sapientia. Indeed, a fragment of the praetexta Romulus sive Lupus does not present Amulius as a tyrant and a despot, but as a rex sapiens, in absolute and sharp contrast to the rest of the tradition: Vel Veiens regem salutat Vibe Albanum Amulium comiter senem sapientem, contra redhostis † menalus.18

Since the first editions of this fragment were published, attention has been paid to the apparently unsolvable crux at the end of the second line, related to the solemn salutatio between this otherwise unknown character from Veius, Vel Vibe, and the Alban king Amulius.19 From our perspective, it is above all important to underscore the existence of a tradition from Fabius Pictor’s times onwards, whether alternative or parallel to the vulgata, whereby Amulius is not presented as a tyrant, but as a wise king. Indeed, it is not possible to interpret Ennius’ line as further evidence of the tradition portraying Amulius as a tyrant, as has been argued by those who read Naevius’ words as implicitly ironic towards the king of Alba.20 Rather, it is important to dwell upon the definition of Amulius as a senex sapiens. At first sight, such 16

17 18 19 20

The undifferentiated usage of basileus and tyrannos is analysed thoroughly by Parker 1998. According to this scholar (161–166), the semantic and, therefore, lexical distinction between ‘king’ and ‘tyrant’ is typical of Attic and of scholars writing in the Attic dialect, appearing as such from Thucydides onwards. The semantic confusion between the two words would be rather typical of other sources (among which, for instance, Herodotus), which cannot settle the difference between the two concepts. Compare this point of view with that of Fraenkel 1960: 178 ff., who intends Plautus’ choice of the word rex instead of the expected tyrannus as a typical characteristic of Latin, perhaps inherited, though in a less blatant form, from a preceding Greek usage. Contra, Csapo 1989, who locates the origin of this usage in the New Comedy. Furthermore, Servius’ passage applies to sources such as Ennius for instance, which we will analyse below, where the concept of regnum can have both a positive and a negative meaning (acquiring in the latter case the aspect of a tyranny). Fest. 334 L; Naev. praet. 5 f. Ribb.2 See the discussion of the exegetical tradition around Naevius’ fragment in Tandoi 1975: 61–63; Bettini 1981. For a broader view on Naevius’ Romulus sive Lupus, see Tandoi 1974: 263–273. Tandoi 1975: 67 ff.

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expression can seem nothing else but a way for Vel Vibe to win the favor of King Amulius, addressing him with a generic compliment.21 However, linking the theme of wisdom with a king cannot be fortuitous or unrelated to more or less sincere adulation: for instance, when discussing Romulus, Cicero (rep. 2.11) indicates sapientia as the essential requisite for a king.22 More generally, sapientia features in ancient sources as the fundamental requisite for a civis, according to a very Roman interpretation of the Greek value of σοφός, and moreover precisely at the time of Fabius Pictor. In this respect, a series of facts is significant: first of all, it is necessary to bear in mind the eulogy in Saturnian lines of L. Cornelius Scipio Barbatus; through the expression fortis vir sapiensque, it summarizes well and vividly the fundamental values of a Roman citizen, and in particular of a politician, who combined physical strength with the use of reason;23 likewise, in Q. Cecilius Metellus’ funerary eulogy for his father Lucius in 221, his sapientia is praised.24 In Naevius, Amulius is the bearer of one more quality. Among Naevius’ fragments, apart from the praetexta, Amulius also features in fragment 24 Morel (= 32 Mar) of the Bellum Poenicum quoted by Nonius (167 L):25 isque susum ad caelum sustulit suas rex / Amulius, divis gratulabatur. We shall not dwell upon the very long history of the exegesis and of the textual reconstruction of this fragment;26 however, we can accept with certainty the reference to Amulius, who is defined as rex. In my opinion, it is precisely the fact that Amulius is a rex which rules out that Naevius may be referring here to another Amulius, other than the King of Alba. Indeed, some scholars think that Naevius was not aware of the series of Alban kings filling in the gap between Aeneas and Romulus, since, as mentioned, Naevius and Ennius presented Romulus as the son of Aeneas’ daughter, and that, therefore, Naevius did not know Amulius’ story either.27 However, since in the Lupus the reference must necessarily have been to Amulius,28 there is consensus on the fact that even in the epic poem, Amulius, King of Alba, played a role of some sort, probably

21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28

Cf. Tandoi 19875: 68. Elsewhere (or. 1.37), Cicero states again in relation to Romulus consilio et sapientia singulari. On Romulus’ wisdom, see the considerations by Linderski 2002. ILS 1, 2. Plin. nat. 7.239. On the importance of the theme of sapientia throughout the second Punic war, see below. Marmorale 1953: 248 locates it in Book III of the poem. See the broad discussion of the fragments’ issues in Barchiesi 1962: 165 ff., 497 and 523–527. See also Morelli 1965 for an in-depth study of the metrical and stylistic aspect of the line. Richter 1960: 61 ff. Barchiesi 1962: 524. Among the various solutions suggested to re-conciliate the presence of Amulius with the contextual absence of the Alban dynasty in Naevius, see in particular that by Krampf 1913: 37 ff., on which draws Perret 1942: 482 ff. According to Perret, in Naevius, Amulius would be Ilia’s uncle and therefore the twins’ great-uncle thanks to one of his sisters, who had married Aeneas (thus, not thanks to Numitor). As rightly pointed out by Barchiesi, if Amulius features in the Lupus, he could well feature in the poem too. See also Barchiesi 1963: 312–322.

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within the excursus dedicated to the mythical prehistory of Rome.29 Besides Amulius’ function within the poem, the fact remains that this second fragment confirms undeniably that, in Naevius’ imagery, Amulius was not the tyrant conceived by Fabius. On the contrary, he had all the characteristics of a wise and devout king, as shown independently but consistently by the two fragments, suggesting the existence of a different (and perhaps preceding) tradition compared to the one represented by Fabius Pictor.30 Naevius testifies to the triple link between sapientia, pietas, and rex, thus showing the existence of a positive model of kingship, to which Amulius’ figure refers, but which does not rule out the simultaneous existence of an opposite character, that of the tyrant.31 2. As we have seen, Ennius also identifies a tyrant within the mythical history of Rome, Titus Tatius, and it is likely that the origin of such a characterization drew on the events involving the ambassadors from Lavinium. Besides the specific case of Titus Tatius, the poet’s position towards monarchy and tyranny remains unclear. A first clue to answer this question is to be found in fr. 98 Vahlen (= 97 Skutsch) of Book I of the Annales: astu, non vi sum summam servare decet rem.32 According to modern scholarship, this fragment refers to Romulus, describing either the rape of the Sabine women, or his rule of the kingdom with Titus Tatius himself, or perhaps even the conflict with his brother Remus.33 Whatever the context – obviously taking for granted the connection to Romulus –, it is clear that Ennius provides us 29 30

31

32 33

On this problem, see below. For a bibliographic discussion, see Barchiesi 1962: 525. With regard to such reconstructions, in his edition of Naevius Marmorale states that “son tutte supposizioni, in realtà si brancola nel buio pesto” (246). Despite Marmorale’s skepticism, it is possible to reconstruct the relationship Aeneas-Romulus in Ennius’ and Naevius’ tradition. In this respect, see D’Anna 1996: 107–112. Once the character of wise and devout king as opposed to that of usurping tyrant is accepted, it is likely that the gratulatio to the gods was somehow linked to Romulus and Remus’ story. Therefore, in Naevius’ perspective, Amulius, just like the whole archaeology of Rome’s origins, was part of a wider celebration of Rome, somehow intertwined with the narration of the events of the first years of the first Punic war. On the role of archaeology in Naevius’ poem, see Barchiesi 1963: 320 ff.; Mariotti 2001: 29–48; Rowell 1947. Naevius’ position towards the concept of rex also emerges from a fragment of the comedy Tarentilla, l.73: quae ego in theatro hic meis probavi plausibus / ea non audere quemquam regem rumpere: / quanto libertatem hanc hic superat servitus; as well as from another fragment whose context is unclear, Naevius, ap. Fronto Ep. 2.8.10: qui et regum filiis… / linguis faveant atque adnutent aut subserviant. The ideological connection between the two fragments by Naevius led some scholars to think that the figure of the rex in Tarentilla may imply a precise and punctual political reference, for instance to Scipio or Cecilius Metellus, thus suggesting a controversy between Naevius and “il potere occhiuto che lo sorvegliava”: Barchiesi 1978: 72. Valmaggi 1967: 26 f. Fest. 384.26 L. Valmaggi 1967: 28; Bandiera 1978: 82; Frassinetti 1975: 37.

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here with an indication of what a good king should be like and what qualities he should possess: the leader, and therefore the king, must not use violence, but has to be astute. And it is precisely this reference to his astuteness that may have led some commentaries to contextualize the fragment as part of the narration of the rape of the Sabine women.34 By contrast, the meaning of this line is echoed by fr. 105 Vahlen (= 96 Skutsch): nam vi depugnare sues stolidi soliti sunt.35 According to the accepted interpretation, these words would have been spoken by Ersilia, and perhaps addressed to Titus Tatius himself in order to push the Roman and the Sabine people towards reconciliation after the rape of the women.36 As in fr. 98 Vahlen (= 97 Skutsch), reason had once more to prevail over violence: it has in fact been suggested that Ennius used a philosophical and rhetorical commonplace, whereby men are encouraged to resolve their controversies in the light of reason and justice and to leave brute force to the animals.37 It has alternatively also been suggested that this fragment is connected not only to fr. 98 Vahlen (= 97 Skutsch), quoted above (since both deal with the theme that reason should prevail over violence), but also to fr. 157 Vahlen (= 150 Skutsch), usually located in Book II of the Annales: et qui se sperat Romae regnare quadratae?38 According to Skutsch, if read in relation to one another, these three lines would suggest that the main quality a king should have, i. e. sapientia, is contrary to vis. Besides the problem posed by these lines, it seems important to me to underline the presence in Ennius of an ideal model for a positive king, whose main accomplishment is the use of reason over violence.39 It could equally be the case that fr. 105 Vahlen (= 96 Skutsch) is part of a speech addressed to Titus Tatius by Ersilia, to deter him from the use of violence, as it links a theme which we have seen associated with the image of the good king, with a figure defined as a tyrant elsewhere. The conception of the rex in Ennius’ perspective is enriched by further nuances in Book XVI, fr. 411 Vahlen (= 404 Skutsch) of the Annales, quoted by Macrobius (6.1.17): reges per regnum statuasque sepulcraque quaerunt, / aedificant nomen, summa nituntur opum vi. In the proem of Book XVI of the Annals, to which these lines belong, Ennius justifies his choice to deal not only with events from the distant past, but also with recent and current wars, which he himself witnessed (at fr. 410 34

35 36 37 38

39

Nonetheless, the version quoted above is the result of Vahlen’s emendation, accepted by Skutsch 1968: 50, Warmington, Valmaggi and other scholars, over the transmitted version at tu non ut sum summam servare decet rem. On the other hand, Bandiera 1978 accepts the manuscripts’ version. Fest. 416.35 L. Such a hypothesis was put forward for the first time by Koch 1851: 4. Bandiera 1978: 100. Skutsch 1968: 50 ff. Usually, this fragment is not linked to the rape of the Sabine women, as supposed by Skutsch, but to the royal succession after Romulus (Valmaggi 1967: 32). Timpanaro 1950, reading ecqui rather than et qui, translates “is there anyone who is under the illusion of being able to reign with Romulus?”, and supposes a possible reference to later attempts of adfectatio regni such as the one by Sp. Melius in 439 BCE In this respect, it is also meaningful that Ennius states bonus Ancus, ‘the kind Ancus’ in fr. 149 Vahlen (= 137 Skutsch) of Book II of the Annales.

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Vahlen [= 403 Skutsch], Ennius states quippe vetusta virum non est satis bella moveri). As has been suggested, precisely by starting from current events and referring to the sad end of Philip V, who had been defeated some time earlier and who died in 179 BCE, Ennius may also be formulating moral considerations on the vanity of conquests by kings, who have statues and monuments erected for them, thinking they can defeat the passage of time in this way.40 The reflection on vanity and its pointlessness would therefore seem to indicate on Ennius’ part an ambiguous conception of the figure of the monarch, fluctuating between opposite extremes of positive and negative. Such tension seems to lie at the heart of Ennius’ Thyestes. In reality, we only know the date of the first representation of this tragedy (169 BCE) with certainty thanks to an explicit passage by Cicero (Brut. 20.78) and little else (around 11 fragments with a total of 17 lines, in Ribbeck’s edition), to the point that modern scholars have to look to better known and more complete versions by Accius and Seneca to reconstruct Ennius’ tragedy.41 Nonetheless, drawing on La Penna’s and Lana’s suggestions, it is interesting to emphasize the closeness between Seneca’s version, also entitled Thyestes, and Ennius’ version. It is not by chance that, whilst in Ennius some features can be somehow identified in Thyestes’ character despite the meagerness of the fragments, in Accius’ case, Thyestes’ figure cannot be outlined in a satisfying way, because the attention is all focused on the sinister and cruel Atreus, the actual protagonist of the tragedy, as shown by the title itself.42 In Ennius, as is rightly pointed out by Lana, Thyestes is a distressed and troubled character, but crucially, he is above all a victim of his brother; however, it is not our intention to create a parallel between Ennius’ Thyestes and Seneca’s corresponding character.43 It is most likely that even in Ennius, Thyestes is not presented as a culprit as Atreus is, in line with the tradition of the myth also accepted by Accius, but rather as a victim of his brother’s wickedness: Thyestes “non doveva essere un personaggio scolpito in un blocco di pietra insieme a suo fratello, come il Tieste acciano”.44 Even if it is impossible to determine the distance between the two brothers, it is clear that Atreus must have been a negative character, without doubt a tyrant, in line with the myth and with the rest of the tradition as it can be reconstructed on the grounds of Accius and Seneca.45 Such characterization seems to emerge in another fragment by Ennius, whose context is uncertain, and which some scholars do indeed contextualise within the Thyestes (fr. 404 Vahlen = 19 Traglia): nulla sancta societas / nec fides regni est.46 Whatever the 40 41 42 43 44 45 46

Valmaggi 1967: 113. See also the comment by Flores 2006: 411. For an edition of the fragments, see Ribbeck 1871 and Jocelyn 1967. On the myth of the Pelopids within the Roman tragic tradition, see Lana 1959; La Penna 1972; Dangel 1987 and 1988; Garelli-François 1998. La Penna 1972: 364. Lana 1959: 324. On this point, see Cic. Tusc. 3.25–26, where Ennius’ Thyestes is quoted. Lana 1959: 324. Garelli-François 1998 suggests linking Ennius’ Thyestes, the propagandistic background of the 3rd Macedonian war, and Demetrius’ murder by his brother Perseus, which would resonate with the nucleus of the myth of the Pelopids, and with the tyrannical representation of Perseus. Traglia 1986: 358, note 20.

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origin of these lines,47 the negative connotation of the regnum emerging from them is clear, and is once more very distant from Plautus’ imagery (even chronologically, especially if we accept that they belong to the Thyestes). Negative too is the image of autocratic power, and this time with a very likely connotation of true tyranny itself, in another fragment by Naevius, whose context is uncertain (fr. 402 Vahlen = 17 Traglia): quem metunt oderunt, quem quisque odi periisse expetit. Despite the lack of any explicit reference, it is clear even from the context of the quotation that the monarchy itself (intended as a tyranny), is the ideological reference of Ennius’ words.48 It seems to me extremely important to underline the proximity between Ennius’ words and the famous line in Accius’ Atreus (ll. 203–204 Ribbeck) oderint, dum metuant. Such a potential relationship between Ennius and Accius, still in terms of the theme of tyranny, also features in another fragment by the latter, whose context is uncertain and which echoes the above-mentioned fragment by Ennius (fr. 19 Traglia): clear links appear to exist between Accius’ words (fr. 651 Ribbeck) multi iniqui atque infideles regni, pauci benevoli and Ennius’ nulla sancta societas / nec fides regni est. In both fragments, the common reference to the contrast between regnum and fides seems particularly remarkable. This is even more significant if, as seems likely, Accius’ words derive from the Atreus.49 On the other hand, the dual characterization of the autocratic figure, which appears to be typical of Ennius, seems to be confirmed by another tragic fragment (Iphigenia), which almost reveals some sort of ‘liking’ for the king: indeed, Agamemnon states plebes in hoc regi antistat loco: licet / lacrumare plebi, regi honeste non licet.50 As has been made clear, these lines refer explicitly to Euripides (Iph. A. ll. 446 ff.), and it is precisely thanks to Euripides’ model that it is possible to reconstruct the context of Ennius’ quotation: Agamemnon, having heard the news of the arrival of his daughter, tricked into coming with the pretext of her wedding to Achilles, wishes to express his grief, but he cannot do so because of his role as king and leader of the expedition. Besides the derivation from Euripides’ model, it is important to underline here once more the fluctuation in Ennius’ imagery between a positive and a negative image, both expressed through the same word, regnum.

47

48 49

50

Cicero (off. 1.26) quotes these lines by Ennius (probably from the Thyestes – on this point, see Traglia 1986: 358, note 20) with regard to the injustices which can be performed by a man seized by greed for power. In this respect, see also Cic. rep. 1.49, where it is stated, by contrast, that nothing is more steady than power in the hands of people in harmony; on the contrary, in an oligarchy, and especially in a monarchy, the State is very weak. Cicero quotes this line by Ennius (off. 2.23) with regard to the need for powerful men to be loved and not hated. Furthermore, I shall point out that the closeness between Accius and Ennius seems to suggest that Ennius’ fragment may derive from the Thyestes. The fact that Seneca echoes Accius’ line in his Thyestes (ll. 206–207), must be considered in this light (though in turn, it echoes Ennius). On the importance of the theme of the tyrant in Accius, see Lana 1959; La Penna 1972. Traglia 1986: 318, fr. 126 (Hier. epist. 60.14.4).

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3. One of Ennius’ fragments from the proem of book VIII of the Annales (268 Vahlen = 247 Skutsch) describes the irrational terror which gripped Rome (probably) after Hannibal’s victories and which saw sapientia substituted by military violence: pellitur e medio sapientia, vi geritur res, spernitur orator bonus, horridus miles amatur. Haud doctis dictis certantes, sed maledictis miscent inter sese inmicitias agitantes, non ex iure manum consertum, sed magis ferro rem repetunt regnumque petunt, vadunt stolida vi. When news of battles is proclaimed, away from view is wisdom thrust, with violence is action done, scorned is the speaker of good counsel, dear is the rude warrior. Not with learned speeches do men strive, but with evil speaking fall foul one of another, brewing unfriendliness. They rush to make joint seizure – not by law; rather by the sword do they seek a due return and aim at the first place, and move on with pack and press (tr. Warmington).51

Although it is not clear how to interpret these lines, it seems evident that in these words, one of Ennius’ characters, likely to be Quintus Fabius Maximus, the Cunctator, perhaps after the defeat at Cannae, expresses with anguish the outcome of a war, which suspends the law, disposes of (political) wisdom and makes way for people aspiring to the throne, by resorting to violence.52 The paramount importance of Ennius’ lines in understanding the relationship between sapientia/vis/regnum is obvious; as Ennius himself states, this relationship was one of the aspects of political strife during the second Punic war.53 The dichotomy of vis and sapientia, which, according to some scholars proves Ennius’ “deep pacifism”,54 is to be found in the opposition of reason and brute force, which we have seen as being typical of En-

51

52 53

54

Cf. Valmaggi 1967: 76. See, moreover, the translation by Frassinetti 1975: 65: “La saggezza è tolta di mezzo, si agisce con violenza, il valente oratore è spregiato, l’avido soldato è amato. Non con frasi ben costruite polemizzando, bensì con ingiurie si azzuffano rattizzando gli odii; non convocano in giudizio secondo le formule della legge, ma se ne impadroniscono più facilmente con la violenza e aspirano al potere assoluto, marciando in preda ad un pazzo furore”. A rich commentary on the fragment is to be found in Pascucci 1974. In general, modern scholarship agrees on this (Valmaggi 1967: 77); on the contrary, Pascucci 1974: 112 ff., supposes it might be the siege of Saguntum; contra, Frassinetti 1975: 65. With regard to this point, we must also remember the contrast between the adjective stolidus and the concept of sapientia in the fragment by Ennius seen above. The concept of sapientia features, though with a different meaning, in another famous fragment by Enn. ann. 7.124. On this piece of evidence, see Magno 2003; Habinek 2006. On sapientia wihin the political environment, see above all Klima 1971 (on Naevius and Ennius, in particular 70–74, and on the comic theatre, 75–84). With regard to the relation of sapientia and fortitudo, of course intended in a positive way, see Earl 1960: 214–242. Cf. Flores 2002: 257. It has also been suggested (Santini 1996: 91) that the events associated with Tullus Hostilius, who was struck by lightning because he had introduced new cults in Rome and despised the traditional ones, played a very specific role within Piso Frugi’s moralizing perspective. On this point, see also Berti 1989.

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nius’ imagery, especially as an expression of the parallel opposition of king and tyrant. Indeed, the link between the last line of fr. 268 Vahlen (= 247 Skutsch) in Book VIII (rem repetunt regnumque petunt, vadunt stolida vi) and fr. 98 Vahlen (= 97 Skutsch) in Book I, nam vi depugnare sues stolidi soliti sunt, seems significant to me. It is not by chance that in the proem of Book VIII, Ennius makes the regnum the ultimate aim of the violence triggered by defeat-induced panic: from Ennius’ perspective, in a situation ruled by irrationality, many people aim to obtain the regnum, the supreme power, but also a tyranny, through the use of violence and the suppression of reason. It seems to me extremely interesting that for Ennius, the relationship of sapientia/ vis/ regnum is established, during the second Punic war, before the Cunctator adopted an effective strategy against Hannibal. One could suppose that, at least in Ennius’ view, the reflection on violence as a means to obtain the regnum and especially the dichotomy between regnum (intended as tyranny) and sapientia may have originated from the climate of Hannibal’s period.55 On the other hand, rather than assuming that this may be an individual and personal opinion of the poet, it is more likely that he simply reproduced themes circulating in Rome at the time. It is not by chance that the same issues expressed by Ennius, such as civil conflict, the suppression of legality and the use of violence itself, would be later be at the heart of anti-tyranny thinking during the Gracchi’s time.56 Going back to the climate in Rome during the most active phases of the campaign against Hannibal, among the various reactions generated by the fear of Hannibal, observances of a strictly religious nature took place (such as dedications of temples, ver sacrum, etc.), as well as a diplomatic mission to Delphi led by Fabius Pictor.57 This mission certainly had a powerful political meaning, as also shown by the fact that it was led by a member of the gens Fabia, exactly when the Cunctator was playing a very relevant role in Rome’s struggle against Hannibal.58 As a result, even the outcome of such a mission – the prophecy obtained from the Pythia – must have had a powerful political and propagandistic value. Indeed, I shall point out that Fabius’ journey coincided with a series of portentous events and related observances of a religious nature,59 such as the well-known sacrifice of two Gauls and two Greeks, buried alive in the Forum Boarium. Therefore, at a time of great difficulty and fear, which we could easily describe through Ennius’ words, the Senate decides to send Fabius Pictor to Delphi. According to Livy (22.57.5), in 216 BCE: hoc nefas cum inter tot, ut fit, clades in prodigium versum esset, decemviri libros adire iussi sunt et Q. Fabius Pictor Delphos ad oraculum missus est sciscitatum quibus precibus suppliciisque deos possent placare 55 56 57 58 59

This might be shown by Ennius’ praise of Q. Fabius Maximus; on this, see below. On tyranny within the Gracchi’s context, see the important considerations by Gabba 1969 and Migliorati 2000. On the propaganda against Hannibal and its religious nature, see Russo 2005; Russo 2012. On this aspect, see D’Ippolito 1998: 149–152. On the importance of religion in Fabius’ propaganda, also intended as a reference to the mythical origins of his gens, see François 2006.

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et quaenam futura finis tantibus cladibus foret. This was the oracular answer to Fabius Pictor’s expedition, probably drawn directly from the historiographer’s work60 by Livy (23.11.2–4): ‘Si ita faxitis, Romani, vestrae res meliores facilioresque erunt magisque ex sententia res publica vestra vobis procedet victoriaque duelli populi Romani erit. Pythio Apollini re publica vestra bene gesta servataque lucris meritis donum mittitote deque praeda manubiis spoliisque honorem habetote; lasciviam a vobis prohibetote’. The oracle’s response, which Fabius Pictor must have translated from Greek into Latin, first of all confirms Apollo’s importance within the context of Hannibal’s war, also shown later by the establishment of the ludi Apollinares, which were perhaps also specifically linked to the gens Fabia.61 On the other hand, besides the merely religious indications, Gagé underlines that “le mot le plus important de l’oracle, le conseil le plus précis, tient dans l’interdiction de la lascivia: ici la morale traditionnelle de Delphes rencontre exactement la préoccupation des milieux romains qui représentent l’ambassadeur”.62 Gagé, whilst accepting that Fabius Pictor may have translated by lascivia the Greek word hybris, prefers to stick to the specific meaning of the Latin word, thus not renouncing its strong moral connotation: “le dérèglement des esprits, l’abandon complaisant aux émotions trop vives”. However, such a connotation cannot be explained by the climate following the defeat at Cannae: indeed, religious frenzy can be accompanied by a stiffening of morality in the traditional sense. Yet the sources related to this period, whilst reasserting the remarkable attention paid by Rome to religious matters, do not record anything of the sort in terms of morality, through what characterizes this in other periods, such as, for instance, the stigmatization of moral habits. As a result, the reference to the development of the ritus Graecus, which, according to Gagé, the Pythia’s words may have reappraised, does not seem acceptable, nor does the reference to the climate of the senatus consultum de bacchanalibus in 186 BCE, since it is anachronistic.63 In my opinion, the framework of the Delphic oracle’s final exhortation must have been of a moral and ethical, rather than religious, nature. Nonetheless, as already pointed out by Gagé, such a warning must have been meaningful in Rome rather than in Delphi, and on these grounds I would tend to exclude that it may have had a generic value, almost as if it were a γνῶθι σεαυτὸν.64 Whatever the meaning to be attributed to lascivia may be, it must have played a very precise role within the political debate in Rome after the defeat at Cannae; as one might suspect, without further data, a general exhortation to abstain from lust does not seem relevant to the strong ideological function that the Delphic prophecy reported by Fabius must have had. In this respect, the reconstruction suggested by D’Ippolito tries to locate such 60 61 62 63 64

For instance, see D’Ippolito 1998: 150, who emphasizes that the whole case presents Fabius’ deeds under a particularly positive light. Cf. D’Ippolito 1998: 150 ff., and, more in general, Gagé 1955: 264 ff. See also Barchiesi 1962: 432–433. Gagé 1955: 270. Simon 1978: 222 ff. Simon 1978: 223.

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an oracular response within the Roman ideological panorama, also identifying potential links with the rest of Fabius Pictor’s historiographical production: D’Ippolito accepts that Fabius may be translating Greek hybris by lascivia, and that this may refer to the superbia which very often seized people consulting the oracle.65 Nonetheless, D’Ippolito also underlines that such a characteristic was a peculiarity of the tyrant, a theme, according to him, which should not be neglected when reviewing Fabius’ historiography. Setting out from this first consideration, D’Ippolito suggests a complex reconstruction which, by reference to the tyrant Pheidon of Argos and his alleged or actual support to Cypselus’ people against the Bacchiadae of Corinth (the reference here is clearly to Demaratus), supposes that Fabius Pictor may have voluntarily suggested a synchrony between the foundation of the town and the birth of tyranny in Rome. Such hypothesis presents a number of problematic points and, at the very least, questionable considerations on which we will not dwell; for instance, although one could share the view that Fabius’ historiography attributed to tyranny its own importance, it seems excessive to suppose a synchrony, which even from an exclusively ideological point of view, could not benefit Rome at all. Nonetheless, D’Ippolito’s suggestion to locate the Delphic oracle within both the Roman context of the time and Fabius’ historiographical production is certainly one to be developed further. If we intend lascivia in the sense of lust, the reference to the theme of tyranny becomes even more blatant, especially if we accept, as is generally the case, the contemporary link with hybris.66 Nonetheless, because of the lack of references of this sort in the other sources, we can wonder whether this is the actual meaning to be attributed to the word lascivia, i. e., whether this specific moral connotation may really be valid. Although we often consider only the first and most well-known meaning, the semantic sphere covered by this word is much wider, as also suggested by the possibility that it may be a translation of the Greek hybris. Indeed, lascivia also indicates haughtiness, arrogance in the sense of insubordination, impertinence: this series of concepts is distant from the usually preferred moral characterization. Furthermore, such a word is to be found in Livy, often in connection with pride in reference to the figure of the tyrant.67 Such characteristics are typical of those who opposed the Cunctator’s politics, at least in Livy’s perspective (who also acquired the Fabian point of view through

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D’Ippolito 1998: 152; on the concept of hybris and its connection to the Delphic oracle (already mentioned by Gagé), see Fontenrose 1978: 36 ff. The concept of lasciviousness or lust is often accompanied by that of pride, hence the easy reference to the tyrant. See for instance Tarquinius Superbus in Livy (1.59.9) or Dionysius of Syracuse again in Livy (24.5.1). On the stigmatization of moral habits as part of the political contest, see in general Edwards 1993: 34 ff. On the nexus lascivia – superbia, see Liv. 8.29.5. On the contrary, the pair luxuria superbiaque occurs in Liv. 7.31.5; the comparison between the two passages clearly shows that lascivia and luxuria, in connection to superbia, were not semantically overlapping.

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Fabius Pictor).68 Let us consider the opposition between the Cunctator and his magister equitum (co-dictator at a later stage) M. Minucius Rufus:69 whilst the former is famous for his pondered and thoughtful strategy, the latter is presented as irrational, violent and, therefore, as the ruin of the State. On the one hand, Q. Fabius Maximus is described by Livy (22.23.2) as a “master of the art of warfare, who knew how to conduct things according to reason”; on the other hand, Livy dwells a number of times on the rashness of Fabius’ master of cavalry. For instance, in 22.12.12, by opposing him to the dictator’s wisdom, Livy defines him “impulsive and reckless in his decisions and unrestrained in his language (…) with scorn, he called Fabius lazy instead of the Cunctator, cowardly rather than cautious (…)”; the same profile emerges from a speech attributed to him by Livy and which aimed at stirring up the soldiers’ souls against Q. Fabius Maximus (22.14.14): “It is foolish to think that by standing still or by performing sacred ceremonies, an end can be put to the war: it is necessary to take up arms, go into battle and fight one-to-one: boldness and action increased the Roman power, not these unwarlike propositions, which cowards call cautiousness”. Again, in 22.27.1, Livy states that “Minucius (…) with particular arrogance and immodesty, boasted about having obtained a victory over Q. Fabius rather than over Hannibal.”70 In the same terms, Livy opposes the Cunctator to the consul C. Terentius Varro: apart from describing the latter as a despicable man of humble origins (20.25.19, 26.1, 34.2), Livy states that he has “gone mad even before asking for the consulate” in a speech addressed by Q. Fabius Maximus to L. Aemilius Paulus (22.39.7). Moreover, the same speech contains in its final part the “manifesto” of the Cunctator’s politics (22.39.21–22): “I would rather be feared by a wise enemy, than praised by foolish fellow citizens (…). On my part, I do not advise you to do anything, but only to act so that you can be guided by reason, not by chance”. Therefore, in Livy’s narration, the Cunctator represents pietas and sapientia, as opposed to foolishness, boldness and lack of religious respect, which are not used to characterize Hannibal, an enemy of the Romans, but rather a consul and a master of cavalry (and, later on, a co-dictator).71 In light of this clear opposition, the oracular response reported by Fabius Pictor himself acquires a new and more complex meaning. Assuming, as is generally agreed, that the expedition to Delphi of a member of the gens Fabia was an aspect of the Fabian politics of the time, which certainly was led by the Cunctator, it is clear that the prophecy reported by Fabius, besides reasserting this gens’ religiosity, must have been consistent with the ideology and the propaganda endorsed by the 68 69 70 71

On the problem of the sources employed by Livy and on Fabius Pictor’s role among them, see a synthesis by Erdkamp 1992: 143 ff. On the political environment which saw, besides the Cunctator, M. Minucius Rufus and C. Terentius Varro as protagonists, cf. Cassola 1968: 336 ff. Elsewhere, Livy (per. 22.6) defines the magister as equitum ferox and temerarius. Plutarch, in his biography of Q. Fabius Maximus, insists in particular on the wisdom and the self-control differentiating the Cunctator from his magister equitum and his other detractors (see for instance Plut. Fab. Max. 13.7). On this particular aspect of Plutarch’s biography, see in particular Scuderi 2010, according to whom, in Plutarch’s reconstruction, Fabius acts moved by pietas and kindness, whilst Minucius Rufus moves with arrogance and endless pride (480).

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Fabii. As a result, the lascivia in the prophecy should be interpreted in the light of the remaining tradition related to Q. Fabius Maximus and it should be understood more correctly as an invitation to avoid the insubordination and arrogance, which had characterized Q. Fabius Maximus’ detractors and which had brought lots of evil to Rome. Therefore, the oracle might have invited the Romans not to surrender to arrogance and insubordination (just as the magister equitum had done, a proper symbol of hybris), but to respect order as well as instructions of a religious nature.72 After the defeat at Cannae, which had shown in hindsight the validity of the Fabian strategy,73 another Fabius was doing justice to the Cunctator, probably playing around the semantic indefiniteness of hybris (supposing, therefore, that the oracle may have spoken in these terms). On the contrary, the insistence on the most characteristically positive traits of the Cunctator seems to me equally significant; these are the same traits distinguishing him from his detractors, almost as if it were the echo of a controversy, which may have concerned precisely the judgment on the dictator.74 And that such insistence is not a later revision, but a specific aspect of the political debate during the second Punic war, is shown by the many similarities between Fabius Pictor’s Delphic prophecy and Livy’s tradition on the Cunctator and his political opponents. A propaganda campaign pointing in this direction, where the anti-tyranny theme had a very precise role, is also confirmed by some accusations addressed by the Cunctator’s detractors to the dictator.75 In Plutarch’s biography of Fabius Maximus, in order to support M. Minucius Rufus’ nomination as a co-dictator, the Plebeian tribune M. Metilius defines the Cunctator’s power as “the monarchy of an unaccountable individual” and above all as “tyranny”.76 It is extremely interesting that the sources reveal that the anti-Fabian propaganda articulated precisely the monarchic/ tyrannical theme, since this proves that the converse statements in Fabius Pictor must not have been fortuitous. Likewise, we cannot ignore the connection between Ennius’ words on those people, who, exploiting the panic which had seized Rome, 72

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On Minucius Rufus’ disobedience and his anti-heroic aspect, as opposed to Fabius Maximus, because of his violence and disrespect for the gods, see Scuderi 2010: 480 ff. Moreover, the role played by the sanctuary of Delphi within the liberation from the Superbus’ tyranny, on the occasion of the famous mission of Brutus (Liv. 1.56 ff.), is also highlighted by Cotta Ramosino 2004: 129–130, who deals with Plin. nat. 15.134–135. On the Cunctator’s strategy cf. Erdkamp 1992. Perhaps potential traces of the controversies focusing on the figure of Fabius Maximus, and not just the political ones, are to be found in a famous fragment from Ennius’ Annales (370 Vahlen = 363 Skutsch): Unus homo nobis cunctando restituit rem / non enim rumores ponebat ante salutem / ergo postque magisque viri nunc gloria claret. On the meaning of these lines, see in particular Rebuffat 1982. On the negative tradition related to the word cunctator, see Gusso 1990: 326, and in general Stanton 1971; Beck 2000. On Ennius’ line, see also Elliott 2009. The reference to the theme of anti-tyranny is also shown by the connection lascivia superbiaque, whose meaning was probably the basis of the Delphic oracle. Plut. Fab. Max. 8.4; 9.2. On this accusation, see a brief mention in Scuderi 2010: 481. Moreover, this theme is missing from Livy’s parallel passage (22.25.3–11), where the tribune’s accusations/ suggestions are presented in a much less aggressive tone. On the sources employed by Plutarch for Fabius Maximus’ biography and Fabius Pictor’s role among these, see Koltz 1935.

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were trying to obtain the regnum with violence; neither can we ignore the accusation of demagogy addressed to the Cunctator’s enemies and detractors by the pro-Fabian tradition, also incorporated by Plutarch.77 The opposition between Fabius and his detractors matches the dichotomy of good and bad king, which we have already identified in Ennius. In that case, too, what differentiates the former from the latter is the use of reason instead of violence. In turn, this image echoes the figurative description provided by the poet himself, of the situation in Rome after the defeat at Cannae, where those who want to obtain the regnum, employ “foolish violence” instead of reason, and the soldiers are taken into consideration more that the wise orators.78 In Ennius’ perspective, the stigmatization of the irrational panic which seized Rome, counterpoints the praise of the Cunctator as a savior of the State because of his strategy: unus homo nobis cunctando restituit rem.79 We might be wondering on what grounds Fabius Maximus was accused of tyranny and monarchy: the age of the Gracchi and the experience of the late Republic might induce us to think of a generic use of the concept of tyranny, useful to weaken the political opponent.80 Nonetheless, in the case of the Cunctator, it is perhaps possible to identify the specific motive behind such accusation. The Cunctator was nominated dictator after the defeat at Lake Trasimeno.81 Even if a consul was dead and the other could not reach Rome (nor communicate with the Senate), it was decided anyway to proceed to the dictator’s nomination, which, however, could not possibly take place according to the rule and the practice (Liv. 22.8.5–7). A further breach was also the fact that the people nominated the magister equitum, who should have been chosen by the dictator himself. Such a decision was taken because of the military emergency triggered by the two important defeats suffered by the Romans: ad remedium iam diu neque desideratum nec adhibitum, dictatorem dicendum, civitas confugit (Liv. 20.8.5). Fabius Maximus’ nomination as a dictator, besides being the object of a debate devoted precisely to the formal aspect of such a nomination,82 provides us with a very important clue to the political climate in Rome during the years of the great 77 78

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For instance, with regard to the magister equitum, see also Plut. Fab. Max. 14.2; on G. Flaminius, see Plut. Fab. Max. 2.2. On some specific aspects of the tradition related to the Cunctator, see François 2002. Moreover, I shall point out that Fabius Maximus himself was considered a worthy orator (Plut. Fab. Max. 1.7). It is not fortuitous that among the religious measures adopted by Fabius Maximus as a dictator, immediately after the defeat of Lake Trasimeno, there was also the dedication of a temple to the goddess Mens, perhaps also to make amends for consul Flaminius’ inscitia. On this aspect, see Mello 1968: 60 ff. On the connections between this cult and that of Venus Erycina, for whom a dedication took place on the same occasion, see Bitto 1977. 370 Vahlen = 363 Skutsch. Scholarship deals extensively with the use of the concept of tyranny and regnum within the political strife of the late republic. See, for instance, Dunkle 1967; Kalyvas 2007. On the other hand, a link between the political use of the concept of regnum and Rome’s first contacts with the Hellenistic kingdoms is highlighted by Erskine 1991. The dictatorship in 217 BCE was the second one for Fabius, but the first rei gerundae causa (Liv. 22.9.7; Val. Max. 1.5.5). See Oakley 1996: 520 ff. On this aspect, see in particular Gusso 1990: 291 ff.

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defeats at Trebbia and Trasimeno.83 As has been correctly highlighted, the dictatorship in 217 BCE must have had a very influential ideological and propagandistic echo, not only because it was strongly celebrated and emphasized in the subsequent pro-Fabian traditions, but also because such an institution had not been chosen for over three decades under the pressure of important military developments; indeed, recently, it had been resorted to only for religious or electoral reasons.84 With Fabius Maximus’ dictatorship, the senate oligarchy may have tried to oppose the politics of the populares faction, from which the current consuls already originated. However, such an attempt may have found an obstacle in the reaction of the populares themselves, which, as we have seen above, managed to have M. Minucius nominated co-dictator (with the obvious aim of limiting Fabius’ power).85 The conflict between the group of the Fabii and the populares took off again in 216 BCE, when the consuls, pushed by the senate, nominated L. Veturius Philo dictator so that the comitia would be held (Liv. 22.33.11 f.). However, the nomination was soon after annulled because of a procedural flaw, and things went back to the interrex (C. Claudius Cento). These events have been interpreted as an attempt on Fabius’ part to keep his control over the election of the consuls, since the Fabian candidate would not have had any chance of being elected under the dictator Veturius.86 Nonetheless, in 216 BCE, after the parenthesis of Fabius’ dictatorship, the populares’ aggressive politics took over again, through the election at the consulate of a great detractor of the Cunctator’s politics, C. Terentius Varro.87 The years 217 to 215 BCE were particularly frantic, not only from a military aspect, but also from a political one: both the Fabian strategy, considered a failure until the disaster at Cannae, and Fabius’ nomination as a dictator, whose irregularity exposed him to facile criticism from his opponents, lay at the heart of the conflict 83 84

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On this point, see in particular the broad and in-depth analysis by Scullard 1973: 8–55. Gusso 1990: 296. According to Gusso, the military crisis, as well as the religious one, might have actually been an excuse, only useful to dissimulate the Fabian political level and above all “tentativi autoritari portati avanti dalla fazione aristocratica più intransigente, con l’intento di superare il comizio, coinvolgendo direttamente quella parte del popolo ancora suggestionabile con richiami religiosi e superstiziosi”. The nomination of a co-dictator was unheard of in Rome, as underlined by Plutarch when narrating the events (Fab. Max. 9.3). On Minucius Rufus’ dictatorship, see Dorey 1995; Vervaet 2007. With regard to the historiographical aspect of the matter, Rebuffat 1982: 163 ff. emphasizes that the tradition accepted by Livy, clearly pro-Fabian in nature, probably affected not only the presentation of Fabius Maximus (in a positive way), but also that of Minucius, who is described as a true demagogue. Likewise, the judgment over the military actions of the two dictators might have been strongly affected by the pro–Fabian approach of the source. For a synthesis, see Scullard 1973: 50. According to De Sanctis 1968: 55, in 216 BCE the comitia were delayed because the senate, dreading the victory of the popular party, planned to postpone them. The depiction of C. Terentius Varro as a violent demagogue is very likely to derive from a pro-Fabian source. On this aspect, see also Vallet 1964. On the prime role played by Fabius Maximus between 217 BCE and 215 BCE, see Gusso 1990: 319–320; Scullard 1973: 49 ff.; Müller-Sedel 1953; Sumner 1975; Toynbee 1985: 395 ff.; Cassola 1968: 14–19. On the dictators’ influence on the choices related to the comitia, see Patterson 1952; Crake1963. More in general, see Rilinger 1976.

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between the various factions.88 Indeed, it is meaningful that in 216 BCE, when M. Fabius Buteo was nominated dictator senatus legendi causa by the consul C. Terentius Varro, he stigmatized the irregularity of many dictatorial nominations, even though it was necessary given the state of emergency.89 Fabius Buteo’s position, which could also represent the controversial response to those who stigmatized Fabius Maximus’ dictatorship (as suggested by the reference to the practice of co-dictators), clearly testifies to the fact that the figure of the dictator, apart from being at the heart of the political scenario during the years of the campaign against Hannibal, may have raised a few doubts in Rome. Therefore, it is extremely interesting to observe that during the whole period of the second Punic war the institution of the dictatorship was employed widely and remarkably.90 Such use has been interpreted in various ways, but there is an agreement on the admission that the senate must have recognized the dangerous nature of this office, to the extent that the last dictator before Sulla’s undertakings, was nominated again in 202 BCE (Liv 30.39.4–40) because of electoral issues (comitiorum habendorum causa). Therefore, if during the entire campaign against Hannibal dictatorship seemed an excellent tool, especially to resolve electoral matters (often, the consuls were out for military reasons), the rejection of this institution for over a century shows unequivocally the mistrust towards the figure of the dictator.91 And, if such mistrust was clear on the populares’ part from the start because of Fabius’ dictatorship, the aristocracy too perceived the problem of an imperium exerted without control (although often the dictator actually had well defined and circumscribed functions, at least within the long series of dictators during the second Punic war). This would eventually determine the abandonment of this institution for the whole of the second century, up until Sulla.92 88

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The ancient tradition emphasized the fact that Fabius Maximus was the first dictator nominated directly by the people, as shown by Livy (22.31.9), who quotes Celius Antipatrus. Nonetheless, as opposed to Celius Antipatrus himself and other unnamed authors, Livy also specifies that such procedure was applied because the consul Cn. Servilius, to whom the nomination was due, was absent; moreover, again according to Livy, Fabius Maximus was only a dictator (ut a populo creatur qui pro dictatore esset), in contrast with what is stated in Liv. 22.9.5 ff. Furthermore, Livy’s version of Fabius Maximus’ nomination as a dictator also presents some chronological inaccuracies or uncertainties, which were pointed out by Scullard 1973: 50 and Gusso 1990: 307. On the conflicts between Fabius and the Aemilii, see Mazzarino 1966: 259 ff. Liv. 23.23.1–3: Is ubi cum lictoribus in rostra escendit, neque duos dictatores tempore uno, quod nunquam antea factum esset, probare se dixit, neque dictatorem sine magistro equitum, nec censoriam uim uni permissam et eidem iterum, nec dictatori, nisi rei gerendae causa creato, in sex menses datum imperium. Quae immoderata fors, tempus ac necessitas fecerit, iis se modum impositurum. Scamuzzi 1958; Jahn 1970: 116–149. Some scholars claim that the events, which took place in 217 BCE, would have set the precedent for the transformation of dictatorship from a means of defence of the civitas into a political tool, useful to the acquisition of plenary powers. Gusso 1990: 308; Pinna Parpaglia 1969. For a different perspective, see Gabba 1983. See Gabba 1983: 215 ff., who highlights that at the time of the Gracchi it was decided not to resort to the dictatorship, even though one by Scipio Aemilianus was taken into consideration. In this respect, see Nicolet 1964; Stevenson 2005. On Cicero’s position on dictatorship, see

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The consideration with which Livy introduces Fabius Maximus’ dictatorship clearly indicates what the perception of dictatorship was like during the second Punic war (22.8.5): itaque ad remedium iam diu neque desideratum nec adhibitum, dictatorem dicendum, civitas confugit. Such words echo the nomination of Manlius Valerius as dictator (22.30.5): sed curae fuit consulibus et senioribus patrum, ut imperium sua vi vehemens mansueto permitteretur ingenio. Therefore, even before Hannibal’s war, dictatorship could raise concerns because of its intrinsic danger: the suspicionem insitam regni induced to monitor the person entrusted with such imperium sua vi vehemens, so that he would not exploit his exceptional powers regni occupandi consilia inisset.93 In a context where the understanding of the dangers involved by an excessive use of dictatorship was becoming deeper, the figure of Fabius Maximus, who precisely in that period was dominating the political scene having fully and most significantly embraced dictatorship, must have attracted a number of controversies.94 Thus, the Cunctator’s dictatorship offered an easy connection for accusations of tyranny and aspirations to monarchy to his opponents, since it could have actually appeared as the expression of monocratic power if presented under a biased light. The ancient tradition links ideologically the figure of the tyrant to that of the dictator. When talking about the first example of dictatorship in Rome (T. Larcius, dictator in 498 BCE),95 Dionysius devotes a brief thought to its origin in Rome, underscoring the links with the concept of elective tyranny (Dion. Hal. 5.73.2 ff.): “Indeed, they did not deem it right to give a hateful and heavy name to magistrates governing a free town, out of respect for both those who were governed (so that they would not be alarmed by such a hateful title) and those who were governing, so that they would not suffer insults without knowing it, nor would they themselves wrong their fellow citizens, as it is often the case with people entrusted with such powerful positions. Indeed, the breadth of the power acquired by the dictator is certainly not at all expressed by the title: actually, dictatorship is an elective tyranny”. Dionysius carries on with his consideration by creating a parallel between the Roman dictatorship and the asymnetes, which, “as stated by Theophrastus in his work Peri basileias, were elective tyrants”. Furthermore, he contextualizes it in the framework of decay and succession of governing forms (the monarchy in particular), where autocratic power is presented as the best solution to the State’s decay, just like the dictatorship in Rome and other similar forms in the Greek context. Dionysius also highlights that “people were forced to increase to the maximum the kings’ and the tyrants’ powers, though hidden behind much more decent titles”.

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Ferrary 1988. On the long pause between the last dictators of the second Punic war and Sulla’s dictatorship, see Morgan 1991. On the connection between the concepts of dictatorship and tyranny, see Kalyvas 2007: 412–442, according to whom, contrary to the thesis argued here, the contiguity between tyrant and dictator was highlighted only because of Sulla’s dictatorship. Scamuzzi 1958: 21. Gusso 1990: 319. Dionysius attributes the first dictatorship to T. Larcius’ second consulate, whereas Livy’s date is different (Liv. 2.18.1–9), since he attributes the dictatorship to T. Larcius’ first consulate (501 BCE). See Momigliano 1931; Gabba 1983: 165.

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This excerpt is extremely important in order to understand the perception of autocratic power as an extreme solution to potential problems of the government within the Roman context, but at the same time as a risky one because, in actual fact, it was free from any form of control.96 Beyond this specific aspect of Dionysius’ consideration, whose importance appears more clearly when compared with the theory of anacyclosis in Polybius’ version, and beyond the hypothesis that dictatorship had Greek origins, just like many other aspects of the Roman world (according to Dionysius’ typical Hellenocentric perspective),97 it is important to highlight the conceptual and ideological parallel between dictatorship and tyranny, which might have been at the heart of the anti-Fabian propaganda, as outlined above. Indeed, one could object that the position expressed by Dionysius may have been affected by the experience of Sulla, after the closeness, if not the overlap between tyranny and dictatorship had become clearer. Nonetheless, there is evidence indicating and clearly confirming the ideological framework of the political strife during Hannibal’s period. As seen above, in Plutarch’s Life of Fabius Maximus, the dictator is accused by the tribune Metilius of exerting an “unaccountable”98 monarchy, that is, free from any control. The use of the adjective ἀνυπεύθυνον is not fortuitous but, on the contrary, highly significant; through such word, Greek sources indicate a precise aspect of tyrannical power. Aristotle considers this concept a characteristic of monarchic power degenerated into tyranny (in fact, a proper absolute tyranny) and defines it with regard to the law (pol. 3.1295a): “The third form of tyranny, which appears to be more of a tyranny than the others, corresponds to absolute monarchy. It is the monarchic government of a man who is unaccountable and rules over better and equal men aiming exclusively at fulfilling his own interest and not those of his subjects. Therefore, it is a government which is exerted against the subjects’ will, because no free man would tolerate such a dominion”. The Greek tradition attributes unanimously the concept of “unaccountability” to the tyrant (or to the decayed form of monarchy), whereas the Roman tradition intends it as a characteristic trait of the dictatorship.99 Furthermore, the evidence in Dionysius of Halicarnassus is funda96

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On Dionysius’ concept of dictatorship see Gabba 1983: 168 ff. In 5.70.4 he reasserts the equation tyrant-dictator, underlining that the tyrant’s most striking characteristic is to have a power which is superior to the laws. Dionysius’ position echoes the description of the asymnetes in Aristotle (pol. 3.1285a). Dionysius concludes his consideration by also mentioning Licinius Macrus’ version (fr. 10 P), according to which the Roman dictatorship would originate from Alba, immediately after Amulius’ death. On the origin of dictatorship, see Wilcken 1940, which is still useful; important considerations are to be found in Momigliano 1931. On the potential religious origin of dictatorship, see Cohen 1957. On the vast bibliography on dictatorship, see Kunkel/Wittmann 1995: 665–717. Plut. Fab. Max. 8.3. It is remarkable that Aristotle does not associate ἀνυπεύθυνον with the asymnetes, but with a more extreme, and therefore negative, form of tyranny. On the unaccountability of the bad king/tyrant see also Hdt. 3.80.3; Plat. leg. 691c–d; 761e; 875 a–c, with regard to the magistrate who is free from control and not accountable for his activity. The context here is the institution of euthuna, a practice verifying the existence of potential illegal acts in the magistrate’s activ-

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mental (7.54–56): within the context of Coriolanus’ episode, the speech by M. Valerius, among other topics also focuses on the theme of the mixed constitution, the only institutional form able to put a stop to the decay of the other three main forms of government. In this context, M. Valerius also mentioned the need for control over both the senate and the people, in order to avoid that the oligarchic regime would degenerate into a tyrannical monarchy; for this purpose, the necessity comes about for an “unaccountable” figure, elected dictator by the people, possessing great wisdom, and endowed with absolute powers.100 Beyond the chronological issue of this episode (i. e. whether Dionysius’ narration may have been influenced by the political debate in the first century BCE), it is interesting to note for our purpose the association between the concept of “unaccountability” and the figure of the dictator, confirmed for Caesar as well by Plutarch (τῷ ἀνυπευθύνῳ τῆς μοναρχίας).101 Going back to the accusations levelled against Fabius Maximus, it is clear that they were not generic nor unmotivated, but that they were triggered precisely by the dictatorship held by the Cunctator. Well before the first century BCE, the association between dictatorship and tyranny became an ideologically important theme; even during Hannibal’s war, Fabius’ detractors (the same ones who criticized his military strategy), found in the dictatorship, and more specifically in such an irregular dictatorship, one more reason to stigmatize Fabius Maximus. At the same time, the remarkable and frequent use of this institution made it a politically relevant theme, to the extent of leaving a trail even in the Fabian historiography. The convergence of the data analyzed above shows that Plutarch’s evidence is not affected by later ideological experiences, and P. Cornelius Scipio’s reaction to his proclamation as king by the Iberians just after the battle at Baecula (208 BCE) confirms it once more.102 Livy’s excerpt introduces a series of themes, which are fundamental for an understanding of the monarchic theme in Rome, such as the acknowledgement of the dignity of the title of king, but also the awareness of the difficulties for the Romans to accept the figure of the king. Scipio’s rejection marks the great distance between the Iberians, for whom the title of king was a reason for honor and celebration, and the Romans, for whom it was even intolerable. Although ity. Mentions of this are to be found also in Diotogenes (Thesleff 1965: 72 ff.) and Speusippus, who associates the word ἀνυπεύθυνον with despoteia (Ps. Plat. 415b). On Aristotle’s statement, see in particular Mitchell 1966: 181–182; on euthuna, see Lewis 1998: esp. 345–346 and 2012: 645–646. 100 Dion. Hal. 7.56.2: φυλάξει τε καὶ οὐδὲν παρανομεῖν ὁ διαφέρων φρονήσει ἀνὴρ δικτάτωρ ὑφ’ὑμῶν αἱρεθεὶς, ὃς αὐτοκράτορι καὶ ἀνυπευθύνῳ χρθώμενος ἐξουσία. On the possibility that Dionysius may have introduced themes pertaining to the political debate of the first century in the context of Coriolanus’ episode, see in particular Noè 1979; Gabba 1983: 172–173. 101 Plut. Caes. 57.1. Cf. Sordi 2002: 255. On the concept of “unaccountability”, see also Toynbee 1944. 102 Liv. 27.19.3–5: circumfusa inde multitudo Hispanorum et ante deditorum et pridie captorum regem eum ingenti consensu appellauit. tum Scipio silentio per praeconem facto sibi maximum nomen imperatoris esse dixit quo se milites sui appellassent: regium nomen alibi magnum, Romae intolerabile esse. regalem animum in se esse, si id in hominis ingenio amplissimum ducerent, taciti iudicarent: uocis usurpatione abstinerent. sensere etiam barbari magnitudinem animi, cuius miraculo nominis alii mortales stuperent id ex tam alto fastigio aspernantis.

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it is possible that Livy’s passage may have partially been affected by later revisions, Polybius’ contemporary evidence related to the same episode clearly shows that the monarchic theme, in connection with the Scipio Africanus, was not codified under the effect of later events. Indeed, according to Polybius as well, Scipio rejected the title of king, which the Iberians wanted to bestow on him.103 It is not a matter of establishing whether Scipio Africanus really had monarchic aspirations,104 but rather to contextualize Scipio Africanus’ rejection of the title of king within the ideological climate of the last years of the third century, when, as we have seen, the monarchic theme played its own specific role. On the one hand, such rejection is to be inserted within the tradition related to Scipio’s monarchic aspirations, whether alleged or not, and, on the other hand, it should be linked to a similar accusation addressed to Scipio by the Cunctator himself.105 The lack of respect for the laws or for the senate’s policies and the pursuit of one’s own advantage rather than the State’s common good, are all themes which clearly draw on the tyranny theme, or rather on that of royal power which turns into tyranny. Therefore, it is extremely interesting to remark that Fabius Maximus himself, accused of aspiring to a kingdom of tyranny, in turn accuses his political opponent of something very similar in content and tone. In addition, these words recall closely a passage by Fabius Pictor, which further confirms and proves the importance of the monarchic theme within both the political climate of the time and the Fabian historiographical perspective. Fabius Pictor’s interest in the monarchic institution, also intended as the overthrow or the decay of a preceding form of government, is also shown and confirmed by the perspective acquired by the historian when narrating the second Punic war. When narrating the first signs of the conflict, Polybius also mentions Fabius Pictor’s version, with which however he disagrees (3.8.1–2 = Fr 16 P = 31 Ch): “The Roman historian Fabius claims that, apart from the attack against Saguntum, the cause of the war against Hannibal was also Hasdrubal’s greed for power. The latter, after having achieved a great dominion in Iberia and having gone back to Libya, tried to abolish the laws and to transform the Carthaginians’ constitution into 103 Pol. 10.40.2 ff. According to Martin 1994: 12–14, the speech attributed to Scipio by Polybius is trustworthy and reproduces a tradition contemporary to the narrated events. On this aspect of the tradition related to Scipio Africanus, see also Jaczynowska 1985: 286 ff.; Foulon 1992. More in general, see Martin 1994a: 142–145. 104 This is the perspective of Scullard 1973: 82–88, according to whom the tradition on Scipio Africanus and on his potential monarchic aspirations would resonate with the Gracchi’s fate. On the other hand, the same scholar also remarks that “if there was little fear for dictatorship, the rapidity and irregularity of Scipio’s career at least gave good grounds for suspicion and envy” (85). 105 Liv. 28.42.22: tu cum Hannibal in Italia sit relinquere Italiam paras, non quia rei publicae utile sed quia tibi id amplum et gloriosum censes esse – sicut cum prouincia et exercitu relicto sine lege sine senatus consulto duabus nauibus populi Romani imperator fortunam publicam et maiestatem imperii, quae tum in tuo capite periclitabantur, commisisti. ego, patres conscripti, P. Cornelium rei publicae nobisque, non sibi ipsi priuatim creatum consulem existimo, exercitusque ad custodiam urbis atque Italiae scriptos esse, non quos regio more per superbiam consules quo terrarum uelint traiciant.

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a monarchy; the most visible men in town, having found out about his project against the constitution, got together and opposed him (…). Hasdrubal ruled over Iberia as it pleased him without taking into account the Carthaginian senate’s policies.” Therefore, for Fabius Pictor, Hasdrubal’s excessive greed for power may have turned into a failed attempt at making a monarchy of Carthage, and may have determined the outbreak of the war. It is telling that Hasdrubal’s “monarchic” behavior manifests itself as disregard for the laws and the senate’s policies. Once more, it seems possible to perceive an echo of Fabius’ Delphic prophecy, which exhorted to respect the laws, and to avoid precisely surrendering to lascivia. In Fabius Pictor’s perspective, the monarchic institution intended as the overthrow of a preceding form of government acquires all the typical traits of tyranny, though defined as monarchy.106 The stigmatization of those who, disregarding the law, try to achieve personal power, is expressed on several occasions in Fabius Pictor’s work and it seems to represent an organic and important aspect of Fabian historiography.107 Furthermore, such tones clearly recall the accusation made by Fabius Maximus against Scipio Africanus, which we have encountered above. In that case, too, the disregard for the senate’s policies not only constitutes a reason for criticism, but also a cue for the more or less veiled accusation of monarchic aspiration. Fabius Pictor’s opinion on Hasdrubal lies at the heart of a speech attributed by Livy (21.10.2–13, especially 10.4) to Hanno, the leader of the pro-Roman faction, during a meeting between the Carthaginian senate and the Roman ambassadors after the events at Saguntum. According to Hanno, Hasdrubal is “a young man burning with greed for ruling and determined to choose the only way which may lead him to power, that is, living surrounded by weapons and legions, spreading war everywhere”. Explicitly agreeing with what Fabius Pictor states about Hasdrubal’s revolutionary and monarchic aspirations, Livy also recalls Ennius’ words on violence as the only way to absolute power, in contrast with rationality, perhaps also with an echo of the most typical characteristic of the tyrant, i. e. living surrounded by guards.108 The convergence of the traditions analyzed shows that at the time of Hannibal’s campaign, the reiterated recourse to dictatorship and the imminence of particularly relevant positions, such as Fabius Maximus’, introduced in the political strife the theme of monarchy intended as tyrannical power, contrary to Roman traditions; on 106 Therefore, the Fabian use could correspond to that inter-changeability of words, which had been already remarked by Servius. On the other hand, in Polybius’ passage, the usage of the word monarchy on his part might have obscured the original usage of tyrannis, since the two words, monarchy and tyranny, are often used in an undifferentiated way by the historian from Megalopolis in order to indicate autocratic power. With regard to this point, see Walbank 1954. 107 See, for instance, Amulius’ tyrannical characterization. Likewise, such attitude is to be found in Ennius; it is not by chance that he interprets the aspiration to the regnum as one of the dangers ensuing the defeat at Cannae, and in fact as triggered by it. 108 This characteristic also occurs in the tradition related to Titus Tatius and Superbus. On the latter, see Migliorati 2003: 48.

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the other hand, the analysis of the sources highlights a particular aspect of the political debate at the end of the third century, during which Fabius Pictor’s work took shape. Therefore, it is not possible to apply to Naevius, Fabius Pictor and above all Ennius, the indiscriminate and interchangeable usage of the words rex and tyrannus highlighted by Servius in the above-mentioned passage. If it is true that Plautus, in the same period, does not seem to distinguish too subtly between the two concepts, this is perhaps because of the low attention paid to the king or the tyrant in his work. Nonetheless, a very neat distinction between the two figures is outlined in the sources analyzed, a distinction which naturally is reflected by the lexical aspect of the matter.109 BIBLIOGRAPHY Bandiera, M. ed. 1978. I frammenti del I libro degli Annales di Q. Ennio. Florence: Le Monnier. Barchiesi, M. 1962. Nevio Epico. Padova: CEDAM. Barchiesi, M. 1963. “Personaggi neviani (Dite e Amulio)”. RIFC 91: 302–322. Barchiesi, M. 1978. La Tarentilla rivisitata. Studi su Nevio comico. Pisa: Giardini. Battistoni, F. 2006. “The Ancient Pinakes from Tauromenion. Some New Readings.” ZPE 156: 169–180. Baudou, A. 1998. “Les Fragments Des ‘Annales’ de Pison Tirés de ‘l’Origo Gentis Romanae’”. Phoenix 52: 55–82. Beck, H. 2000. “Quintus Fabius Maximus: Musterkarriere ohne Zögern”. In Von Romulus zu Augustus. Große Gestalten der römischen Republik, Hölkeskamp, K.-J. / Stein-Hölkeskamp, E. eds., 79–91. Munich: Beck. Berti, N. 1989. “La decadenza morale di Roma e i viri antiqui: riflessione su alcuni frammenti degli Annali di L. Calpurnio Pisone Frugi”. Prometheus 15: 39–58, 145–159. Bettini, M. 1981. “Vel Vibe di Veio e il re Amulio. A proposito di Nevio praet. 5 sg. Ribb.2 e di bell. poen. 12 Mor”. MD 6: 163–168. Bitto, I. 1977. “Venus Erycina e Mens. Un momento della propaganda politica romana durante la seconda guerra punica”. ASM 28: 121–133. Bruggisser, P. 1987. Romulus Servianus. La légende de Romulus dans les Commentaires à Vergile de Servius: mythographie et idéologie à l’époque de la dynastie théodosienne. Bonn: Habelt. Brugnoli, G. 1983. “Reges Albanorum”. In Atti del Convegno Virgiliano di Brindisi nel Bimillenario della morte, Brindisi 1981, 157–190. Perugia: Istituto di Filologia Latina dell’Università di Perugia.

109 On the figures of kings and tyrants in Plautus, see Fraenkel 1960: 178 ff. In agreement with the passage by Servius and contrary to other contemporary sources, Plautus shows a much less aware and therefore less differentiated usage of the words rex and tyrannus, and does not express any moral or ethical judgment on the latter. If, for example, it is very usual for Plautus to call rex Attalus (Poen. 664), Seleucus (Mil. 948) or Philippus (Persa 339), who were “regular” kings so to speak, it is significant that Hiero of Syracuse is defined rex (Men. 409; 902), as well as Creon (Amph. 194), tyrant of Thebes, or Agathocles, tyrant of Syracuse (Pseud. 119). Clearly, rex is here synonymous with tyrant, intended as definition of the role of a historical or mythical character, with no further connotation.

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Scullard, H. H. 1973. Roman Politics 220 –150 B. C. Oxford: Clarendon. Simon, E. 1978. “Apollo in Rom”. JDAI 93: 202–222. Skutsch, O. 1968. Studia Enniana. London: Athlone Press. Skutsch, O. ed. 1985. The Annals of Ennius. Oxford: Clarendon. Sordi, M. 2002. “L’ultima dittatura di Cesare”. In Scritti di storia romana, Sordi, M. ed., 252–256. Milan: Vita e Pensiero. Stanton, A. R. 1971. “Cunctando Restituit Rem: The Tradition about Fabius”. Antichton 5: 49–56. Steuart, E. M. 1924. “Enniana”. CQ 18: 24–26. Steuart, E. M. ed. 1925. The Annals of Q. Ennius. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Stevenson, T. 2005. “Reading of Scipio’s Dictatorship in Cicero’s ‘De Re Publica’ (6.12)”. CQ 55: 140–152. Sumner, G. V. 1975. “Elections at Rome in 217 B. C.”. Phoenix 29: 205–259. Tandoi, V. 1974. “Donato e la Lupus di Nevio”. In Poesia latina in frammenti, Puccioni, G. ed., 263–273. Genoa: Istituto di Filologia Classica e Medievale. Tandoi, V. 1975. “Sul frammento neviano di Vibe (‘praet.’ 5 sg Klotz) in rapporto con Fabio Pittore”. In Gli storiografi tramandati in frammenti, Boldrini, S. ed., 61–71. Urbino: Argaglia. Thesleff, H. ed. 1965. The Pythagorean Texts. Abo: Abo Akademie. Timpanaro, S. 1950. “Romae regnare quadratae”. Maia 3: 26–32. Toynbee, A. J. 1985. L’eredità di Annibale. Turin: Einaudi. Toynbee, J. M. C. 1944. “Dictators and Philosophers in the first Century A. D.” G&R 13: 43–58. Traglia, A. ed. 1986. Poeti latini arcaici, vol. I. Turin: Unione Tipografico-Editrice Torinese. Trieber, C. 1894. “Zur Kritik des Eusebios I: Die Königstafel von Alba Longa”. Hermes 29: 124– 142. Vahlen, J. ed. 1928. Ennianae poesis reliquiae. Leipzig: Teubner. Vallet, G. 1964. “Caius Terentius Varron ou l’expression d’une antipathie chez Tite Live”. In Hommages à Jean Bayet, Renard, M. / Schilling, R. eds., 707–717. Brussels: Latomus. Valmaggi, L. ed. 1967. Ennio. I frammenti degli Annali. Turin: Loescher. Vervaet, F. J. 2007. “The Scope and Historic Signficance of the Lex Metilia de Aequando M. Minuci Magistri Equitum et Q. Fabi Dictatoris Iure (217 B. C. E.)”. SDHI 73: 197–232. Walbank, F. W. 1954. “The Construction of the Sixth Book of Polybius”. CQ 4: 97–122. Warmington, E. H. ed. 1967. Ennius and Caecilius. Remains of Old Latin, vol. 1. London: Heinemann. Wilcken, U. 1940. “Zur Entwicklung der römischen Diktatur”. Abhandlungen der Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, philosophisch-historische Klasse 1: 1–32.

8 CONSORT OR DESPOT? HOW TO DEAL WITH A QUEEN AT THE END OF THE ROMAN REPUBLIC AND THE BEGINNING OF THE PRINCIPATE Ann-Cathrin Harders* 1. “THE QUEEN OVER THE WATER” – THE IMAGE OF CLEOPATRA IN 18TH CENTURY ENGLAND With The Lives of Cleopatra and Octavia (1757) the successful English author Sarah Fielding, sister of the more famous Henry Fielding, turned for the first time to a historical subject. According to the author, the appeal of the subject consisted in “the strongest Contrast of any Ladies celebrated in History”.1 With regard to both form and content Fielding’s novel modelled itself on Plutarch’s Life of Antony, which was Fielding’s main source.2 Fielding follows the structure of the bioi paralleloi in pairing a Greek with a Roman character in her Lives, too. However, she differed from Plutarch in allowing her protagonists to speak for themselves. Cleopatra and Octavia are conjured up from the “gloomy Realms of Pluto” with the help of an “Eastern Sorcerer” so that they can tell their life-story: “And the only Shadow the imperious Queen of Egypt retained of her former Royalty was, the Permission granted her to take Place of Octavia, in the Recital of her Story.”3 It is clear where Fielding’s sympathies lie: the characteristic features of the last Lagidian are cruelty and hunger for power. She is presented as an egocentric femme fatale who makes use of her sexuality in order to make the most of her superior rank and to torment others.4 Mark Antony, who is still presented as a tragic hero in *

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I would like to thank the participants of the original conference, the editor and Matthias Haake (Münster) for their suggestions and criticism. The study expands on ideas concerning the behavior of Hellenistic queens in the city of Rome which were presented in the context of the conference “Augustae und Politik” (Zurich 2008). The contribution in question has appeared as Harders 2010. Fielding 1758: dedication. On Fielding, see Probyn 2004. As an example of Fielding’s critical treatment of Plutarch, see her remarks on Octavia’s mother: Fielding, 1758: 216 vs. Plut. Ant. 31.1; cf. Harders 2008: 267. It should be assumed that Fielding did not have to use translations and that she was, instead, working with the original text. Her translation of Xenophon’s Memorabilia and Apology were renowned; the Apology was still published in the 20th century (Socratic discourses. Plato and Xenophon, London 1937). Fielding 1758: vii. See, e. g., Cleopatra’s description of herself: “As I was born a Princess, my Father being King of Egypt, the Respect and Distance with which I was treated, instilled very early into my Mind

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Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra, in which he is doomed to failure due to the incompatibility of love and political reason, appears in Fielding’s work as a simpleton, who is unable to see through the queen. He succumbs to her oriental decadence and aligns himself with her eunuchs.5 The Roman Octavia, on the other hand, is presented as a model of stoic composure: she endures the loss of her first husband, as well as the tumultuous marriage to Antony and finally the death of her only son in a composed manner. Octavia serves the author as a model for the successful and dutiful enactment of traditional female roles – those of wife, sister and mother – which, moreover, interlink the domestic with the public sphere.6 As the opposite of the lust-driven, unrestrained Cleopatra, Fielding’s Octavia can be seen within the context of contemporaneous political debates. She offers “a position of active civic virtue for mid-eighteenth century women”.7 Moreover, Fielding’s double biography gains political significance against the background of the Seven Years’ War, in which England had been involved against France and North America since 1754, and it should be placed within a general discourse concerning ‘civic duties’ and ‘civic virtues’. The contrast between Egyptian monarchic decadence and Roman aristocratic virtue can be read as a contribution to the debates concerning the corrupting influence of continental customs and luxury à la française in England. A parallel is drawn between the end of the Roman Republic and the war with France: in the same way that Queen Cleopatra threatened the virtus of the vir Romanus Antony, thus French mœurs would emasculate the English citizen.8 The virtuous Octavia embodies an antidote to this foreign influence. It is noticeable that there is nothing in Fielding’s narrative that points to Octavia’s later role as the sister of an emperor. Instead, she appears as an aristocrat who is a worthy representative of her peer group. Cleopatra and Octavia thus also represent two political systems: the decadent continental monarch and the stoic English aristocrat.9 Since antiquity, the antagonistic presentation of Octavia and Cleopatra offered the possibility of formulating, personalizing and repeatedly updating very varied discourses, such as questions of identity and alterity, of irrationality and rationality, of orientalism and of gender ascriptions.10 Thus, Fielding’s Cleopatra narrative

5 6 7 8 9 10

the Notion, That to please myself was the sole Business of my Life, and that every one around me was born to be my Slave” (Fielding 1758: 10). Cf. Gadeken 1999: 524 and 528. Despite all the praise, it is, however, noticeable that Fielding devotes more than three times as much space to the reprobate Cleopatra than to the virtuous, but somewhat dull Octavia; cf. Gadeken 1999: 536. Gadeken 1999: 531. Cf. Gadeken 1999: 525–526. Fielding was not alone in her assessment; Gadeken refers to parallels between her argument and the writings of the influential clergyman John Brown (1715 to 1766). There is, however, no reference to the fact that Britain had been ruled by the foreign House of Hanover since 1714. The saving of the empire did not come about through the figure of a king but through the virtues of the English aristocracy. On the antagonistic presentation of Cleopatra and Octavia, see Pelling 1980: 138; Harders 2008: 296; Alonso Troncoso/García Vivas 2009. On the depictions of Cleopatra in the literature

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also highlights the despotic and foreign aspects of her character and these aspects serve as a foil for contemporaneous debates. In this process, the basic elements which are inherent to the conception of Cleopatra rest on the testimony of ancient authors and stem from a specific political constellation, that of the Roman civil war between Mark Antony and Octavian. In the context of this confrontation, the treatment of a queen was used as a touchstone for the political aims of the opponent and, based on this, an insurmountable difference was formulated between (Hellenistic) monarchy and Roman aristocracy.11 The way in which the ruler treated the woman at his side is instructive when making statements about the ruler himself as well as the character of the particular form of rule. In the Greek east, monarchies had been established in which queens were successfully integrated into the persona of the king and, more or less, complemented him.12 A non-Greek such as the Roman Antony could make productive use of this allocation of roles in his communication with the Greek poleis, as is to be shown in the first part of this paper. The second part is devoted to the city of Rome: from a Roman perspective, sole rulers, and Hellenistic kings in particular, were considered much more problematic. A monarchic system could not be reconciled with the res publica libera – the idea that a queen would rule Rome seemed virtually impossible. Octavian took this as his starting point in the political contests with Antony and he reacted to the latter’s representation in the east by conjuring up the image of Antony’s companion as a female despot in Rome. However, this strategy, which was ultimately successful, also revealed to Octavian the problem of how the woman at his side was to be treated after the establishment of his own monocracy. He himself had shown how antimonarchic discourse could be attached to a queen and he had devised a particular image of Cleopatra for this purpose. In the third part of this article the question is, thus, what language could be used for the Augusta in order to describe or criticize the monarchic system. Proceeding from the example of Cleopatra’s imago, a final conclusion will consider monarchic discourse in the Roman Republic and in Roman imperial times.

11

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of antiquity, see Becher 1966; on transformations after the end of antiquity, see, inter alia, Osterkamp 2006; Rhein 2006; Schuller 2006: 196–210; Bronfen 2013; Lulińska 2013. Modern historians have repeatedly alleged that Antony wanted to establish a monarchy based on the Hellenistic model; cf. Bengtson 1977: 164; Roberts 1988: 179; Chamoux 1989: 228; Nebelin 2008: 174 f. For a contrasting view, see Huzar 1978: 197; Halfmann 2011: 229. On this subject, see the expositions in Part II. Müller calls the Hellenistic queen “einen unverzichtbaren Teil der monarchischen Inszenierung” (2009: 2) and illustrates this using the example of Ptolemy II and Arsinoe II. On the basilissa as a complementary figure to the basileus, see also Roy 1998: 119–120. On the making of the Hellenistic queen see Harders 2013 and Harders (forthcoming).

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2. THE BASILISSA AS CONSORT After their victory at Philippi in 42 BCE Antony and Octavian marked out their future areas of responsibility while still in Greece. While Octavian returned to Italy, Antony assumed command for the Greek east. This division was confirmed as part of the Treaty of Brundisium in 40 BCE.13 Antony was faced with difficult tasks: the Parthians, against whom Caesar in his time had planned a campaign, were threatening to move westwards. In order to banish this threat, it was necessary first to stabilize Asia Minor: Brutus and Cassius had met with both approval and resistance and had thus unbalanced the distribution of powers between poleis, koina and dynasts that had been established by Pompey in 63 BCE.14 It was therefore left to the triumvir to keep the Parthians in check, acquire funds and lead poleis, koina and client kings back to Rome. Antony’s position within the triumvirate would have been strengthened by a successful re-ordering of the east as well as a victory against the Parthians, which would have represented retribution for the Roman defeat at Carrhae. In order to achieve this aim Antony accepted diplomatic and military difficulties and left the unpleasant task of providing for veterans, and thus, however, also better control over Rome and Italy, to Octavian.15 We are comparatively well informed about Antony’s activities in the Greek east, but his measures and, above all, his comportment are strongly colored by the retrospective view of the authors of imperial times: the impression conveyed is that Antony indulged in a life of leisure in the east and forgot about his duties as magistrate. Yet, in Athens and Asia Minor, Antony was not acting primarily for a Roman audience, but for and before a Greek public, and his behavior should be considered from its point of view. The most detailed account of his activities in the east is found in Plutarch’s Life of Antony.16 Plutarch reports that Antony came to Athens after the victory at Philippi and, despite his urgent tasks, behaved in a friendly and obliging manner towards the town. He visited scholars, agones and religious festivals. He did not, however, put aside his role as magistrate. Antony’s role as judge – an important 13

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On Antony’s policy regarding the east, see, above all, still Buchheim 1960; cf. also Syme 1939: 259–275; Huzar 1978: 148–168; Halfmann 2011: 106–127. The division of the spheres of activity into east/Antony versus west/Octavian should not be thought of as rigid and impervious, cf., for example, Octavian’s patronage of Aphrodisias (I.Aph2007 8.25, 9.29, 8.31–32); on this subject, see Millar 1973: 55–57. On Brutus and Cassius in Macedon and Asia Minor, see Cass. Dio 47.21.1–6; 26.1–2; 28.1–5; 30.1–4; 32–35; for a particularly vivid account the siege of Xanthos, which resisted: Cass. Dio 47.34.1–4; App. civ. 4.76–80 (its destruction and the collective suicide of the Xanthians as described by Appian were very probably modelled on Herodotus’ account of the siege by Harpagus: Hdt. 1.176; cf. App. civ. 4.80). Cf. Börm (forthcoming). On Octavian’s measures in Italy, see Bleicken 1999: 178–197. Though the Life of Antony serves as a negative example which was to edify the reader, its great value as a source derives from its sources, for example reports by Antony, Augustus’ autobiography and works by the contemporaries Q. Dellius and C. Asinius Pollio; cf. Plut. Demet. 1. See also Plut. Alex. 1.1–3 and Aem. 1.1–3 on Plutarch’s intention in narrating the Lives; see also Pelling 1980: 138. On the sources of the Life of Antony, see de Wet 1990.

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aspect of a good ruler in Plutarch’s view – is highlighted as is his generosity as a founder, which caused the citizens of neighboring Megara to also call on him.17 Antony’s diplomatic skill is illustrated by the fact that he showed himself to be so approachable to the city which had supported Brutus and Cassius in the unclear political situation following the Ides of March and which had erected statues of them alongside those of the tyrannicides Harmodius and Aristogeiton.18 Instead of setting a warning example, Antony, according to Plutarch, attached importance to being regarded as a philhellene, and, what is more, as a philathenaios. In doing so, the triumvir sent out a signal, valid beyond Athens, that the School of Hellas should in fact not be punished but should be treated generously and that consideration should be taken of its identity as a polis.19 Antony proceeded along similar lines in Asia Minor: Appian describes a circumspect magistrate, who tackled the re-ordering of Asia Minor and the Levant which had suffered from Brutus and Cassius’ campaign, but who first sacrificed to the Ephesian Artemis and pardoned those who had asked for asylum in the temple.20 A comprehensive program designed to strengthen the east followed: Laodicea by the Sea and Tarsus were declared free, the Rhodians and the Athenians, who were also present, received extensions to their territories, and the Lycians were granted exemption from duties. Furthermore, Antony had Xanthos resettled.21 In addition to ordering the Greek poleis, Antony put the relations between Rome and the client kings, ethne and dynasts in order. In doing so, rather than trusting the old dynasties, as Pompey had done in his time, he appointed foreign rulers, such as Polemon, who was first awarded Cilicia and then Pontus. The fact that kings such as Polemon were not deposed by Augustus but confirmed shows how successful Antony’s policies were.22 The strongest expression of the Greek cities’ reaction to Antony is found in Plutarch’s account of his entry into Ephesus: “women arrayed like Bacchanals, and 17 18 19 20 21

22

Plut. Ant. 23.2–4; on the significance for a good ruler of acting as a judge, see Plut. Demet. 42.3–6. Cass. Dio 47.20.4; on the fragment of the statue-base, see Raubitschek 1959; on Brutus and Cassius in Athens, see Habicht 2006: 391 392. On Antony in Athens, see Habicht 2006: 394–397; Rödel 2010: 100 f.; Halfmann 2011: 106. Welch 2006/7: 192, offers a structurally similar explanation of Antony’s dealings with the polis of Alexandria. App. civ. 5.4.15. Antony was harsh on those who had been involved in Caesar’s assassination and thus separated the internal politics of Rome from those of Asia Minor. App. civ. 5.4.16–7.31; Cass. Dio 48.24.1. On Antony’s stance towards the Jews, see Ios. ant. Iud. 14.12.2–6. When Antony’s appearance à la grecque is emphasised in the literary sources – Plutarch tells us of sycophants, feasts and love affairs (Ant. 24.1–3) – this can also be seen as evidence of aristocratic self-representation, according to Halfmann 2011: 109–111. Halfmann identifies the artists, referred to mainly by Plutarch, as part of a “Netzwerk indirekter Herrschaftsausübung” (116–118). As triumvir, Antony acted and signed his acts with reference to the Senate and people of Rome: cf. Ios. ant. Iud. 14.12.2–6; IAph2007 8.26; 8.29; on the Jewish delegation, see Halfmann 2011: 115. Cf. Bowersock 1965: 42–61; Dahlheim 2010: 116–118; Roller 2010: 91–92; Halfmann 2011: 139 and 148.

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men and boys like Satyrs and Pans, led the way before him, and the city was full of ivy and thyrsus-wands and harps and pipes and flutes.” In keeping with this, the Ephesians hailed the triumvir as Dionysus Charidotes and Meilichius.23 Antony later added the association with Dionysus to his Greek persona. Previously, Alexander the Great but also Mithridates IV and Ptolemy XII had adopted such an association. It pointed to Dionysus’ move east and it could be brought into accord with Antony’s mythical forefather, Heracles.24 Socrates of Rhodes reports that Antony used Dionysian attributes in Athens in the winter of 39/38 and ordered that he should be proclaimed as Neos Dionysos in the other cities.25 In addition, he appeared in Greek dress in the gymnasium and at lectures. Consequently, the Athenians had recourse to patterns which had proved themselves of value when dealing with Hellenistic rulers, such as the awarding of the office of gymnasiarch or the renaming of the Panathenaic Games of 39 as Antonieia.26 Following the political uncertainties during the civil wars, Antony preferred more cautious diplomacy: in certain contexts he behaved less like a magistrate towards the poleis and instead adapted his way of life and his dress to his surroundings. Thus, he moderated his demands for tribute at least through supplementary acts of communication. From a Greek perspective, the triumvir’s significant power, which could not be denied – Antony possessed imperium over the east for at least five years –, could best be compared to the position of a Hellenistic king and the poleis reacted to Antony in a corresponding way. In this context, Antony brought his wife Octavia into play, whom he had married following the negotiations at Brundisium.27 She took on the role of a quasi-basilissa alongside the quasi-basileus and she was thus honored in an exceptional way in Athens and Asia Minor. Such behaviour on the part of the Greeks was not, in principle, new: in their dealings with Roman governors and patrons in the course of the first century BCE, the poleis frequently included their wives and daughters in the honors even if these women had not actually left Italy. Pomponia, the wife of Q. Cicero, serves as an example of this practice: during her husband’s

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Plut. Ant. 24.3 (transl. B. Perrin): γυναῖκες μὲν εἰς Βάκχας, ἄνδρες δὲ καὶ παῖδες εἰς Σατύρους καὶ Πᾶνας ἡγοῦντο διεσκευασμένοι, κιττοῦ δὲ καὶ θύρσων καὶ ψαλτηρίων καὶ συρίγγων καὶ αὐλῶν ἡ πόλις ἦν πλέα, Διόνυσον αὐτὸν ἀνακαλουμένων χαριδότην καὶ μειλίχιον. See Halfmann 2011: 111. FGrHist 192 (Socrates of Rhodes), F2 = Athen. 4.29.148b–c. Cf. Huzar 1978: 195; Habicht 2006: 396–396; Halfmann 2011: 139 f. According to Chamoux 1989: 241, wearing Greek dress only served the purpose of relaxation. On the renaming of the games, see the ephebic inscription for the year 37/36 (IG II² 1043, 22 f.). On the office of the gymnasiarch, see Plut. Ant. 33.6 f.; App. civ. 5.72.322–333; in addition, see Fontani 1999: 199–202. According to Fontani, the acceptance of public offices is not compatible with the office of a Roman magistrate, especially as Antony appeared dressed accordingly; however, Antony’s behavior does not have to be read as ‘going native’ but to the effect that he paid respect to local practices. On Octavia and her marriage to Antony, see Harders 2008: 275–280; García Vivas 2013: 55– 61.

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governorship of Asia she was honored on Samos with two statues.28 The exceptional aspect of Antony’s stays in Athens was the fact that he took on the role of royal benefactor to the polis in a particular way and, moreover, that he integrated his wife into his Greek persona. Unlike Plutarch, who presents Octavia as a Roman matrona and contrast to Cleopatra, Appian emphasizes the structural similarities in Antony’s treatment of the two women before the public of the polis.29 The Athenian demos reacted to the triumvir and his wife as they had formerly reacted to a royal couple. Thus, Antony and Octavia together received divine honors. While Antony was honored as Neos Dionysos, Octavia was identified with Athena Polias.30 An honorific inscription names both of them as theoi euergetai, a title which was based on the honors for Antigonus Monophthalmus and Demetrius Poliorcetes but above all on the honors for Ptolemaic ruling couples.31 Antony made Octavia part of his association with Dionysus and had their initiation into the (probably Eleusinian) Mysteries represented on cistophori of the year 39/38.32 A depiction in the form of a jugate portrait of the two is found on the sestertius and the as of the so-called fleet coinage which was minted between 38 and 35 after the Treaty of Tarentum. On the reverse of the sestertius, Antony and Octavia are depicted as Poseidon and Amphitrite in a quadriga of hippocamps. The type adheres to the depiction of a Hellenistic ruling couple, but it includes a reference to the Roman office.33 The depiction of a living Roman woman was a novelty and it shows how clearly Antony integrated Octavia into his appearance in the east and how, in doing so, he played with the imago of a Hellenistic queen. There is no surviving evidence of criticism from Rome at that time, for example, from Octavian, whose sister was the first Roman woman to be given god-like honors – only Antony’s appearance as Neos Dionysos later became a political issue.

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29 30 31 32 33

Cf. Kajava 1990. On Pomponia, see IG XII 6.1 354; it is very likely that the second statue was erected in the context of the so-called Ciceronum Monumentum (IG XII 6.1 355), which showed the Cicero brothers with their wives and sons. Cf. Kajava 1990: 91–92 and 108. Habicht 2006: 394 refers to the honors which Antony’s followers, too, received. Amongst these, there are honors for the daughter of L. Atratinus, who was honored with statues in Athens and Eleusis (IG II² 4230; IG II² 4231 = I. Eleusis 292; IG II² 5179); on honors granted to female family members, see also Krumeich 2008: 362. App. civ. 5.76.322–324. Cf. Alonso Troncoso / García Vivas 2009: 12–13, 19. Preston 2008: 240, assigns life in Athens with Octavia to the private sphere (“quiet domestic life”); Goldworthy 2010: 280, takes a similar view. See Raubitschek 1946: 146–147 = AE 1952, 199 (based on Sen. suas. 1.6–7; cf. also Cass. Dio 48.39.2); followed by Habicht 2006: 396. Raubitschek 1946: 148–149. Cf. Kajava 1990: 71; Alonso Troncoso / García Vivas 2009: 19– 23. RPC I 2201; 2202; RRC 533/3. On the series, see Roberts 1988: 220–224; Alonso Troncoso / García Vivas 2009: 21 f.; Halfmann 2011: 140. The series were commissioned by L. Bibulus (RPC I 4088–4093), L. Atratinus (RPC I 1453– 1458) and M. Capito (RPC I 1462–1467). On the series, see Harders 2008: 285–287. On the presentation as a Hellenistic ruling couple, see Zanker 1987: 69; Kleiner 1996; Kunst 2008: 74–75; Alonso Troncoso / García Vivas 2009: 26–27.

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From 37/36 onwards, Cleopatra increasingly took on the role of female companion. In comparison to Octavia, the Ptolemaic ruler fulfilled this function in a way that was structurally similar but which was of a different quality: she was a ‘genuine’ basilissa, she came from a diadoch dynasty which claimed descent from Philip II of Macedon,34 and she was the regent of the most important and the wealthiest kingdom in the east. Cleopatra represents the culmination and the final step of Antony’s appearance according to the patterns of a basileus. This did not, however, make Antony a king: the triumvir continued to submit his political acts to the Senate for ratification. The detailed prior development has, moreover, shown that Antony’s bearing with the queen followed a particular line, which can be discerned from 42 BCE onwards and which cannot be explained by passion alone.35 Cleopatra, too, was interested in good relations with Antony. Since the death of her brother Ptolemy XIV shortly after her return from Rome in the spring of 44 BCE, Cleopatra had ruled together which her son Ptolemy XV called Caesarion.36 When Antony summoned her to Tarsus in 41 BCE to account for her support of Caesar’s assassins, she seized the opportunity to re-order the relationship between the Ptolemaic empire and Rome. In order to do so, she placed reliance on Hellenistic tryphe – her legendary appearance was described in detail by Socrates of Rhodes and by Plutarch:37 by presenting herself on her golden barge as Aphrodite and greeting Antony as Dionysus, she took on divine associations, with which above all the Ptolemaic rulers in the Greek east had presented themselves. In acting this way, Cleopatra did not subordinate herself to Antony’s Dionysus but faced him as a goddess. The asymmetric relationship between the Roman magistrate and the negligent amica et socia was thus turned into a meeting between individuals of equal rank.38 When Antony returned to the east from the meeting with Octavian at Tarentum in the autumn of 37 BCE, the queen was able to equip Antony with the urgently needed resources for the Parthian campaign.39 The failure of the Parthian cam34 35

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Cf. Curt. 9.8.22; Paus. 1.6.2; see, in addition, Huss 2001: 90. A view still taken in Dahlheim 2010: 106: “Er verfiel ihr”; see also Chamoux 1989: 238; Rice 1999: 52 f.; Schuller 2006: 178–181; Walker/Ashton 2006: 48; Preston 2008: 354; Goldworthy 2010: 268. For a contrasting view, see Huzar 1978: 154–155, 190–191; Roller 2010: 79–82; 90–94. Halfmann 2011: 228, rejects entirely any idea of a love affair: “Eher ein Teil herrscherlicher Selbstdarstellung von beiden Seiten, als dass sie eine echte Gefühlswelt widerspiegele”. Dolabella acknowledged her joint rule with her son: see Cass. Dio 47,31,5. FGrHist 192 (Socrates of Rhodes) F1 = Athen. 4.29.147e–148b; Plut. Ant. 26–27. On this matter, see Heinen 2009: 319–323. Cleopatra’s father, Ptolemy XII, had himself addressed as Neos Dionysos; Arsinoe II and Berenice II are prominent examples of associations with Aphrodite (see Huzar 1978: 195; Hölbl 2004: 97–99). Cleopatra’s success is illustrated, on the one hand, by the fact that a dangerous source of trouble such as Arsinoe IV, who had been granted asylum in the Ephesian Artemision, as well as a man who claimed to be Ptolemy XIII and the former strategos of Cyprus, Serapion, died at Antony’s instigation (see Hölbl 2004: 216; Roller 2010: 79; Halfmann 2011: 125). Moreover, Antony spent the winter in Alexandria; in the following year, Cleopatra gave birth to Alexander Helios and Cleopatra Selene, whom Antony acknowledged as his children in 37. As a return service, the triumvir decreed that the Ptolemaic queen’s area of influence should be extended (Plut. Ant. 36.2 f.).

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paign as well as problems in acquiring supplies from Italy meant that Antony became more dependent on Cleopatra’s support than before, and the Ptolemaic queen expected her efforts to be recognised accordingly. The victory over Artavasdes of Armenia was celebrated with a pompe in Alexandria. The donations from Antony which were bestowed in Alexandria’s gymnasium followed in the autumn of 34. They confirmed Cleopatra’s and Caesarion’s rule over Egypt and Cyprus and provided for Antony and Cleopatra’s children to become client kings of areas in the east which, for the most part, had yet to be conquered. It was not unusual for local rulers to be appointed as administrators of areas conquered by the Romans instead of a province being established. In this case, however, the fact that the appointed persons were the woman with whom the triumvir appeared in public and the couple’s children became a political issue.40 Apart from the distribution in the gymnasium, which was submitted to the Senate for ratification, Antony presented himself in a demonstrative way as privatus and as a guest in Alexandria. In doing so, he showed consideration for Cleopatra’s status as an (at least officially) autonomous ruler, on the one hand, and demonstrated his respect for the polis and its self-confident citizens on the other. As he had done in Athens, he also took on the office and the euergetic duties of the gymnasiarch in Alexandria and he appeared at readings and agones and in Greek dress.41 Antony and Cleopatra’s staging as a couple increasingly gained strength outside Egypt as well. Antony now also appeared with Cleopatra at military reviews in Asia Minor, such as the grand festivities on Samos. The couple were also depicted on coins.42 During their visit together to Athens in the spring of 32, Cleopatra acted as benefactor and was honored accordingly. Plutarch gives this euergetism as an example of Cleopatra’s jealousy of Octavia, but the Athenians would probably have been surprised had they received a Ptolemaic monarch who differed from her predecessors in not acting as a benefactor. They reacted by giving the couple divine honors and by erecting statues on the acropolis.43

40 41

42

43

On the donations, see Plut. Ant. 54.3–6; Cass. Dio 49.41.1–4. In addition, see Huzar 1977: 197–200; Welch 2006/07: 190–192; Strootmann 2010; García Vivas 2013: 161–166. Thus also already in the winter of 41/40: App. civ. 5.11.43. Cf. Cass. Dio 50.5.1–4. On this matter, see Welch 2006/07: 190–192; on the significance of the capitol’s population, see also Mittag 2000. It is doubtful whether Antony actively had himself presented as Osiris alongside Cleopatra’s Isis in Alexandria. There are sources for this in the case of Cleopatra (Plut. Ant. 54.6; Cass. Dio 50.5.3; 50.25.3), not, however, for Antony. It is debatable whether such an association would automatically have resulted; cf. Brenk 1992. Plut. Ant. 56. Cf. Walker/Ashton 2006: 7 f. On the coins, for example from Chalcis and Antioch on the Orontes, see Walker/Higgs 2001: 233 and 236; Ashton 2008: 162 f. The situation is similar with regard to the joint visit to Patras in the winter of 32 (Cass. Dio 50.9.3); the town minted coins with the bust of Cleopatra; see Haug 2008: 408. Jones 2011 connects an altar dedication to Cleopatra VII in Teos with her visit to Samos. Plut. Ant. 57.1–3. Setting up of the statues: Cass. Dio 50.15.2. On the relationship between Athens and the Ptolemies, see Habicht 1992 and Habicht 2006: 243–245; on Cleopatra in Athens, see Plut. Ant. 57.1–3; on this matter, Habicht 2006: 397. Bringmann 1995: 48 f. follows Plutarch’s interpretation.

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Antony’s appearance with Cleopatra shows that the idea of a Hellenistic queen did not automatically have negative connotations for a Roman – it depended above all on the context in which it was employed. Psychologizing attempts at interpretation which consider Antony’s bearing as hedonism, affected philhellenism or an erotic reaction to Cleopatra fall short of the mark and do not recognize the communication context in which Antony was operating.44 The interaction between the poleis and the Roman magistrates followed co-ordinates which had developed from the interaction between Hellenistic monarchs and their wives. Antony knew how to utilize this and incorporated Hellenistic royal aspects into his appearance; the woman at his side formed part of these. The result was a policy which was extremely personalized and perhaps so successful for this reason. It is likely that Octavian, with Livia at his side, would hardly have acted differently.45 Furthermore, Antony was capable of making a clear distinction between his personae, as his ‘Roman’ appearances in Brundisium and Tarentum as well as at the beginning of the Parthian campaign in Athens show. Problems were inherent to Antony’s manner of behavior in so far as it was not always possible in the east to distinguish between the addressee and the role play including the queen, either, and the roles were taken on, in part, before a mixed audience. Romans who were present might have misinterpreted the actions of the triumvir. Antony’s initial success legitimized his behavior, but the defeat at the hands of the Parthians and the focus on Egyptian resources led to the ‘Greek’ Antony losing acceptance and his association with the basilissa being questioned more strongly. In the process his female companion could easily be given a new interpretation as a despot.46 3. THE BASILISSA AS DESPOT The political agitation against Antony and Cleopatra before the Battle of Actium is only discernible in the later sources, at the earliest in those from the Augustan period. It can be assumed, however, that authors were going back to the patterns of the 44 45

46

As in Bengtson 1978: 154–160; Chamoux 1989: 228 f.; Rice 1999: 52 f.; Preston 2008: 205; Goldworthy 2010: 264. As already argued by Syme 1939: 273; see also Halfmann 2011: 110. Livia and Octavian were honored with statues in Eleusis – probably in the context of Octavian’s initiation into the mysteries – only a short while after Actium. This is the first attested honor for the couple in the east; see SEG XXIV 212 = I. Eleusis 296, in addition Schmalz 2009: No. 113. On the veneration of Livia in the east after the Battle of Actium, see Part IV. The marriage of Antony’s eldest daughter to Pythodorus of Tralles completes this picture; cf. Huzar 1978: 157. On Antony’s position in the east, see Huzar 1978: 156–167; Williams 2003: 87. Plutarch and Cassius Dio emphasize that Cleopatra was the cause of L. Munatius Plancus and M. Titius’ betrayal (Plut. Ant. 58.4; Cass. Dio 50.3.1–3). It is not mentioned, however, that after the declaration of war c. 300–400 senators also fled to Antony. It is, therefore, doubtful that the threat of an “Egyptianised “Antony and a regina Cleopatra was as convincing to tota Italia as Augustus famously later put it; cf. Huzar 1978: 201–202; Halfmann 2011: 186 and 191; see also Zanker 2009: 68 f. where reference is made to Plut. mor. 56E. Ferriès 2007: 274–297, lists defectors and followers.

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civil war period.47 The accusations and the topoi chosen follow unified concepts and show that Octavian took up Antony’s behavior, developed in and for the east, and was able to distort it with a Roman public in mind. The modern notion of propaganda, however, can only be used with difficulty for this phase of Octavian’s politics. There is no evidence in Roman antiquity for a central agency which steered events and which implemented one interpretation widely in Rome and Italy in a ‘top down’ fashion.48 However, the situations, described above all in historiography, in which Octavian explained his position and his course of action to the Senate and the army seem plausible. The speeches which are reproduced may be imaginary, but the line of argument is consistent, so that it is possible to infer what the contemporaneous arguments were through which Octavian turned an illegitimate attack on his colleague into a bellum iustum.49 In doing so, he took as his starting point the themes of ‘monarchy’, ‘gender’ and ‘Egyptian alterity’. Antony’s staging of himself and Cleopatra as a couple, which he had exploited for the Greek sphere, was successfully transferred to the Roman arena by Octavian, who was, furthermore, able to present Antony as the compliant puppet of a foreign despot. The whole idea of a ruling couple was incompatible with the institutions of the res publica Romana. Only the Etruscan kings had had queens.50 But now Antony even intended to install a foreign female ruler! Caesar had already provided cause for speculation that he was pushing for the establishment of a monarchy in Rome according to a Hellenistic model because of, amongst other things, his relationship with Cleopatra. Shortly after Caesar’s assassination, Octavian was still able to build on virulent antimonarchic prejudice and to successfully augment this with the elements of female rule and Egypt.51 47

48 49

50

51

See, for example Pöschl 1991: 94, on Horace in particular; Zwierlein 1974: 58 and Turner 2010 on Lucan; Gurval 1995: 198 f., on Propertius; Wyke 2002: 195–200, on Augustan literature in general. On the mutual accusations and hostilities, see Scott 1929; Scott 1933; on Antony’s accusations against Octavian, see Charlesworth 1933; Huzar 1982: 655 f. On the modes of creating a negative image, see Pina Polo 2010: 89 f. Cf. Weber/Zimmermann 2003; Enenkel/Pfeijffer 2005. Such terminology is, however, still used in Nebelin 2008: 155, and Nebelin 2011. The lead sling-bullets from the siege of Perusia, on which the crude slogans from both sides were scratched, bear witness to the way in which political invectives were also absorbed amongst soldiers and employed in combat; see CIL XI 6721; cf. Mart. 11.20. On the Perusinae glandes, see Hallett 1977; on Fulvia, see below. The possibility should at least not be excluded that the accusations against Cleopatra were absorbed in a similar way. An exception is found, for example, in the sacral sphere in the case of the flamen Dialis, who could only carry out his duties with the flaminica; see Harders 2014a: 26–31. In Roman literature Etruscan queens did not enjoy great respect: queen Amata had tried, in the interest of Turnus, to prevent the union between Aeneas and Lavinia. Gurval 1995: 237, lists Amata along with Dido and Cleopatra as one of the three reginae who are presented as a threat to Rome in Vergil’s Aeneid but who fail and die. Cf. Suet. Div. Iul. 52.3; 79.4; Plut. Caes. 60.2 f.; 64,3; Cass. Dio 44.15.3 f.; Nik. Dam. 20.68; see also Cic. Att. 2.18.1; 2.19.3. Cf. Gelzer 2008: 275 f.; on Cleopatra as Caesar’s guest in Rome, see Harders 2010: 64–68; on antimonarchic polemic after Caesar, see Erskine 1990: 114.

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The reinterpretation of the relationship between the triumvir and his female companion can be shown well in Cassius Dio’s writings: the joint appearance at the agora, at festivals and at court is described as the subordination of the Roman magistrate to the Ptolemaic queen. Antony is said to have himself assigned her the title of queen and ruler.52 The basilissa is said to rule not only over Antony, but to also command Roman soldiers as part of her bodyguard. Antony himself apparently followed her litter on foot and thus placed himself amongst the royal eunuchs.53 The acceptance of the gymnasiarchia in Alexandria is also put down to Cleopatra’s influence – the fact that Antony had already accepted such an office in Athens is not criticized, however. In the same way, that he had fallen under the queen’s spell, Antony had also succumbed to the Greek-Egyptian way of life, apparently considered himself as Dionysus and Osiris and aspired to establishing a monarchy marked by oriental influence, as he already referred to his headquarters as a royal palace.54 Dio and Florus point out his frequent change of dress and equip the triumvir with the appropriate accessory, an oriental curved dagger (ἀκινάκης/acinaces). It is not clear in this context whether this represents an allusion to the sickle-sword, which formed part of the pharaohs’ insignia of rule,55 the insinuation being that Antony was having himself depicted as pharaoh. It is also conceivable that it represents a recourse to a weapon considered typically Persian in order to give Antony more generally the appearance of an oriental despot who had discarded the Roman gladius.56 Florus describes Antony more clearly than Dio as a Hellenistic basileus who wears purple garments hung with precious stones and even puts on the diadem in order “to make him a king dallying with a queen”.57 Lack of sexual control and magic are identified as the catalyst for Antony’s behaviour. The appearance of Antony and Cleopatra as a couple is turned into the motif of a man who subordinates himself to the woman he loves. Even if this interpretation made Antony an interesting subject for the writers of elegiac love verse58 and to the reception in post antiquity, its explosive effect was revealed in the area of politics: if Antony was in love and, for this reason, forgot his romanitas, he had lost his ability to take decisions as magistrate and could be, at least officially, neglected 52 53 54 55 56

57 58

See Cass. Dio 50.4–6. On the title βασιλίς τε αὐτὴ καὶ δέσποινα, see Cass. Dio 50.5.1. See also Hor. epod. 9.11–14; Prop. 4.6.22. See also the comparison with Heracles and Omphale in Plut. Ant. et. Demet. 3.3. Cass. Dio 50.5.1–3. Cf. Serv. Aen. 8.696, according to whom Antony places his legions under Cleopatra’s command. Cass. Dio 50.5.2; Flor. 2.21.3 [4.11]. In the temple complex of Kom Ombo there is a representation of Ptolemy VIII receiving such a sickle-sword from the Egyptian god Haroeris as a symbol of victory; cf. De Morgan 1895: No. 462; pictured in Pfeiffer 2008: 82. The term is of Persian origin and is used by Herodotus and Xenophon to refer to typical Persian short swords (Hdt. 3.118; Xen. an. 1.2.27). Horace placed acinaces in Media (Hor. c. 1.27.5). A weapon of this kind was also kept in the Parthenon (IG I³ 349.59; 351.17). According to Cassius Dio, Caracalla called his pet lion Akinakes (epit. 79.7.2). Flor. 2.21.3 [4.11] (transl. E. S. Forster): ut regina rex et ipse fueretur. On the diadem as the insignia of Hellenistic kings, see Haake 2012. On Antony as amator in Propertius’ work, see Gurval 1995: 183 f. and 189.

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as an opponent.59 Thus, the danger did not emanate from Antony but from Cleopatra. While Antony, as amator, was incapable of action, Cleopatra was supposedly planning the conquest of Rome and with it the implementation of a culture which, from a Roman perspective, was considered inferior and of an unacceptable system of rule. This take-over was envisioned on different levels; on the one hand, on the religious level: Vergil and Propertius employ the image of Anubis yapping at Capitoline Jupiter.60 Interestingly, Cleopatra is not represented as the incarnation of Isis and thus the opposition that is evoked is not one between man and woman. Instead Egypt and Rome are contrasted in the form of anthropomorphic and theriomorphic deities. In doing so, the poets fall back on a stereotypical, negatively connotated conceptionalization of Egyptian cults in Rome – unlike with regard to Isis, for whom the triumviri had themselves consecrated a temple as recently as 43 BCE.61 This religious component of the conflict could also be made to appear ridiculous, for example by presenting Cleopatra as rattling the sistrum, a cultic instrument of the priests of Isis, at the legions’ tubae.62 The power struggle, which was really an internal Roman conflict, was finally stylized into a conflict between east and west: with Nile against Tiber, Capitoline Hill against Canopus, and with Cleopatra being promoted to the incarnation of Asia.63 Cleopatra was said to base her claim to Rome on the sexual favors she had 59

60 61

62 63

For this reason, Halfmann 2011: 222, doubts the historicity of Antony’s Liebestod in Cleopatra’s arms (Plut. Ant. 76.4–79.7). The eros-motif is found in different media: according to Walker 2006: 188–190 (see also Walker 2004), it provides the key for a re-identification of the groups of figures on the so-called Portland Vase. While one side shows Antony’s seduction by Cleopatra in the shape of Isis, the other side focusses on the abandoned Octavia, to whom Octavian and their ancestress Venus address words of encouragement. For a different view, see, e. g., Ashmole 1967; Simon 1975; Harrison 1992; Haynes 1995 and Hind 1995, who identify either mythological scenes or the union of Atia and Apollo in the shape of a snake. Walker’s interpretation, however, would fit into the thematic context of Augustan literature, which emphasizes the antagonism between Cleopatra and Octavia and on the seduction of Antony. Prop. 3.11.41; Verg. Aen. 8.698. Cf. also Cass. Dio 50.24.6. On the perception of Egyptian cults in Rome, see Smelik/Hemelrijk 1984: 1855. On the temple of Isis and Serapis in Rome: Cass. Dio 48.15.4. After the capture of Memphis, Octavian refused to pay his respects to the Apis bull (Cass. Dio 51.16.5; Suet. Aug. 93), although he was presented as Pharaoh in front of the bull; see Smelik/Hemelrijk 1984: 1927. Anth. Lat. I 1.460.1–4; Prop. 3.11.43; Verg. Aen. 8.696; Manil. 1.918. Cf. Becher 1966: 52–54; Wyke 2002: 207. Ov. met. 15.826–828; Prop. 3.11.39, 42; 4.6.63. Cf. Cass. Dio 50.27.2. It is noticeable that Canopus and not Alexandria or Memphis are contrasted with the Capitol. According to Smelik/ Hemelrijk 1984: 1929, and Heyworth/Morwood 2011: 212, Canopus serves as a symbol of splendor, festivals and brothels, so precisely not as a symbol of the “seat of government” or a cultic site. The Sibylline Oracles, concerning the scope and the way they were exploited of which one can only speculate, have also been placed in this context. In the Oracles, it is announced that a widow will rule the world and that this will be the beginning of a Golden Age and Asia will triumph over Rome (Or. Sib. 3.75–92; 350–380). The woman is not named, but it can be assumed that both sides cited the Oracles as a promise or a threat; for this view, see Wyke 2002: 201–204; Schäfer 2006: 193 f. For a different view, see Buitenwerf 2003, who does not date the texts to second-century Alexandria, but instead assigns them to first-century Asia Minor following the Mithridatic Wars (222).

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granted Antony.64 The take-over of the Capitoline Hill represented the pretium libidinum or dos for the scandalous and illegitimate marriage to Antony.65 The possibilities of a close sexual relationship, which Cleopatra made use of first with Caesar and then with Antony, are interpreted as prostitution, only that in this case the price is said to be particularly high as Antony surrenders the military successes of the res publica.66 The political agitation is increased to a maximum when it is envisioned that Rome is to be ruled by a queen who intends to take over the tasks of the magistrates: “As truly as I will one day dispense justice on the Capitoline Hill!” is said to have been Cleopatra’s strongest wording for taking an oath.67 Horace, too, juxtaposes Capitolinum and regina “wie ein Oxymoron”68 in his Cleopatra Ode and thus highlights the hybris of her plan. In a speech to the troops by Octavian, Cassius Dio pictures the misery that would prevail in Rome after Cleopatra’s victory. Octavian does not call his opponent by name; reference is simply made to the queen, the woman or the Egyptian woman.69 In this context, antimonarchic aspects go hand in hand with the Egyptian factor and gender ascriptions and reinforce each other. Octavian refers to the successes of the ancestors and pictures how the formerly strong Rome is to be made effeminate through Alexandrian customs.70 The climax of this development is represented by the subordination to a queen, of all people, of the society which defined itself through the banishment of kings.71 In the res publica Romana, women were not intended to rule: potestas, be it that of the magistrate or of the paterfamilias, could only be exercised by men.72 Free women did have civic rights and were able to own property, and they were thus by 64 65

66 67 68 69 70 71

72

Prop. 3.11.39; Plin. nat. 9.119; cf. Liv. per. 132. Prop. 3.11.31; Verg. Aen. 8.688; Martial. 4.11.4; Flor. 2.21.2 [4.11.2]; Anth. Lat. I 1.460.1–4; Manil. 1.915; Cass. Dio 50.4.1. On Cleopatra’s sexual and alcoholic excesses, see Hor. c. 1.37.14; epod. 9.15–16; Prop. 3.11.30, 45, 56. A regular marriage to Antony does not seem to have taken place and the claim that it did belongs to the realm of invective. The passage in Suet. Aug. 69.2, which is used as evidence, should, following Kraft 1967, be read as a question on the part of Antony (uxor mea est?); moreover, as peregrina, Cleopatra did not possess conubium. Roller 2010: 167 f. argues that Cleopatra was a Roman citizen, but does not give evidence for his thesis. On the discussion of Antony and Cleopatra’s marriage, see Ager 2013. Cass. Dio 50.24.3; cf. Prop. 4.6.37–46. Cass. Dio 50.5.4: ποιεῖσθαι τὸ ἐν τῷ Καπιτωλίῳ δικάσαι. Cf. Ov. met. 15.826–828; Manil. 1.917; Eutrop. 7.7.1. See Pöschl 1991: 79 on Hor. c. 1.37.6–8. In addition, see also Mader 1989: 184: “a queen is too awful, a rex is bad enough.” Cf. Prop. 3.11.47–50, on which see Heyworth/Morwood 2011: 214 f. On the speech: Cass. Dio 50.24.1–27.6. Cf. Prop. 3.11; 4.6; Hor. c. 1.37; epod. 9; Verg. Aen. 8.685–713, who do not specify Cleopatra by name; on this, see Wyke 2002: 205. Cass. Dio 50.24.3–7. See Wyke 2002: 108. Cf., for example, Verg. Aen. 8.47–49; Hor. epod. 9.11 f.; see also Octavian in Cass. Dio 50.24.3, who emphasizes that in Pyrrhus, Philip V, Perseus and Antiochus III, Rome has defeated important kings and should not now be afraid of a woman. See also the downright programmatic remarks in Tac. ann. 1.1 on the Roman concept as a res publica libera. In his brief passage on Cleopatra, Martin 1994: 45 f., only discusses the aspect of orientalism. Cf. Harders 2008: 73–78.

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all means able to exert power informally and indirectly.73 The division between the sexes, however, reflected a fundamental order of who was able to wield power in Rome and who was not.74 This fundamental social order would be called into question in a monarchic system, and it could not just reverse the structures of authority but also the basic relationship between the sexes – a possible consequence of this chain of links was the, in Roman eyes, monstrous concept of the queen as ruler. Furthermore, the threat of sole rule by Cleopatra contradicted the principle of aristocratic equality and was considered synonymous with slavery and emasculation: “Who would not groan at hearing that Roman knights and senators fawn upon her like eunuchs?”, asks Octavian according to Cassius Dio.75 During the Perusine War, Fulvia had already illustrated the problem posed by a woman who was active on a military plane and thus breached the gender boundaries. In historiographical texts, Fulvia is, accordingly, described as an anomaly.76 Nevertheless, Fulvia derived her political influence from her husband and she was a Roman aristocrat, not a foreign queen who allegedly endeavored to subjugate Rome. It was, therefore, possible to attack Antony’s masculinity (as it was possible to attack Octavian’s, who had to deal with Fulvia), but he was still considered a Roman. The triumvir dominated by the queen, Cleopatra, however, was presented by Octavian as an effeminate, cymbal-playing Serapion from Canopus, who might no longer be considered a vir Romanus.77 Regina ante portas! thus became a battle cry which warned of total social and political disintegration. Horace resorts to the notion of the (fatale) monstrum in order to conceive of Cleopatra’s plan of a fundamental destruction of the Roman order. The expression is found in Florus’ work, too, possibly taken over from Livy. Florus uses it to describe Antony, who, forgetting all things Roman and thus Republican, such as patria, nomen, toga and fasces, turns himself into a Hellenistic king in order to become like the basilissa Cleopatra. In doing so, Horace and Florus used the same term as Cicero, who had called Catilina, Clodius and finally Antony monstrum and, in doing so, had evoked the image of a force which was as fascinating as it was repellent and which turned against the divine and natural order as it was manifested in the res publica.78 It was of no significance for the effectiveness of the arguments in Rome that the stylized representation of the queen as a military opponent did not, at the same time, 73 74 75 76 77 78

Cf., for example, Servilia, who succeeded in changing a Senatus Consultum (Cic. Att. 15.14.1– 2; 15.15.1). On women’s possibilities of influence during the Republic and the imperial period, see Leonhardt 2010; Kunst 2010 and Harders 2014b. On this subject, see the essential contributions Thomas 1993 and Thomas 1996. Cass. Dio 50.25.1 (tr. E. Cary): τίς δ᾽ οὐκ ἂν στενάξειεν ἀκούων ἱππέας καὶ βουλευτὰς Ῥωμαίων κολακεύοντας αὐτὴν ὥσπερ εὐνούχους; On the virilism discourse in Rome, see Meyer-Zwiffelhoffer 1995: 106–108. Martial. 11.20; App. civ. 5.59; Cass. Dio 48.4.1–5. Cf. Wyke 2002: 220. Cass. Dio 50.27.2–6. Hor. c. 1.37.21; Flor. 2.21.3 [4.11.3]. Cf. Cic. Catil. 2.1; Cael. 12–14; har. 26; Phil. 13.49. The expression is already found used for Verres: Cic. Verr. 2.2.79; 2.2.158; 2.3.171; 2.4.47; 2.5.145. On the semantics of monstrum, see Luce 1963: 252–254; Pöschl 1991: 91–93.

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reflect the actual relations of power in Egypt. Cleopatra did not rule Egypt alone but together with her brother, who was also her husband, and later with her son. Although, their political power was negligible because of their youth, the sole rulership of a woman was unthinkable in the east even in the late Hellenistic period.79 However, in Octavian’s political agitation prior to the Battle of Actium and during the triumphal procession of 29 BCE, which took place without any reference to Ptolemy XV,80 the focus was on Cleopatra alone. The mere possibility in Hellenistic monarchies of female rulership automatically served to delegitimize this form of rule from a Roman perspective. Antony’s plans cannot be clearly discerned, either. However, apart from Octavian’s defamations, there is no evidence for the idea that he planned to take over Rome as king together with or even under Cleopatra. His behavior in the east cannot be interpreted as evidence for the desire to establish a Hellenistic basileia or an independent “eastern kingdom”. Instead, it should be understood as evidence of a particular political communication strategy and aristocratic self-representation which was guided by local expectations.81 Thus, despite his association with Dionysus, Antony neither changed his name nor gave up the reference to his office and his acclamations as imperator. Cleopatra also profited from Antony’s strategy in the east. She made use of the possibilities granted to her in order to extend her position as Rome’s most powerful socius et amicus in the east. However, both she and Antony will have realized that her position was dependent on the triumvir.82 It was thus possible to argue about the allotment of territory to the Ptolemaic family which Antony had submitted to the Senate for ratification, but they would hardly have stirred up the Senate enough to legitimize a civil war against a former consul. Antony’s strongly personalized policies in the east were thus distorted when Octavian projected Antony’s asset, the basilissa by his side, onto a new context and denounced the triumvir as a eunuch-like executor of a regina and champion of Egyptian royal rule in Rome. With a dramatic gesture, Octavian finally completed the picture of the res publica as being assaulted by despotic machinations: a month after the deaths of Antony and Cleopatra, he made M. Tullius Cicero the Younger his co-consul. In doing 79 80

81

82

Cf. Gehrke 2005: 115. Caesar had acknowledged Ptolemy XIV and Cleopatra as ruling couple; see Cass. Dio 43.27.3; Suet. Div. Iul. 35.1. On the triumphal procession, see Cass. Dio 51.21.8. Caesarion had been murdered in Egypt (Suet. Aug. 17.5; Plut. Ant. 81; Cass. Dio 51.6.1 f.; 51.15.5; Oros. 6.19.19); it can only be speculated what reaction the sight of Caesar’s son as part of the triumphal procession would have triggered. Officially, war had been declared on Cleopatra and not on Ptolemy XV; see Reinhold 1981/1982. On Octavian’s treatment of Antony and Cleopatra’s children afterwards, see Harders 2009. However, see, for example, Harrison 1997: 75 f.(who considers Vergil’s assessment in the description of the shield for historically plausible), Preston 2008: 356–358, and Nebelin 2008: 178 (who interprets the Donations of Alexandria as a “gemeinsam vorgetragene Utopie einer unabhängigen zweiten Macht im Mittelmeerraum”). A contrasting view is, however, already found in Syme 1939: 273–275, and now in Halfmann 2011: 108–110, 228 f. Antony did not succumb to all of Cleopatra’s wishes, as can be seen in his dealings with Herod; cf. Roller 2010: 118–122.

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so, Octavian made use of the same metaphor as Caesar’s assassins, of all people, who, bloody daggers still in hand, had called out Cicero’s name in order to mark the end of the tyrant and the rescue of the res publica libera.83 It was a cynical gesture: Octavian had supported the murder of the elder Cicero and Q. Cicero pater and filius had also fallen victim to the proscriptions. M. Cicero the Younger himself had first fled to Brutus and Cassius and, after Philippi, to Sex. Pompeius. The idea that the consulship of a member of Cicero’s family – especially consulship by the grace of Octavian – was now supposed to represent the saving of the res publica would have done little to please the consul of the year 63. His son, by contrast, read the death of Antony according to Octavian’s report from the rostra and made his career under Augustus.84 The treatment of the concept of a basilissa, on the other hand, experienced a new turn after the death of Cleopatra. In the discussion of the vanquished queen, a further, different monarchic discourse is reflected. While the rule of a regina was vehemently rejected, it was possible in Rome to admire the dying queen, who through her death admitted to her defeat. Her very refusal to be exhibited in triumph in Rome and her decision to commit suicide are emphasized by ancient authors.85 In death, Cleopatra, who had previously been defamed as meretrix regina, was placed alongside those kings whose behavior was praised as exemplary. Monarchic systems and monarchs were, thus, not rejected as such, but only when they threatened the res publica. With regard to a particular ‘kingly’ behavior, monarchs who had been defeated by or who were allied with Rome could be judged in a positive as well as in a negative way. Thus, Valerius Maximus is able to list the Seleucid Antiochus III as a positive example while Perseus of Macedon was considered undignified as he had not been capable of killing himself after his defeat and was instead paraded in triumph.86 These two possible ways of treating kings are entwined in a congenial way in Horace’s carmen 1.37. The poet strikes an antimonarchic note in the very first line, ‘Nunc est bibendum’, as Horace translates the beginning of a poem by Alcaeus into Latin.87 In doing so, he evokes Alcaeus’ resistance to the tyrant Myrsilos of Myt83 84 85

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Cic. Phil. 2, 28, 30. Cf. Cass. Dio 44.22.4. Cicero as suffect consul alongside Octavian on the 30th September 30 BCE: Plin. nat. 22.13; Plut. Cic. 49.6; App. civ. 4.51.221; Cass. Dio 51.19.4. On the speech, see App. civ. 4.51.221. Cf. Sen. benef. 4.30.2. Cicero filius distinguished himself in the Senate through motions hostile to Antony (Plut. Cic. 49.6; Cass. Dio 51.19.3); later, he acted as legate in Syria (App. civ. 4.221). On Cicero the Younger, see Hanslik 1948. It is futile to speculate about the manner of Cleopatra’s death (most recently Mebs/Schäfer 2008); Kostuch 2009 advocates seeing the poisonous snakes as part of a retrospective embellishment and that they refer to Africa, the pharaoship and Cleopatra’s defeat. On Cleopatra’s death, see Strab. 17.795; Liv. per. 133; fr. 54; Plut. Ant. 76–77; 84–86; Gal. ant. 8 = XIV, 235–237 Kühn; Flor. 2.11.9–11; Cass. Dio 51.10–14; Oros. 6.19.17–18. On Antiochus III: Val. Max. 2.10.2a; 4,1,ext. 9. On Perseus, see Cic. Tusc. 5.118; Plut. Aem. 34; mor. 198B; on Paullus’ triumph: Diod. 31.8.12; Liv. 45.40.1–8; Plut. Aem. 33 f. Erskine 1991: 118, does not see the development of antimonarchic tendencies in Rome until the second century BCE and considers its origins to lie in military encounters with the Hellenistic kings. Alc. 332 LP = 39 D; on this, see Pöschl 1991: 74 f.

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ilene and thus classes the fight against Cleopatra as a victory against a tyrant, too.88 The first part of the poem is dominated by the negative image of the queen: her attack on the Capitol is declared to be the destruction of Rome, she is raging and drunk like a maenad (c. 1.37.10–12: inpotens, ebria, furor), surrounded by eunuchs – a fatale monstrum that only Caesar Augustus was able to banish. Yet, in verse 21 the tone changes: it is now possible to present the vanquished spectre as a worthy opponent, who accepts her defeat calmly (c. 1.37.26: voltu sereno) and who bravely refuses to be humiliated as a privata in the triumphal procession: deliberata morte ferocior (c. 1.37.29).89 Cleopatra regains her royal dignity through her suicide and is now praised by Horace as non humilis mulier (c. 1.37.32). Cleopatra’s refusal to be presented in Rome finds its final representation in the Actian-Alexandrian triumph of 29 BCE. Octavian did not forego the opportunity of including an effigy of Cleopatra. Propertius stresses the fact that there were snakes coiled round the statue. Cleopatra was thus depicted at the moment in which she killed herself and in which, in the eyes of the Romans, she regained her regalness.90 Hence, the victor, Octavian, did not present the ‘Egyptian whore’ whom he had defamed so badly, but a dignified opponent. Octavian’s posthumous restitution to Cleopatra, whom he had had buried in Alexandria with great honor91 and now represented as an effigy in Rome, was ambivalent: in this way, he also significantly enhanced his own victory by presenting it as being the defeat of a serious opponent, thus retrospectively justifying his political agitation. 4. “LITTLE CLEOPATRAS”? – AUGUSTA AND BASILISSA Octavian knew how to make good use of the potential inherent to the women in his family for his self-representation and his politics. As a reaction to the constellation Antony-Cleopatra, the triumvir had emphasized the romanitas of Octavia and Livia. In this context, the honors after his victory over Sex. Pompeius form a climax when he freed his sister and his wife from tutela, honored them with statues and had them declared sacrosanct, a status that had, until then, been reserved for Plebeian trib88 89

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Antony is not mentioned. This is different in the ninth epode, in which Horace names Sex. Pompeius and Antony explicitly and thus puts an end to the illusion of bellum iustum; on this, see Grummel 1953/54: 359; Cremona 1987: 123; Pöschl 1991: 82. The expression ferocior is ambivalent, as Horace chooses a term with masculine connotations and thus marks Cleopatra’s uncompromising attitude as not conforming to norms; however, the person fighting is also shown due honor and respect in this way. Cf. Sallust on the death of Catilina: Sall. Cat. 61.4; on this passage, see Pöschl 1991: 99. According to Ginsburg 2006: 37, Tacitus uses the adjective ferox in order to indicate female transgression; see also ThLL s. v. ferox, Sp. 567. On the appreciation of the magna mors in Rome – the Catonis nobile letum (Hor. c. 1.12.35–36) is an exemplary model –, see Pöschl 1991: 114; Hope 2009: 54–60. Cleopatra’s ascribed “last words” fit in with this: ού θριαμβεύσομαι – “I will not be triumphed over!” (Liv. fr. 54 = Porph. ad Hor. c. 1.37.30–32). Cass. Dio 51.21.8; Prop. 3.11.53. Antony was buried next to Cleopatra, as had apparently been stipulated in his will: Plut. Ant. 82.1; 86.7; see Ashton 2008: 187–189, on Cleopatra’s tomb.

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unes.92 With regard to Octavia, in particular, this new status, which by no means complied with mos maiorum, meant that the plebs urbana guaranteed the safety of her person and her honor – an act which, with regard to Octavia’s positioning vis à vis the adulterous Antony, was politically considerably more valuable than the simultaneous honors for Livia. Despite this prominence, Livia and Octavia did not possess autonomous ruling power as Cleopatra did. Instead they were Roman women in the traditional roles of wife and sister that were centered on a man. The fact that Octavian contravened the mos maiorum with these honors and promoted his own dynastically marked image in Rome was practically submerged in the attacks on the basilissa.93 After the victory over Antony, Octavian needed not only to establish a system that integrated him as sole ruler into the res publica Romana, but he also had to find an acceptable role for Livia. He, like his successors, could not deny the wife by his side.94 The way in which he treated her and in which he included her and the other women of his domus in his interactions with senators, plebs and the army was an area in which he had necessity to act, but which also showed how the princeps wanted his regime to be understood. At the same time the Augustan Principate did not only have to deal with the expectations of the different groups in Rome in order to gain acceptance, but it also had to establish the monarchic system within the empire – the example of Antony had already shown that different systems of norms coexisted in this regard.95 In the Greek east, it was possible to fall back onto the role model of the Hellenistic ruling couple with regard to the interaction between the imperial domus and the poleis, koina, dynasts and client kings. The Greeks offered this themselves: thus, in Samos Livia was honored with two statues only a short time after the Battle of Actium. Finally, after 27 BCE, she was given cultic honors in the east as thea and sebaste. This pattern can also be determined for her ‘successors’.96

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Cass. Dio 49.38.1; cf. Cass. Dio 49.15.5–6 (honors for Octavian). On this, see Frei-Stolba 1998: 72–76; Hemelrijk 2005; Harders 2008: 292–294; Kunst 2008: 78–80. Moreover, with the erection of statues a form of honors was chosen which was, of all things, widespread in the east and in particular for Hellenistic queens. However, women were represented in simple Roman dress and with simple Roman hairstyles; the number of statues was also limited. On this matter, see Hemelrijk 2005: 315–316. Kleiner 2005: 251–255, assumes that Cleopatra served as a role model for Livia. However, her function as such is described by the trivial circumstance that Cleopatra was “a formidable woman in a world of men” (252), who demonstrated to Livia how powerful men could be influenced. It also remains speculative as to what trends Cleopatra started in Roman fashion (277). Cf. Gotter 2008: 185 f., on the different norms and traditions of the different groups of subjects. On the Principate as a system of acceptance, see Flaig 1992: 174–207; Flaig 2010: 275–282; on this subject, see Gotter 2008: 179–180. Honors on Samos: IG XII 6.1 390, 391. On the honors for the women of the imperial house in the east, see Hahn 1994, on Livia in particular: 34–105, with references to sources. On Livia, see also Frei-Stolba 1998: 76–77; Temporini-Vitzhum 2002: 96 f.; Barrett 2002: 280–293; Kunst 2008: 77, 124 f.

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Things were different in Rome: the position of the princeps was considered fundamentally illegitimate and incompatible with an aristocratic system, but the wife of the princeps could represent an even great disturbance for the res publica, as women, as outlined earlier, were not intended to wield power. Nevertheless, the women of the imperial domus were important; on the one hand, for creating a network with the aristocracy of the city of Rome and, on the other, for the establishment of a dynastic line within which imperial rule could be continued.97 Furthermore, the emperors, starting with Augustus, included their women in the representations of their rule. A clear definition of fields of authority and a role in the structure of rule were, however, not defined for the wives, sisters and daughters of the emperor.98 Rather, the catalogue of female virtues, which had been developed in the Republic, was also applied to the women who surrounded the emperor: in this regard, Livia and Octavia played their roles as matrona lanifica et domiseda to perfection.99 This is especially the case with Livia: she appeared, above all, in the part of mother and wife and thus moved along the path of traditional gender roles and values.100 Exceptional honors such as those of 25 BCE were now avoided. Rather, Livia’s status was brought into line with that of the Vestals.101 Thus, an explicit role as empress was not formulated. Livia’s behaviour, which was, in keeping with tradition, low-key and restricted to the sphere of the domus, could be given as proof of a successful res publica restituta and the return to old Republican virtues. Through reference to these virtues, her successors, too, were able to serve as symbolic figures for a prospering res publica Romana – thus, Agrippina the Younger made her career in the representation of three emperors. For example, under her brother Caligula, a sestertius was minted in around 37/38 the reverse of which shows Agrippina and her sisters Livilla and Drusilla as embodiments of securitas, fortuna and prosperitas. Under Claudius and Nero, on the other hand, her qualities as wife and above all her role as mother were emphasized. In this context, Agrippina was strongly associated with Ceres and stood for fecunditas.102

97 On the exogamous and endogamous marriage strategies of Augustus, see Harders 2008: 303– 305. 98 See Kunst 2000: 3 f.; Kunst 2008: 12. Thus, a unified title for the women associated with the emperor never became established, although it became customary to apply the title Augusta to wives, and sometimes to daughters; see Kuhoff 1993. For a different, rather more apodictic view: Frei-Stolba 1998: 65. 99 Cf. Suetonius’ remarks on the household of Augustus, who supposedly only wore clothes that had been woven by female relatives (Suet. Aug. 73.2); see also Frei-Stolba 1998: 77 f.; Kunst 2008: 109–119, 119–123 on Livia; Harders 2008: 297 f. on Octavia. 100 Thus, Livia donated dowries for young women in need; after Augustus’ death, the Senate wanted to award her the title of mater patriae, something Tiberius, however, rejected (Cass. Dio 58.2.3), cf. Temporini-Vitzhum 2002: 55. On Livia as a ‘model wife’, see Frei-Stolba 1998: 88; Barrett 2002: 119–123; Kunst 2008: 114–118; Freisenbruch 2010: 56. 101 Cf. Frei-Stolba 1998: 80 f. 102 On the sestertius: RIC I², 110, No. 33; 111, No. 41; see also Ginsburg 2006: 65–67; Harders 2008: 309. On Agrippina’s association with Ceres: Ginsburg 2006: 77 and 99–104.

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However, things did not stop with a picture that had purely positive connotations and which was supposed to serve the stabilization and representation of imperial rule. The role of any emperor’s wife, regardless of how virtuous she might be, was ambivalent because of her position of power which resulted from her proximity to the ruler. Because of this, discourses which, indirectly, served as vehicles for antimonarchic criticism attached to the women who surrounded the emperor. A general criticism of the system which referred to an ‘abstract’ empress did not, however, develop. Rather, criticism of the princeps, and thus of the Principate, could be expressed via the actions, statements and characteristics of the women who surrounded the emperor because they called into question the traditional relationship between gender order and structures of rule. It is above all in historiographical writings – so from a senatorial perspective – that aspects which were emphasized as particularly positive in the imperial representation are turned into negatives. For example, in Tacitus and Cassius Dio’s writings, the exemplary mothers Livia and Agrippina are transformed into ambitious and uncontrollable power-hungry females. In this context, the targets for attack moved within the bounds of traditional invectives which can be traced back to the Republic. Use was made of the topoi of mixing poisons, incest, the ambitious mother and the terrible stepmother, the saeva noverca. Thus, in Tacitus’ Annals, Livia, as mater muliebri inpotentia, is listed as one of the negative aspects of Augustus’ government and is accused of having systematically eliminated all candidates who stood in the way of her son Tiberius’ rule: Marcellus, Gaius and Lucius Caesar, and Agrippa Postumus. In order to ensure that Tiberius became emperor, she is said to have not even shrunk from killing Augustus himself with poison.103 Agrippina Minor, on the other hand, is supposed to have been responsible for the dish of mushrooms with which she killed her husband Claudius and placed her son, Nero, on the throne. Previously she supposedly strengthened her own position through incest with her brother, uncle and son.104 Even when at the end of the 2nd century, Julia Domna became the first emperor’s wife to come from the east neither Cassius Dio nor the author of the Historia Augusta resorted to orientalisms. Instead they used traditional invectives to criticize her position, the opportunities connected to it and, building on this, the system that made these possible.105 Domna’s role as mother, which was emphasized and which 103 Tac. ann. 1.4.5; see also 1.10.5: Livia gravis in rem publicam mater, gravis domui Caesarum noverca. – “there was Livia, terrible to the res publica as a mother, terrible to the domus of the Caesars as a stepmother.” On the murders, see Tac. ann. 1.3,3–4; 1,5; Cass. Dio 53.33.4; 55.10a.10; 56.30.1–2; 57.3.6. In his obituary for Livia (Tac. ann. 5.1), Tacitus praises Livia’s family background and faultless reputation but also calls her mater impotens and thus refers to her dubious influence on Tiberius; on the obituary, see Barrett 2003. On Livia’s negative depiction, see Watson 1995: 176–192; Temporini-Vitzhum 2002: 97; Freisenbruch 2010: 62. 104 On the murder: Tac. ann. 12.66 f.; cf. Suet. Claud. 44.1 f.; Ios. ant. Iud. 20.148. On Agrippina as saeva noverca and a brewer of poisons, see Watson 1995: 192–197; Ginsburg 2006: 31–35 and 107–112; on incest, see Ginsburg 2006: 116–130. 105 Cassius Dio reports a dream in which Faustina, Marcus Aurelius’ wife, apparently appeared to Septimius Severus and revealed the bridal bed with Domna in the temple of Venus and Roma

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referred not only to her actual sons but also, nominally, to the army, Senate and patria, was able to be turned into a negative feature and found its way into literature in the form of the accusation that Domna and Caracalla had had an incestuous relationship.106 The women surrounding the princeps were not, however, just defamed as power-hungry mothers but could also be presented as sexually uninhibited women whose transgressions could not be kept in check by the emperor. In this context, it was easy to connect sexual excesses with eastern extravagance, so that allusions to Cleopatra’s ruinous sexuality can be found in the representation of the femmes fatales Messalina and Poppaea Sabina.107 In the case of Poppaea Sabina, historical coincidence provided the opportunity for playing with the Cleopatra-metaphor. Poppaea’s competitor for the emperor’s favor was his wife, the daughter of Claudius, named Octavia of all things, and in her virtuousness she was reminiscent of Augustus’ sister: “a coincidence made in historiographical heaven”.108 Tacitus reports that Poppaea, inverting the historical original, accused her rival of adultery with an Egyptian flute player, of all people, and in doing so, provoked her rival’s murder, following which Poppaea had the head of the dead woman shown to her. Poppaea’s marriage to Nero, which followed, did not, however, last long. Poppaea died as a result of being kicked by her husband and she was embalmed and exhibited in Augustus’ mausoleum: “The body was not cremated, as was the Roman custom, but, in conformity with the practice of foreign kings, was embalmed by stuffing with spices and laid to rest in the mausoleum of the Iulii.”109 Tacitus attributes traits of character to Poppaea which are reminiscent of other femmes fatales from Roman history: his Poppaea is thus not a clear revenant of

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to him (75.3.1). Thus, it is precisely not the oriental aspect which is of particular interest, but the connection to the Antonines and Rome; on this subject, cf. Bleckmann 2002: 269. Levick 2007: 1 stresses that it was precisely not Cleopatra who was used as a foil for the characterization of Julia Domna. Like Bleckmann 2002: 277 she argues against a modern interpretation of comprehending Domna’s influence as typically Syrian (Levick 2007: 97). Cf. H. A. Carac. 10.1–4; Aur. Vict. 21.3 (where she is listed as Caracalla’s noverca). Aurelius Victor also refers to sexual excesses of the empress (20.23). On the title of mater castrorum, which Faustina had held in her time, see Levick 2007: 93 f. On Domna and Caracalla: Bleckmann 2002: 276; Levick 2007: 91–106. Juvenal calls Messalina meretrix Augusta and thus cites Propertius’ epithet for Cleopatra, that is, meretrix regina. Cleopatra, however, is only accused of the relationship with Antony, whereas Messalina offered herself to all of Rome; cf. Iuv. sat. 6.117 to Prop. 3.11.39; thus, also Plin. nat. 9.119. Before this, Juvenal elaborates on the sexual adventures of a senator’s wife in Canopus, which, as already in Propertius’ writings (see note 63), is considered a symbol of vices and revelry. On Messalina’s affairs, see also Iuv. sat. 10.329–345; Tac. ann. 11.1–4, 12, 26–38; 12.7.5–7; Suet. Claud. 26.2; 36; Cass. Dio 60.14.3, 18, 22.3–5, 28.2; 61.31.1–4. On the narrative function of Messalina’s sexuality, in Tacitus’ work in particular, see Joshel 1995; on extramarital sexuality of the empresses in general, see Kim On Chong-Gossard 2010. Thus, Freisenbruch 2010: 149. Cf. also Vout 2007: 160. Tac. ann. 16.6.2: corpus non igni abolitum, ut Romanus mos, sed regum externorum consuetudine differtum odoribus conditur tumuloque Iuliorum inferetur. On Poppaea’s accusations and jealousy as well as on Octavia’s death: Tac. ann. 14.60–64.2. In contrast, see Suet. Nero 35.1–4, and Cass. Dio epit. 62.28, without mention of the affair or the embalming.

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Cleopatra. She combines characteristics of Sallust’s Sempronia, who was involved in political conspiracies, and of Fulvia, who defiled Cicero’s head.110 The fact that Poppaea’s dead body was treated regnum externorum consuetudine does point to Egypt, but not directly to Cleopatra. Rather, Poppaea is described as exotic and un-Roman and thus as a negative influence on Nero.111 The possibilities of exerting influence which ancient authors ascribed to the empresses as ambitious mothers, stepmothers and wives show the structural problems of the Roman Principate. It was demonstrated to what extent power in the form of potestas, attached to an office or the position of paterfamilias, was no longer decisive or put into effect, but how power was instead conveyed through proximity and access to the ruler. Women could profit from this: thus the wife of a consul – Cicero uses the term consularis112 – was already able to benefit from the position of her husband, but as the office was shared between two colleagues and was limited to a year no exclusive close power relationship resulted. The situation was different with regard to the princeps. Due to the structural weaknesses of the Principate, an official role for the wife as ‘queen-consort’ could not be formulated. Nevertheless, the women in the emperor’s company had more permanent access to power than the wife of a consul. According to various authors, this was exploited, with the result that the empresses described by Tacitus or Cassius Dio are characterized by an unfeminine unscrupulousness and hunger for power. As Thomas Späth has shown in the example of Agrippina the Younger, her explosive force develops less on the level of actual action but rather as a narrative counterpart to a weak emperor, who cannot counter his wife’s transgression of norms. Agrippina, who is described as a dux femina, exposed Claudius as an incompetent paterfamilias, who is not up to his domestic task of keeping his wife under control.113 In the Principate, however, the domestic problem turned into a dilemma for the entire res publica because the domus Augusta was not a private space but presided over the aristocratic domus.114 The focus on the empress revealed this monarchic structure and showed how non-persons, such as women (or freedmen, too), could exercise power over a weak princeps. In this way, the position of princeps was delegitimized and 110 On Sempronia: Sall. Cat. 40.5; see also Cat. 24.3–25.5; on Fulvia: Cass. Dio 47.8.3–4. See Vout 2007: 159; Freisenbruch 2010: 149. 111 The image of eastern luxuria is completed by Cass. Dio epit. 62.28.1, according to whom Poppaea bathed daily in the milk of 500 donkeys. Although this obsession is reminiscent of Elizabeth Taylor’s ‘Cleopatra’ of 1963, evidence of precisely such a habit does not survive for the Cleopatra of antiquity; on this subject, see Vout 2007: 160, who assigns bathing in donkey milk to the artes meretriciae. 112 Cic. Att. 2.1.5. On the term consularis, see McDermott 1972. 113 On the stereotype of the dux femina, see Ginsburg 2006: 112–116. 114 Cf. Späth 1994: 68–79, 83–96, 323–326, 339–342; Späth 2000: 130–133; Ginsburg 2006: 8–54, 107–132. Joshel 1995: 73, presents a similar analysis for Messalina. On the position of the domus Augusta, see Kunst 2000: 4–6; Kunst 2008: 252 f.; Burckhardt 2010: 87 f. On the dichotomy between privatus/publicus during the Principate, see Winterling 2009: 70–76. For a different view, see, in addition, Frei-Stolba 1998: 88, who describes the domus principis as “une sphère nonétatique” and thus considers the problematic nature of the position of someone like Livia to be contained.

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the system of the Principate was indirectly criticised; a system in which it was possible that the fundamental order of who could exercise and also abuse authority in Rome was shaken. The discussion changed when the subject was not the Augusta but non-Roman women who intervened in the fortunes of the emperor and the res publica. The affair of Titus and the Hasmonean Berenice shows that the attitude towards Hellenistic queens had hardly improved in the 1st century CE – even if Berenice, unlike Cleopatra, did not appear as an aggressor. Even after the Principate had become accepted as the only possible form of rule, it was not possible for Titus as a monarch to introduce a “queen-consort” from a foreign ruling dynasty at his side and to establish Berenice as his lover, far less his wife in Rome.115 The people of Rome disliked her behavior and so Titus was forced to send Berenice back to the east “against her will and against his own”.116 Theodor Mommsen calls the Hasmonean a “Kleopatra im Kleinen”,117 a label that is not found in ancient sources. Juvenal prefers to use familiar invectives such as incest with her brother Agrippa and specific characteristics – Berenice is characterized as Jewish – in order to describe the Hasmonean as an unsuitable empress.118 It was not until 300 years after Actium that a woman entered the political stage who also posed a military threat to the Roman emperor, unlike Berenice who had hopes of political possibilities through whatever form of relationship she had to the emperor. After the murder of her husband Odenathus in 267 CE, the Palmyrene queen Zenobia assumed the regency for her son Vabalathus. In order to consolidate the Palmyrene dominion, Zenobia first had Arabia occupied and, in 270, advanced as far as Egypt and later Asia Minor. Finally, in the spring of 272, mother and son had themselves called Augusta and Augustus119 and thus positioned themselves as usurpers against Aurelian, who was approaching. In the case of Zenobia, as with Cleopatra, a woman from the east, who differed from the Roman empresses in that she had military power, challenged Rome. Most authors, therefore, focus less on her role as the deputy of her son than on her autonomy and they assign her ‘masculine’ authority, the imperium Orientis.120 Accordingly, in the Historia Augusta, she is described with very masculine characteristics 115 Suet. Tit. 7; Cass. Dio 65.15.4 (cf., in contrast, Titus’ demonstrative self-control during Berenice’s next visit), see also Tac. hist. 2.2. On Berenice in Rome, see Castritius 2002: 166–169; Wesch-Klein 2005. Quintilian mentions Berenice in order to illustrate the problems that arose when judges operated at court with their own interests in mind: Quintilian himself claims to have spoken on behalf of Berenice, who sat on the panel of judges (Quint. inst. 4.1.19). 116 Suet. Tit. 7.2: Berenicen statim ab urbe dimisit, invitus, invitam. 117 Mommsen 1885: 540. Cf. in addition Castritius 2002: 168. 118 Iuv. sat. 2.6.156–160. According to Castritius 2002: 168, the plebs urbana objected to Berenice as a Jew even more strongly than as basilissa. 119 ILS 8924; IGR III 1065. Cf. Wieber 2000: 285–287. 120 Fest. 24.1; Eutr. 9.13.2; Hier. chron. a 2289 (p. 222). Zenobia as regent: H. A. Aur. 22.1; Gall. duo 13.2; trig. tyr. 30.2. Cf. Hartmann 2001: 243; Bleckmann 2002: 318–320. Zenobia is called basilissa in Greek inscriptions (see OGIS 648, 649; on this subject, see Hartmann 2001: 242, 254), the legend on her antoniani coins, however, calls her Augusta (RIC V,2 584; on this subject, see Hartmann 2001: 357).

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as appearing before the gathered army as commander with a helmet and purple belt.121 Her course of action is not met only with disapproval by the authors: above all, the Palmyrene woman serves as a contrast to the policies of the legitimate but weak Augustus Gallienus. While Zenobia recognizes his successor Aurelian as a victorious Augustus, she justifies her usurpation with the weakness and the ineptitude of his predecessors – the masculine Zenobia is thus also an instrument which serves the purpose of criticizing the weak rule of the Roman principes.122 The disorder of the world is symbolized through a woman’s usurpation, but this does not last and can be reversed by a bonus princeps. A queen from the east can, therefore, take on different literary roles: she is not necessarily a leviathan who threatens Rome; instead she can reveal the weaknesses of individual emperors. This does not, however, mean that the system of rule as such is questioned. Accordingly, Zenobia’s representation is ambivalent and shows her to be an exception: in the lives of the Historia Augusta, she is the subject of a strong literary alignment with famous queens of the east. According to this, Zenobia stands in the same genealogical line of descent as the Ptolemaic dynasty and Cleopatra and, furthermore, refers to Semiramis and Dido as role models.123 The alignment with the last Ptolemaic queen is particularly strong: Zenobia is described as especially beautiful, articulate and also able to hold her drink. She is even said to own Cleopatra’s tableware.124 As with the political agitation against Cleopatra in the 30s BCE, orientalisms are used and Palmyra is equated with the Persian royal court. In contrast to the meretrix regina, however, whose fatal sexuality had destroyed Antony, Zenobia is presented as exceptionally ascetic and is described as virtually asexual. Even intercourse with her husband only served the purpose of reproduction.125 Aurelian, thus, was not confronted by an oriental femme fatale but 121 H. A. trig. tyr. 30.14. Following this, Zenobia’s beauty, height, her clear, masculine voice and her erudition are highlighted (H. A. trig. tyr. 30.15–22); cf. Bleckmann 2002: 318 f. 122 According to H. A. trig. tyr. 30.23, Zenobia answered Aurelian in the following way: Imperatorem te esse cognosco, qui vincis, Gallienum et Aureolum et ceteros principes non putavi. Victoriam mei similem credens in consortium regni venire, si facultas locorum pateretur, optavi. – “You, I know, are an emperor indeed, for you win victories, but Gallienus and Aureolus and the others I never regarded as emperors. Believing Victoria to be a woman like me, I desired to become a partner in the royal power, should the supply of lands permit.” (transl. D. Magie). Zenobia herself would, if necessary, act as tyrannus, as well as, if possible, bonus princeps (H. A. trig. tyr. 30.16). See also Wieber 2000: 294 f. On antimonarchic discourse in the Historia Augusta, see the contribution of Matthias Haake to this volume. 123 H. A. trig. tyr. 27, 30.2; Claud. 1.1; Aur. 27.3. According to H. A. trig. tyr. 30.2, Zenobia wore Dido’s clothes. In H. A. Prop. 9.5 Zenobia is called Cleopatra. Callinicus of Petra dedicated his work “To Cleopatra: The History of Alexandria in ten books” (Πρὸς Κλεοπάτραν περὶ τῶν κατ᾽ ᾽Αλεξάνδρειαν ἱστοριῶν βιβλία δέκα): FGrHist 281 Kallinikos von Petra T 1a = FGrHist 1090 Callinicus of Petra T 1a = BNJ Callinicus of Petra T 1a (I am grateful to Matthias Haake for this reference.). On the literary presentation of Zenobia, see Hartmann 2001: 22–24; Wieber 2000: 287–295; Krause 2005. 124 Vgl. H. A. trig. tyr. 30.15, 30.19. 125 Persian echoes: H. A. trig. tyr. 30.13. On her chastity: H. A. trig. tyr. 30.12. Eunuchs are also to be found at her court as an orientalizing element. However, unlike in the case of Cleopatra, they are not at Zenobia’s sexual mercy (H. A. trig. tyr. 30.19).

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by an opponent of virtually masculine virtus – something which Cleopatra had only gained through her decision to commit suicide. The information regarding Zenobia’s death is contradictory: Zosimus reports that Zenobia died on the way to Rome after her capture and offers both an illness as well as suicide as possible explanations. In addition, there are versions which continue the confrontation between the usurper and the Augustus: faced with the threat of defeat at the hands of Aurelian, the literary Zenobia followed the example of her famous predecessor. Like Cleopatra, she preferred to perish as a queen rather than to lose her dignitas.126 However, the comparison with Cleopatra ends there: Zenobia did not die by her own hand, but is said to have been paraded by Aurelian first in Antioch and then in Rome. In Rome, the basilissa was pardoned. In contrast to the non humilis mulier, the price Zenobia paid was the surrender of her status as basilissa. From a Roman perspective, the Historia Augusta provides the former opponent of Rome with a conciliatory end: the transgressive and foreign aspect of her personality is assimilated and she is said to have spent the rest of her life in Tibur with her children and her Roman husband, matronae iam more Romanae.127 5. CONSORT OR DESPOT – HOW TO DEAL WITH A QUEEN? Leaving aside the question of whether there is a historical basis for Cleopatra’s or Zenobia’s supposed intention of ruling Rome, Rome was never ruled by a female monarch. Nevertheless, dealing with queens from the east as well as with the women at the side of the Augusti is a recurring topic, above all in historiographical writings. What, therefore, can be shown on the subject of antimonarchic discourse in antiquity if one takes the treatment of the configuration of “queen” as a starting point? First of all, it should generally be noted that the relationship between king and queen should not be considered as static and more or less necessarily inherent to a monarchic system: rather, the way in which the woman at the side of a ruler is positioned, characterized and addressed allows statements to be made about the specific nature of a particular instance of monarchic rule. For Greek and Roman antiquity it can be stated that the specific characteristics of the Hellenistic basileia and the Roman Principate involved different forms of the relationship between the ruler and his wife, too. While king and queen appeared as a couple in the Greek east and the basilissa could function as complementary to the basileus, the socio-political circumstances in which the Roman Principate developed did not allow such a configuration of the ruler, as the dynastic component – and connected to this the role of the Augusta as mother and wife – was relatively weakly developed as part of

126 Zos. 1.591. In contrast: H. A. Aur. 27.3. 127 H. A. trig. tyr. 30.27; see also Synk. 470.5–7; Zon. 12.27. Cf. Wieber 2000: 294; Hartmann 2001: 413–424 (also on the so-called Villa Zenobia in Rome). On her presentation in Antioch and Rome: Fest. 24.1; H. A. Aur. 30.1–3; Eutr. 9.13.2; Zos. 1.56.2–3; Mal. 12.p. 300.12–17; on this, see Hartmann 2001: 391–394; Haake (forthcoming).

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the justification of legitimacy.128 These different forms of monarchic rule had, of necessity, consequences as soon as the different areas were brought under one system of government, the Imperium Romanum, and as soon as the expectations of its subjects were aligned. The situation in the Greek east was somewhat easier in this respect: during the Republic the different political entities in Greece, poleis as well as basileis, had already been able to resort to established forms of interaction with regard to Roman magistrates. A magistrate was treated like a king; the Roman Senate was addressed as an assembly of kings.129 The wives of magistrates could also be integrated into this communication context – whether they were present or not. The triumvir M. Antony succeeded in exploiting this pattern of interaction for his policies in the east and in including his wife Octavia in his representation as Hellenistic king the poleis, above all, reacted with the corresponding honors of the “ruling couple”, as has been shown. Antony’s later appearance alongside Cleopatra follows similar patterns in principle, even if it proved to be significantly more complex because of the Ptolemaic queen’s military and political means. Antony thus provided a model for Octavian as well as for his successors which Octavian could adopt for his representation in the east following his victory over his former colleague from the triumvirate. It was, however, not possible to adopt the model of the Hellenistic king and, above all, of the basilissa at his side for a form of monocracy which was to be established in Rome. Octavian benefitted from this circumstance in the inner-Roman conflict with Antony, even if this meant that he himself had to give up certain forms of self-representation in Rome that had been borrowed from the Greek east and Hellenistic kings.130 Octavian succeeded in transferring to the Roman political arena the forms of representation that Antony had developed in and for the Greek east. Antony’s self-fashioning as a Greek, which he had undertaken by means of his dress, behavior and donations, was torn from its proper communication context, interpreted as going-native and transferred to a Roman setting. What is more, Antony’s companion and Roman client queen Cleopatra was characterized as the real threat to the res publica. The success of this interpretation is due to certain components being amalgamated: Octavian did not just resort to the cultural contrast between Rome and Greece/Egypt but also to antimonarchic elements. Furthermore, he augmented these with the component of “gender”. In the case of Cleopatra, there was not just the threat from a king who automatically endangered libertas Romana – the reason, not least, for which Caesar had been killed – but rather the danger came from a foreign queen. In general, the idea of a queen’s sole rule must have already seemed unbearable because it touched on basic aspects of Roman social order – the relationship between man and woman and, connected to this, the exercise of authority in the construct of Senatus Populusque Romanum. In Cleopatra’s case, Octavian’s 128 Cf. Flaig 2010: 278 f. 129 See the declaration of Pyrrhus’ confidant, Cineas: Plut. Pyrr. 19.5. 130 Cf. Zanker 2009: 80–84, e. g., on the building of the mausoleum.

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reasoning created the image of a female, oriental leviathan who threatened to swallow up culture, religion, gender order and political structures. In this way, the form of Hellenistic basileia which had made someone like Cleopatra possible was contrasted with and shown to be incompatible with the res publica Romana. Only after her death and her admission of defeat Cleopatra could be honored as a queen again. It is, thus, possible in the case of Cleopatra, too, to discern a Roman discourse within which being a monarch who behaved in the appropriate kingly way could, in principle, be deemed worthy of recognition. Cleopatra does not, therefore, necessarily function just as a static cipher for the resistance to all forms of monarchy. She became a problem when Hellenistic-monarchic rule over Rome was at issue. According to his own argument, Octavian had deflected this threat. His prominent position after 27 BCE rests, above all, on the point that he had ended the civil wars and brought peace to Rome. By constantly referring to this achievement and taking on certain powers of office, the new Augustus succeeded in integrating himself into the res republica restituta and maintaining the façade of senatorial rule. This game was difficult enough, and a specific part within it for the woman at his side was not formulated. Yet, the political possibilities, which could not be denied and which resulted from the proximity to the ruler, had as a consequence that the women surrounding the ruler provided points of attack by which the princeps and, indirectly, the Principate could be criticized. Octavian himself had emphasized the incompatibility of female rule and res publica in his political agitation against Antony and Cleopatra. Starting with Liva, antimonarchic discourses could, therefore, attach themselves just as effectively to the women associated with the ruler. In this regard, however, ancient authors did not fall back on the foil offered by Cleopatra, which was based too strongly on the factor “orient” and Egypt specifically. Instead, they used traditional Roman invectives in order to unmask the position of women in the domus Augusta. In doing so, Augustus’ attempt to showcase Livia as a model of old Republican female virtues was distorted and Livia, in the traditional role of mother, was defamed as mater inpotens, as later also happened to Agrippina minor and Julia Domna. The thing that Octavian had fought, a foreign woman’s rule and, connected to this, the emasculation and powerlessness of the vir Romanus, was – at least according to the views of historiographers and biographers – now to be made a reality by Roman women at the mercy of whose ambition and influence were emperors such as Augustus, Tiberius, Claudius or Nero. Antimonarchic criticism was thus not articulated as an abstract criticism of the system. With their representation of transgressive women, ancient authors identified a weak point in the system: non-persons were able to exercise authority and thus delegitimize both the princeps who allowed this and the Principate. Due to the long dominance of Roman rule in the Mediterranean, Hellenistic queens such as Cleopatra no longer posed a risk. The idea of having a foreign queen as Augusta could, nevertheless, not establish itself in Rome, meaning that the liaison between Titus and the Hasmonean Berenice came to an end without marriage. Marriage between different powers and dynasties as it was practiced in the Hellenistic period or later in the European Middle Ages and Early Modern times was unthinkable in the case of the Roman princeps. It was not until the fifth century CE

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that an emperor’s daughter and sister, Galla Placidia, was to marry a foreigner, the Goth Athaulf – albeit on his initiative.131 When Zenobia led the Palmyrene Empire against Rome in the third century, memories of Cleopatra became current again. Zenobia herself referred to Cleopatra, amongst other queens, in her self-representation and Latin authors took up this allusion. The literary construction of the figure of Zenobia did not, however, serve to reject a monarchic system in Rome but to depict Gallienus as a weak emperor. While it was Gallienus who had made usurpation by Zenobia possible in the first place, his adversary Aurelian was victorious and in triumph presented Zenobia as a prisoner. The correct balance between gender order and structures of power was restored thus by the Augustus. In this case, the foreign queen legitimized the princeps and the system of rule over which he presided. BIBLIOGRAPHY Ager, S. 2013. “Marriage or Mirage? The Phantom Wedding of Cleopatra and Antony”. CPh 108/2: 139–155. Alonso Troncoso, V. / García Vivas, G. 2009. “Octavia versus Cleopatra: Immagine della donna e confronto culturale”. In Rom und der Osten im 1. Jahrhundert v. Chr. Akkulturation oder Kampf der Kulturen? Akten des Humboldt-Kollegs Verona, 19.-21. Februar 2004, Gehrke, H.-J. / Mastrocinque, A. eds., 11–34. Cosenza: Giordano. Ashmole, B. 1967. “A New Interpretation of the Portland Vase”. JHS 87: 1–17. Ashton, S.-A. 2008. Cleopatra and Egypt. Oxford/Malden: Blackwell. Barrett, A. A. 2002. Livia. First Lady of Imperial Rome. New Haven/London: Yale University Press. Barrett, A. A. 2003. “Damned with Faint Praise: Tacitus’ Obituary of Livia”. In Laurea internationalis. Festschrift für Jochen Bleicken zum 75. Geburtstag, Hantos, T. ed., 45–60. Stuttgart: Steiner. Becher, I. 1966. Das Bild der Kleopatra in der griechischen und lateinischen Literatur. Berlin: Akademie. Bengtson, H. 1977. Marcus Antonius. Triumvir und Herrscher des Orients. Munich: Beck. Bleckmann, B. 2002. “Die severische Familie und die Soldatenkaiser”. In Die Kaiserinnen Roms. Von Livia bis Theodora, Temporini-Gräfin Vitzthum, H. ed., 265–339. Munich: Beck. Bleicken, J. 1999. Augustus. Eine Biographie. 3rd ed. Berlin: Fest. Börm, H. (forthcoming). “Hellenistische Poleis und römischer Bürgerkrieg. Stasis im griechischen Osten nach den Iden des März (44 bis 39 v. Chr.)”. In Civil War in Ancient Greece and Rome. Contexts of Disintegration and Reintegration, Börm, H. / Mattheis, M. / Wienand, J. eds., Stuttgart: Steiner. Bowersock, G. W. 1965. Augustus and the Greek World. Oxford: Clarendon. Brenk, F. E. 1992. “Antony-Osiris, Cleopatra-Isis. The End of Plutarch’s Antony”. In Plutarch and the Historical Tradition, Stadter, P. A. ed., 159–182. London/New York: Routledge. Bringmann, K. 1995. Schenkungen hellenistischer Herrscher an griechische Städte und Heiligtümer. Bd. 1: Zeugnisse und Kommentare, bearb. v. W. Ameling. Berlin: Akademie.

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Hemelrijk, E. A. 2005. “Octavian and the Introduction of Public Statues for Women in Rome”. Athenaeum 93/1: 309–317. Heyworth, S. J. / Morwood, J. H. W. 2011. A Commentary on Propertius, Book 3. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hind, J. 1995. “The Portland Vase: New Clues towards Old Solutions”. JHS 115: 153–155. Hölbl, G. 2004. Geschichte des Ptolemäerreiches. Von Alexander dem Großen bis zur römischen Eroberung. Stuttgart: Theiss. Hope, V. M. 2009. Roman Death. The Dying and the Dead in Ancient Rome. London: Continuum. Huzar, E. 1978. Marc Antony. A Biography. Minneapolis: Croom Helm. Huzar, E. 1982. “The Literary Efforts of Mark Antony”. ANRW II 30.1: 639–657. Jones, C. P. 2011. “Cleopatra VII in Teos?” Chiron 41: 41–53. Joshel, S. R. 1995. “Female Desire and the Discourse of Empire: Tacitus’s Messalina”. Signs 21: 50–82. Kajava, M. 1990. “Roman Senatorial Women and the Greek East. Epigraphic Evidence from the Republican and Augustan Period”. In Roman Eastern Policy and Other Studies in Roman History. Proceedings of a Colloquium at Tvärminne 2–3 October 1987, Solin, H. / Kajava, M. eds., 59–124. Helsinki: Societas Scientiarum Fennica. Kim On Chong-Gossard, J. H. 2010. “Who Slept with Whom in the Roman Empire? Women, Sex, and Scandal in Suetonius’ Caesares”. In Private and Public Lies. The Discourse of Despotism and Deceit in the Graeco-Roman World, Turner, A. J. et al. eds., 295–327. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Kleiner, F. S. 1996. “Sestertius of Mark Antony and Octavia with Quadriga of Hippocampus”. In I Claudia. Women in Ancient Rome, Kleiner, D. E. E. / Matheson, S. eds., 56–57. New Haven: University of Texas Press. Kleiner, D. E. E. 2005. Cleopatra and Rome. Cambridge/Mass./London: Belknap. Kraft, K. 1967. “Zu Sueton, Divus Augustus 69,2: M. Anton und Kleopatra”. Hermes 95: 496–499. Krause, C. 2007. “Herrschaft und Geschlechterhierarchie. Zur Funktionalisierung der Zenobiagestalt und anderer Usurpatoren in den Viten der Historia Augusta”. Philologus 151: 311–334. Krumeich, R. 2008. “Formen der statuarischen Repräsentation römischer Honoranden auf der Akropolis von Athen im späten Hellenismus und in der frühen Kaiserzeit”. In Athens during the Roman Period. Recent Discoveries, new Evidence, Vlizos, S. ed., 353–368. Athens: Benaki Museum. Kuhoff, W. 1993. “Zur Titulatur der römischen Kaiserinnen während der Kaiserzeit”. Klio 75: 244–256. Kunst, C. 2000. “Die Rolle der römischen Kaiserfrau. Eine Einleitung”. In Grenzen der Macht. Zur Rolle der römischen Kaiserfrauen, Kunst, C. / Riemer, U. eds., 1–6. Stuttgart: Steiner. Kunst, C. 2008. Livia. Macht und Intrigen am Hof des Augustus. Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta. Kunst, C. 2010. “Patronage/Matronage der Augustae”. In Augustae: Machtbewusste Frauen am römischen Kaiserhof? Herrschaftsstrukturen und Herrschaftspraxis II: Akten der Tagung in Zürich, 18.–20.9.2008, Kolb, A. ed., 145–161. Berlin: Akademie. Levick, B. 2007. Julia Domna. Syrian Empress. London/New York: Routledge. LuliŃska, A. 2013. “Cleopatra immaginaria: Anmerkungen zur Biografie eines Mythos”. In Katalog zur Ausstellung: Kleopatra. Die ewige Diva, Kunst- und Ausstellungshalle der Bundesrepublik Deutschland, Bonn, 28. Juni bis 6. Oktober 2013, 24–31. Munich: Hirmer. Mader, G. 1989. “Heroism and Hallucination: Cleopatra in Horace c. 1.37 and Propertius 3.11”. GB 16: 183–201. Martin, P. M. 1994. I’idée de royauté à Rome. Haine de la royauté et séduction monarchiques (du IVe siècle av. J.-C. au principat augustèen). Clermont-Ferrand: Adosa. McDermott, W. C. 1972. “Cicero Att. 2.1.5”. CPh 67: 294–295. Mebs, D. / Schäfer, C. 2008. “Kleopatra und der Kobrabiss – das Ende eines Mythos?”. Klio 90: 347–359. Meyer-Zwiffelhoffer, E. 1995. Im Zeichen des Phallus. Die Ordnung des Geschlechtslebens im antiken Rom. Frankfurt/New York: Campus.

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Millar, F. 1973. “Triumvirate and Principate”. JRS 63: 50–67. Mittag, P. F. 2000. “Die Rolle der hauptstädtischen Bevölkerung bei den Ptolemäern und Seleukiden im 3. Jahrhundert”. Klio 82: 409–425. Mommsen, T. 1885. Römische Geschichte V. Berlin: Weidmann. Müller, S. 2009. Das hellenistische Königspaar in der medialen Repräsentation. Ptolemaios II. und Arsinoe II. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Nebelin, M. 2008. “Liebe, Macht und Propaganda. Marcus Antonius und Kleopatra VII. als ‘Verlierer’ in der Wahrnehmung von Zeitgenossen und Nachgeborenen”. In Verlierer der Geschichte. Von der Antike bis zur Moderne, Graul, S. / Nebelin, M. eds., 134–182. Berlin: LIT. Nebelin, M. 2011. “Kleopatras antike Rezeptionsgeschichte: Spaltung – Verknappung – Vereinseitigung”. In Exportschlager. Kultureller Austausch, wirtschaftliche Beziehungen und transnationale Entwicklungen in der antiken Welt, Göbel, J. / Zech, T. eds., 26–54. Munich: Utz. Osterkamp, E. 2006. “Kleopatra. Transformationen einer schönen Königin in der Neuzeit”. In Kleopatra und die Caesaren, Andreae, B. ed., 194–203. Munich: Hirmer. Pelling, C. B. R. 1980. “Plutarch’s Adaptation of His Source-Material”. JHS 100: 127–140. Pfeiffer, S. 2008. Herrscher- und Dynastiekulte im Ptolemäerreich. Systematik und Einordnung der Kultformen. Munich: Beck. Pina Polo, F. 2010. “Frigidus rumor. The Creation of a (Negative) Public Image in Rome”. In Private and Public Lies. The Discourse of Despotism and Deceit in the Graeco-Roman World, Turner, A. J. et al. eds., 75–90. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Pöschl, V. 1991. Horazische Lyrik. Interpretationen. 2nd ed. Heidelberg: Winter. Preston, D. 2008. Cleopatra and Antony. The True Story of the Ancient World’s Greatest Love Affair. London: Doubleday. Probyn, C. 2004. “Fielding, Sarah (1710–1768)”. Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford [http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/9405, 13.1.2011]. Raubitschek, A. E. 1946 “Octavia’s Deification at Athens”. TAPhA 77: 146–150. Raubitschek, A. E. 1959. “The Brutus Statue in Athens”. In Atti del III Congresso Internazionale di Epigrafia Greca e Latina (Roma 4–8 Settembre 1957) 15–21. Rome: Bretschneider. Reinhold, M. 1981/1982. “The Declaration of War against Cleopatra”. CJ 77: 97–103. Rhein, K. 2006. “Ein Mythos im Wandel. Kleopatra-Interpretationen in der Malerei”. In Kleopatra und die Caesaren, Andreae, B. ed., 203–247. Munich: Hirmer. Rice, E. E. 1999. Cleopatra. Stroud: Sutton. Roberts, A. 1988. Mark Antony. His Life and Times. Upton-upon-Severn: Malvern. Rödel, C. 2010. “Von Aemilius Paullus zu Augustus. Stiftungen von Römern in Athen”. In Die Akropolis von Athen im Hellenismus und in der römischen Kaiserzeit, Krumeich, R. / Witschel, C. eds., 95–116. Wiesbaden: Reichert. Roller, D. W. 2010. Cleopatra. A Biography. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Roy, J. 1998. “The Masculinity of the Hellenistic King”. In When Men were Men: Masculinity, Power and Identity in Classical Antiquity, Foxhall, L. / Salmon, J. eds., 111–135. London/ New York: Routledge. Schäfer, C. 2006. Kleopatra. Darmstadt: WBG. Schmalz, G. C. R. 2009. Augustan and Julio-Claudian Athens. A New Epigraphy and Prosopography. Leiden/Boston: Brill. Schuller, W. 2006. Kleopatra. Königin in drei Kulturen. Eine Biographie. Reinbek: Rowohlt. Scott, K. 1929. “Octavian’s Propaganda and Antony’s De Sua Ebrietate”. CPh 24: 133–141. Scott, K. 1933. “The Political Propaganda of 44–30 B. C.” MAAR 11: 7–50. Simon, E. 1975. Die Portlandvase. Mainz: Verlag des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums. Singer, M. W. 1944. Octavia Minor, Sister of Augustus: An Historical and Biographical Study. Ph. D. Thesis Duke University. Smelik, K. A. / Hemelrijk, E. A. 1985. “‘Who Knows Not What Monsters Demented Egypt Worships?’ Opinions of Egyptian Animal Worship as Part of Ancient Conceptions of Egypt”. ANRW 17.4: 1852–2000.

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Späth, T. 1994. Männlichkeit und Weiblichkeit bei Tacitus. Zur Konstruktion der Geschlechter in der römischen Kaiserzeit. Frankfurt/ New York: Campus. Späth, T. 2000. “Agrippina minor: Frauenbild als Diskurskonzept”. In Grenzen der Macht. Zur Rolle der römischen Kaiserfrauen, Kunst, C. / Riemer, U. eds., 115–133. Stuttgart: Steiner. Strootman, R. 2010. “Queen of Kings: Cleopatra VII and the Donations of Alexandria”. In Kingdoms and Principalities in the Roman Near East, Kaizer, T. / Facella, M. eds., 139–157. Stuttgart: Steiner. Syme, R. 1939. The Roman Revolution. Oxford: Clarendon. Temporini-Gräfin Vitzthum, H. 2002. “Die iulisch-claudische Familie: Frauen neben Augustus und Tiberius”. In Die Kaiserinnen Roms. Von Livia bis Theodora, Temporini-Gräfin Vitzthum, H. ed., 21–102. Munich: Beck. Thomas, Y. 1993. “Die Teilung der Geschlechter im römischen Recht”. In Geschichte der Frauen, Bd. 1: Antike, Duby, G. et al. eds., 105–171. Frankfurt/Paris: Campus. Thomas, Y. 1996. “Rom: Väter als Bürger in einer Stadt der Väter (2. Jh. v. Chr. bis 2. Jh. n. Chr.)”. In Geschichte der Familie, Bd. 1: Altertum, Burguière, A. et al. eds., 277–326. Frankfurt/New York: Campus. Turner, A. J. 2010. “Lucan’s Cleopatra”. In Private and Public Lies. The Discourse of Despotism and Deceit in the Graeco-Roman World, Turner, A. J. et al. eds., 195–209. Leiden/Boston:Brill. Vout, C. 2007. Power and Eroticism in Imperial Rome. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Walker, S. 2004. The Portland Vase. London: British Museum Press. Walker, S. 2006. “Die Portlandvase. Ein Dokument augusteischer Propaganda gegen Kleopatra”. In Kleopatra und die Caesaren, Andreae, B. ed., 184–193. Munich: Hirmer. Walker, S. / Ashton, S.-A. 2006. Cleopatra. Bristol: Bristol Classical Press. Walker, S. / Higgs, P. eds. 2001. Cleopatra of Egypt. From History to Myth. London: British Museum Press. Watson, P. A. 1995. Ancient Stepmothers. Myth, Misogyny and Reality. Leiden: Brill. Weber, G. / Zimmermann, M. 2003. “Propaganda, Selbstdarstellung und Repräsentation in der althistorischen Forschung”. In Propaganda – Selbstdarstellung – Repräsentation im römischen Kaiserreich des 1. Jhs. n. Chr., Weber, G. / Zimmermann, M. eds., 11–40. Stuttgart: Steiner. Welch, K. 2006/2007. “Maiestas Regia and the Donations of Alexandria”. MedArch 19/20: 181– 192. Wesch-Klein, G. 2005. “Titus und Berenike: Lächerliche Leidenschaft oder weltgeschichtliches Liebesverhältnis?” In Rom, Germanien und das Reich. FS R. Wiegels, Spickermann, W. ed., 163–173. St. Katharinen: Scripta Mercaturae. Wieber, A. 2000. “Die Augusta aus der Wüste – die palmyrenische Herrscherin Zenobia”. In Frauenwelten der Antike, Späth, T. / Wagner-Hasel, B. eds., 281–305. Stuttgart: Metzler. Williams, J. 2001. “‘Spoiling the Egyptians’: Octavian and Cleopatra”. In Cleopatra of Egypt. From History to Myth, Walker, S. / Higgs, P. eds., 190–199. London: British Museum Press. Williams, J. 2003. “Imperial Style and the Coins of Cleopatra and Mark Antony”. In Cleopatra Reassessed, Walker, S. / Ashton, A. eds., 87–94. London: British Museum Press. Winterling, A. 2009. Politics and Society in Imperial Rome. Malden: Wiley-Blackwell. Wyke, M. 2001. “Meretrix Regina. Augustan Cleopatras”. In The Roman Mistress. Ancient and Modern Representations, Wyke, M., 195–243. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Zanker, P. 2009. Augustus und die Macht der Bilder. 5th ed. Munich: Beck. Zwierlein, O. O. 1974. “Cäsar und Kleopatra bei Lucan und in späterer Dichtung”. A&A 20: 54– 73.

9 PENELOPE’S WEB, OR: HOW TO BECOME A BAD EMPEROR POST MORTEM Ulrich Gotter When Augustus died, the Roman monarchy was already a stable political reality; and by the end of the first century CE, it had become such an undeniably solid institution that not even its critics would have considered it replaceable. Seen from this perspective, the establishment of the Principate was an unqualified success that would shape the succeeding centuries.1 If we apply other parameters, however, such as the safety of individual emperors, our assessment must be radically different. Of the 21 rulers between Caesar and the accession of Septimius Severus, at least eleven died a violent death – stabbed, cut to pieces, or forced to commit suicide before their inevitable end.2 Compared to the monarchic systems of early modern Europe,3 this quota is astonishingly high, and its serial nature shows that this death rate was more than merely the result of chance resistance to individual misfits: the Roman monarch’s fundamental lack of personal safety was a structural problem. Perhaps even more revealing than these raw figures, however, is the discursive background of violence against emperors. At least from the perspective of the contemporary actors, an emperor who was murdered was necessarily a bad emperor. It is therefore not without relevance that our information about every emperor is at least implicitly colored in negative terms. Even the image of emperors who did not die an unnatural death is often enough tinged a more or less dark grey, as is the case with Tiberius, Claudius, and Hadrian; and the vitae of those who could boast an enormous list of successes still do not remain untarnished. This also applies to Augustus, on whom many subsequent emperors modeled themselves. Suetonius un1 2

3

Tac. ann. 1.2; for the Roman monarchy as stable institution, see for instance Flaig 1992: 174– 209, esp. 201; for Tacitus’ perspective, see Geisthardt 2015: 324–348. Caesar, Caligula, Nero, Galba, Otho, Vitellius, Domitian, Commodus, Pertinax, Didius Iulianus, Pescennius Niger. The case of Claudius remains debatable (see Levick 1990: 6–79; Champlin 2003: 44–46). The list, of course, would be far longer if one took into account the many usurpers who failed to achieve initial success. And, as we all know, the bloody story of murdered principes is far from being finished with Septimius Severus. The Severan dynasty itself offers splendid examples of murderous acts within the imperial house (Geta, Heliogabalus), and if we take into consideration the number of usurpations in the rest of the 3rd century, the quota of murdered principes would balloon. See von Friedeburg 2004.

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flinchingly exposes not only his brutality as a general during the civil war,4 but also his immorality and vanity as a mature princeps.5 Thus, the tendency to de-legitimate the Roman monarch is concealed in nearly every contemporary discourse, and the series of negatively portrayed emperors almost inevitably coalesces into criticism of the institution itself. The obviously hopeless, morally precarious position of the rulers makes it seem entirely plausible that the system as a whole was flawed.6 Who produced these negative images of the emperors? Often enough, a dissenting senatorial perspective is blamed – and indeed, the Roman aristocracy was an obviously fertile ground for “Kaiserkritik,” since they customarily recalled being the first and noblest victims of the new order, stripped by the princeps of their dominion over the Roman state.7 But there is, as I will argue in this paper, another source of antimonarchic discourse that one might not expect to find in such a role: the succeeding emperor. The nature of the Roman monarch as a figure of privileged marginality and as a precarious existence8 becomes particularly clear in the moment of change, i. e. the moment when he is invested with the unlimited power he commands since then. Accordingly, I begin with the first succession under the new Principate, placing Tiberius’ so-called recusatio imperii at the center of the first part of my argument. I will attempt to reassess exactly what was negotiated in 14 CE. This will lead, in the second part of the chapter, to a structural analysis of the respective relationship of the heirs to their predecessors. In a brief third section, I will address the consequences of this paradigm of succession for the institutionalization of the monarchy, or more precisely, the consequences for the (non-)construction of the monarchy as institutionalized government. 1. THE COMMUNICATIVE MEANING OF TIBERIUS’ RELUCTANCE When Augustus died in 14 CE, there was neither a precedent nor an institutional blueprint for the transfer of power from one ruler to his successor. Nor could any be expected: in purely formal terms, the Roman state of the early first century CE was 4 5 6

7 8

Suet. Aug. 13.1–2; 15; 17.5; see Havener (forthcoming). It is interesting that the biographical texts not only recount the violent acts of the future Augustus but also his contemporary reputation for cruelty (Suet. Aug. 13.2; 14; 16.3; 70.2; Tac. ann. 1.10.4). Suet. Aug. 69; 71.1. This seems to be at least one way to read Tacitus, whose historiographical works cover every incarnation of monarchic power in the first century CE. Of course, in Tacitus’ case, we also have his explicitly positive assessment of politics after Nerva (Agr. 3.1; hist. 1.1.4). But since Tacitus never wrote the book on the age of humanity in Rome, we are confronted with his impressive series of criminal rulers, complemented by the statement in his Dialogus de oratoribus (11–13) that rhetorical brilliance is principally futile in those unfree times. For forms of resistance and signs of opposition within the senatorial class already under Augustus, see Dettenhofer 2000: esp. 148–160; for the self-victimization of the Roman aristocracy see Gotter 2011a. This view of the Principate was the explicit starting point of the Konstanz Monarchy project (for a brief introduction, see Gotter 2012); Timpe 2011: 142–147 and Winterling 2011: 232 point in a similar direction.

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not a monarchy.9 According to his own declarations, Augustus had handed over the government to the senate and the people in 27 BCE after having ended the civil wars for good. After some hesitation, he had then bowed to the insistent pleas of the senators and accepted the role of trustee of the reborn res publica.10 In retrospect, this process of negotiation is the moment when what we call monarchy in Rome was born. To transfer such a non-existent thing to a successor was not merely a challenge, it was fundamentally problematic.11 The first princeps, however, was well aware of the problem. When he died, he had left nothing to chance, and had ensured that the situation would be unmistakable. Since 13 CE, Tiberius had been endowed with the legal competences of a ruler, imperium proconsulare maius and tribunicia potestas.12 The supreme command of almost all troops in the empire and the right to initiate and veto legislation in the popular assemblies and the senate were included in these competences. Thus, the death of Augustus did not create a power vacuum, and no one needed to speculate about how it would be filled. Not even the question of the succession was raised, since Tiberius already possessed all the necessary powers.13 It only remained for Augustus to bequeath his name and his property, and initially all parties acted accordingly. Tacitus writes that the consuls were the first to take the oath of allegiance to Tiberius, followed by the commander of the Praetorian Guard and the magistrate responsible for the city’s grain supply, and finally the senate, the army, and the people of Rome. Tiberius – as imperator – issued instructions to the Praetorians and sent orders to the frontier garrisons. As tribune, he then summoned the senate, which approved posthumous honors for the deceased and read out Augustus’ will.14 Against the backdrop of this perfectly choreographed transfer of power, the communicative disaster at the next sitting of the senate on September 3rd is nothing if not surprising. As Tiberius was formally asked to assume official control of the government, that is, with the senate’s consent, he stubbornly resisted with a series of different arguments – a tortuous occasion for those who urged him to assume power explicitly. He is reported as saying that only the genius of the divine Augustus was equal to bearing such enormous responsibilities. In a state that could call on many exceptional men, the senate should not place everything in the hands of one man. Tacitus continues: “With the senate meanwhile prostrating itself in the basest 9 10 11

12 13 14

Cf. Winterling 2005: esp. 178. Res gest. Div. Aug. 34; cf. Börm/Havener 2012. The question of how an indispensable but precarious position could be transferred to somebody else seems to have triggered the widely asserted perception of crisis connected to the illness and the death of Augustus (Tac. ann. 1.4; Vell. 2.126.1). The main element of the uncertainty of the year 14 CE was fear of civil war or, more specifically, of a possible putsch by Germanicus. Since the chronology of the mutinies of the soldiers in Pannonia and Germania is complex (cf. Seager 1972: 58–73), it is hard to reconstruct reliably the course of events, particularly since the authors mentioned obviously reshaped the incidents to suit the various plots of their narratives (cf. Vell. 2.125.1 f.; Tac. ann. 1.16–44; Cass. Dio 57.4 f.). Suet. Tib. 21.1. Cf. Seager 1972: 47; Levick 1976: 61 f.; Schrömbges 1986: 57–64. Already convincingly argued by Timpe 1962: 37. Tac. ann. 1.7–8.

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protestations, Tiberius by chance said that, although he was unequal to the state as a whole, he would undertake the protection of whatever part was entrusted to him”.15 The response this concession provoked from one of the senators, Asinius Gallus,16 however, was certainly not what Tiberius expected. When Gallus asked him which responsibilities he would like to accept, the princeps had no answer, and the entire situation took an embarrassing turn for the worse.17 After protracted protestations and pleading by the senators, Tiberius finally agreed to take command of the government, according to Suetonius, forced to do so and still complaining that miserable servitude was being laid on his shoulders.18 Thus, in the end, the senate acclaimed Tiberius princeps. The damage, however, caused by this failure of effective communication was considerable. How could this have happened under a man who had held leading political offices for decades, who knew the Augustan state and its officials like no other, whose position was already established, and who merely had to run the course that had already been laid out for him? It is scarcely surprising that there has been a lively scholarly debate about what Tiberius really wanted and what exactly went wrong.19 The question is not simply biographical: it is inevitable that, in evaluating the first transfer of power under a new political system, one also judges the character of that system. Citing earlier scholars, Egon Flaig has revived the view that Tiberius’ behavior should be interpreted as recusatio imperii, a widely recognized ritual of pretended refusal, and that only by his gauche reluctance Tiberius failed to achieve the desired communicative effect.20 Frankly, I am not convinced by this interpretation. In my opinion, two factors argue strongly against this view of a failed ritual of recusatio. First, if Tiberius wanted to stage an effective recusatio ritual following the example of Augustus in 27 BCE, his behavior is completely unintelligible. He had already, very quickly and comprehensively, achieved the consensual recognition of his position. Even if he believed that a greater show of humility and reluctance might encourage public acceptance of his rule, he could have corrected the mistake as soon as he realized just how badly communication between himself and the senators had broken down. The fact that he persisted in his unwillingness shows that he must have wanted something else that they were not ready to give him. Second: Even after the ceremonies, Tiberius kept up his strange performance. In fact, his conduct deliberately 15 16 17 18

19

20

Tac. ann. 1.12.1 (tr. A. J. Woodman). It was obviously no coincidence that of all senators Gallus should play an awkward part for Tiberius; their relationship was traditionally not the best: Cf. Shotter 1971: 445–449. Tac. ann. 11 f.; Suet. Tib. 24.1. Suet. Tib. 24.2. On the same occasion, he publicly toyed with an outrageous idea: stepping down to join the ranks of senate after a few years as princeps, as if he could opt for a kind of splendid retirement (on the impossibility of stepping down as princeps, see the lucid remarks by Flaig 1992: 561–563). See Seager 1972: 50–57; Levick 1976: 68–81; Flaig 1992: 210–214; Huttner 2004: 128–148. Schrömbges 1986: 78–85, in contrast, doesn’t see the senate session (September 3rd, 14 CE) as a serious communicative problem at all but reconstructs the recusatio of 14 CE as a clear and smoothly organized parallel to Augustus’ recusatio of 27 BCE. Cf. Flaig 2007: 101–105.

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and unhesitatingly perpetuated the failed communication of the senate session.21 If it had merely been a ritual, it should have come to its conclusion; otherwise it would not be a ritual.22 To make my point clear: I do not mean to dispute that Tiberius’ actions before the senate should be termed recusatio.23 For my purposes, though, it is fruitful to take another look at the message Tiberius was actually conveying, not only in the decisive session of the senate. If we look beyond this incident, a reasonably coherent representation of the new princeps comes to light. According to his biographer Suetonius, after Tiberius was established in Rome, he behaved evasively, accepting few honors and then only reluctantly; he particularly suppressed every means of honoring him as a deity and rejected proposals to rename months after himself as well as the praenomen imperatoris and the title pater patriae.24 Still more significant was the performance he put on before the senate and senators: Suetonius says that when greeted and addressed with titles of honor in the curia, Tiberius almost overstepped the limits of courtesy in insisting on his own humility.25 According to Tacitus, it was not merely a matter of words: all kinds of affairs were regularly brought before the senate for debate,26 and – in contrast to Augustus’ practice27 – the outcome obviously had not been decided in advance. Tiberius all but invited situations in which his recommendations were successfully opposed: “When it happened that the senate passed a decree by division and he went over to the side of the minority, not a man followed him”.28 On several occasions, such performances were explicitly supported by ostentatious republicanism.29 Was Tiberius therefore a republican princeps, eager to abandon absolute government, potentially a representative of Theodor Mommsen’s idea of “diarchy” – a form of government in which princeps and senate ruled jointly?30 Or, as Robin Seager puts it, taking Ti21 22 23

24 25 26 27 28 29

30

Suet. Tib. 26–32; Tac. ann. 1.14–15; 1.35; 1.72; 1.74; 1.77. Cf. Tambiah 1985: 128–137; Fischer-Lichte 2003: 44–49. Vell. 2.124.2: solique huic contigit paene diutius recusare principatum, quam, ut occuparent eum, alii armis pugnaverunt; Suet. Tib. 24.1: principatum, quamvis neque occupare confestim neque agere dubitasset, et statione militum, hoc est vi et specie dominationis, diu tamen recusavit (…). Suet. Tib. 26.2. Suet. Tib. 29: Not only, like Augustus, did he refuse to be addressed as dominus, but he did not even want to appear as auctor in his dealings with the senate (Suet. Tib. 27) – which was very much at odds with the ideas of his adoptive father. Tac. ann. 1.6–7; Suet. Tib. 30. Maybe transferring the election of the magistrates to the senate (Tac. ann. 1.15) was another measure of Tiberius pointing to the same direction. Suet. Aug. 36 f. is typical; for the curbing of the senate see Dettenhofer 2000: 128–133; 198– 202. Suet. Tib. 31.2: cum senatus consultum per discessionem forte fieret, transeuntem eum in alteram partem, in qua pauciores erant, secutus est nemo (tr. J. C. Rolf). See for instance his partaking in and thereby validating the republican pompa funebris or his encouraging of the promagistrates to send res gestae and commentarii of their actions to the senate as had regularly been done under the Republic (Suet. Tib. 32); see Schrömbges 1986: 111–121. Cf. Mommsen 1887/88: 749 f.; Mommsen 1974: 148 f.; see Winterling 2005, with discussion, and Bruun 2011: 171 f.

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berius’ reluctance at face value: “There can be no doubt that he would have preferred to reject the principate altogether”.31 Yet the arguments against these interpretations are also reasonably persuasive. Ultimately, Tiberius’ position depended on his supreme command of the army, and he gave not the slightest hint that he was willing to share that command in any way whatsoever.32 Were that to happen, he and everybody else knew that civil war would be inevitable.33 We thus find ourselves in a kind of aporia, insofar as the two favored interpretations of Tiberius’ behavior cannot integrate all the available evidence. In order to decipher the message the emperor wished to communicate to the senate, I therefore propose an alternative solution that focuses on the precise semantics of Tiberius’ words and actions. If we reverse the constellation, that is, if we do not ask why Tiberius declined to perform a recusatio like Augustus, but rather simply accept that he did not, things become significantly clearer. Essentially, everything that Tiberius said and did – with the exception of honoring his adoptive father – was the opposite of Augustan political practice. This appears most clearly in the role of the senate and Tiberius’ behavior toward senators. Admittedly, Augustus had also moderated his pretensions to primacy with gestures of self-restraint or civilitas toward his fellow senators.34 Yet nobody among the leading classes could have believed that these gestures were anything more than a performance. How things really were in the Augustan state was made obvious to the aristocracy not only through exceptional rituals, such as the triumph as the monopoly of the princeps,35 but also in the everyday business of the senate’s decision-making. The number of monthly sessions was reduced to two, while during the harvest months of September and October Augustus allowed merely a small quorum of senators to vote by lot. He also appointed senators by lot to consilia to prepare matters for discussion and propose motions in the full sittings of the senate.36 And last but not least he changed the order of precedence in the senatorial debates: “On questions of special importance he called upon the senators to give their opinions, not according to the order established by precedent, but just as he fancied, to induce each man to keep his mind on the alert, as if he were to initiate action rather than give assent to others”.37 With these measures, he deliberately overrode traditional senate procedure, which conspicuously privileged the most senior members. For a senator of consular rank to give his opinion on par with an inexperienced junior member was not merely demeaning, it showed that Augustus was not interested in genuinely collaborating with the leading citizens in drafting decrees of the senate, the same message con31 32 33 34 35 36 37

Seager 1972: 56 f. Suet. Tib. 24.1; Tac. ann. 1.5–7. For the fear of civil war and of Germanicus’ putsch: Suet. Tib. 25.1–2; Vell. 2.123–126; Tac. ann. 1.4; 1.7; 1.16–51. Suet. Aug. 53–56. On this subject see now Havener (forthcoming). Suet. Aug. 35.1–3. Suet. Aug. 35.4 (tr. Rolfe): sententias de maiore negotio non more atque ordine sed prout libuisset perrogabat, ut perinde quisque animum intenderet ac si censendum magis quam adsentiendum esset.

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veyed by the arbitrary composition of his consilium. The fact that the princeps never left his own position in doubt38 simplified communication and made the Augustan regime smoothly efficient. Thus, individual senators were faced again and again with the choice of either risking their own position or participating in ritual consent. The vast majority chose the latter. The messages Tiberius conveyed during the second sitting of the senate and subsequently pointed in precisely the opposite direction. For virtually every Augustan performance, we can find an opposite Tiberian performance. In this way, Augustus is inevitably transformed from an exemplary model setting the stage for his heirs into a figure who, as Tiberius himself said, was so great that no one could follow in his footsteps.39 What Tiberius in fact meant with this remark was that he himself at least had no interest in following his adoptive father but rather wanted to proceed in a systematically different fashion. Accordingly, the subtext of Tiberius’ cunctatio was that Augustus’ monarchy was anything but exemplary, and that for himself the point of reference would be republican norms. With a more or less veiled statement to that effect, Tiberius, although Augustus’ heir, nonetheless fashioned himself as a proponent of anti-Augustan discourse. It should not surprise us that he genuinely hoped to find sympathy for this message in the Roman senate, having been, under the domination of Augustus, more than once the victim of the new order. This reconstruction of the scene in the Roman senate after Augustus’ death is not merely the product of a historian’s imagination fueled by an over-sensitive interpretation of texts: it is confirmed by the most Tiberian author in Roman literature, Velleius Paterculus. Naturally, his evaluation of events differs from that of Suetonius and Tacitus. While Velleius’ narrative also includes the dispute between Tiberius, the senate, and the people over how much power he should assume and how quickly, it is lacking, however, an account of the communicative disaster in the senate house. Velleius’ depiction instead conspicuously anticipates the year in which his Historiae were composed (i. e., 29 CE); from this standpoint Tiberius’ achievements, starting from his accession, are judged as follows: Who would undertake to tell in detail the accomplishments of the past sixteen years, since they are borne in upon the eyes and hearts of all? Caesar [i. e. Tiberius] deified his father, not by exercise of his imperial authority but by his attitude of reverence; he did not call him a god, but made him one. Credit has been restored in the forum, strife has been banished from the forum, canvassing for office from the Campus Martius, discord from the senate-house; justice, equity, and industry, long buried in oblivion, have been restored to the state; the magistrates have regained their authority, the senate its majesty, the courts their dignity. Rioting in the theatre has been suppressed; all the citizens have either been impressed with the wish to do right or to have been forced to do so by necessity right is now honoured, evil is punished; the humble man respects the great but does not fear him, the great has precedence over the lowly but does not despise him (…). Honour ever awaits the worthy; for the wicked punishment is slow but sure; 38 39

Suet. Aug. 32.3; 36–37. It is revealing that the notion of auctor (Suet. Aug. 36) is explicitly used for Augustus’ idea of governance in the senate; for the influence of Augustus in and on the senate see Kienast 2009: 153–159; 179–181. Tac. ann. 1.11.1.

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Obviously, one might argue that this passage should be read as nothing more than a topos, since it resembles the passage in which Velleius depicts the achievements and successes of Augustus after concluding the civil wars.41 Yet even such a cautious reading would lend considerable force to my argument: if every new princeps has to be celebrated for raising the state to new heights, then it follows that each one is credited with progress over the preceding era. There moreover are signs in the text itself that the passage is meant to be specific and not at all repetitive: Velleius’ praise of Tiberius begins with his special pietas toward Augustus, which in turn is focused intently on Tiberius’ achievement in contrast to that of Augustus. Thus Tiberius not only recognized Augustus’ divine nature, but he alone made him a god. To construct an overview of Tiberius’ achievements, which are set on par with Augustus’ renewal of the state after the civil wars, by beginning with this interpretation of Augustus’ apotheosis marks a dramatic break with the entire Augustan regime. Other sources likewise reflect, if in a distorted view, the significance of the senate and the significance of personal achievements, which the most important men in the Tiberian system could boast of: in other words, the meritocratic quality of the Tiberian regime. And characteristically, this meritocratic thread that runs through the assessment of Tiberius quoted above leads to Velleius’ emphatic discussion of Sejanus in the next chapters. The examples to which he is compared, after Agrippa and Statilius Taurus are briefly mentioned, are all drawn from the Republic (Tiberius Coruncanius, Spurius Carvilius, Marcus Cato, Mummius, Marius, Cicero, 40

41

Vell. 2.126: Horum sedecim annorum opera quis cum ingerantur oculis animisque omnium, partibus eloquatur? Sacravit parentem suum Caesar non imperio, sed religione, non appellavit eum, sed fecit deum. Revocata in forum fides, summota e foro seditio, ambitio campo, discordia curia, sepultaeque ac situ obsitae iustitia, aequitas, industria civitati redditae; accessit magistratibus auctoritas, senatui maiestas, iudiciis gravitas; compressa theatralis seditio, recte faciendi omnibus aut incussa voluntas aut imposita necessitas: honorantur recta, prava puniuntur, suspicit potentem humilis, non timet, antecedit, non contemnit humiliorem potens (…). honor dignis paratissimus, poena in malos sera, sed aliqua: superatur aequitate gratia, ambitio virtute: nam facere recte civis suos princeps optimus faciendo docet, cumque sit imperio maximus, exemplo maior est (tr. F. W. Shipley). Vell. 2.89.2–4: “There is nothing that man can desire from the gods, nothing that the gods can grant to a man, nothing that wish can conceive or good fortune bring to pass, which Augustus on his return to the city did not bestow upon the state (res publica), the Roman people (populus Romanus), and the world (terrarumque orbi). The civil wars were ended after twenty years, foreign war suppressed, peace restored, the frenzy of arms everywhere lulled to rest; validity was restored to the laws (restituta vis legibus), authority to the courts (iudiciis auctoritas), and dignity to the senate (senatui maiestas); the power of the magistrates (imperium magistratuum) was reduced to its former limits, with the sole exception that two were added to the eight existing praetors. The traditional form of the state was restored (prisca illa et antiqua rei publicae forma revocata). Agriculture returned to the fields, respect to religion, to mankind freedom from anxiety and to each citizen his property rights were now assured; old laws were usefully emended, and new laws passed for the general good; the revision of the senate, while not to drastic, was not lacking in severity”.

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and last but not least Asinius Pollio, who likewise stood at a distance from Augustus).42 By directly drawing on exempla from the Republic, the Principate of Tiberius’ adoptive father becomes less central – although careers like that of Agrippa or Maecenas must have been at least as influential as the names cited above – and moreover were much more closely related to Sejanus’ career. While Velleius’ account thus confirms that Tiberius indeed wanted to draw a sharp contrast between Augustus’ regime and his own way of governing the res publica, it does not give us a clear perspective on the social significance of this maneuver. Why did Tiberius conspicuously distance himself from Augustus when he had no intention of either abolishing or fundamentally reconstituting the Principate? This question is easier to answer with respect to the Roman monarchy as a whole than in relation to Tiberius. In my opinion, it is a matter of a structural characteristic with far-reaching implications. 2. THE SUCCESSOR AS TYPUS Even on the most superficial glance, it is obvious that the first two centuries of Roman history after Augustus witnessed dramatic changes of direction within the Principate. Sharp caesuras such as the succession from Nero to Galba or from Trajan to Hadrian or from Marcus Aurelius to Commodus are commonplaces of historical research.43 Yet the causa Tiberii can show us that the tendency of emperors to distance themselves from their predecessors was a far more frequent phenomenon than at first sight appears – that it is the rule, not the exception. I will justify this claim with a brief survey of the conduct of successors in the Roman monarchy over the first two centuries CE. Augustus had already set the standard. His use of Caesar as he began to establish a permanent monocracy following the civil war was constantly two-faced. While he emphasized his descent from the deified Caesar until the end of his life, he also distanced himself from the murdered dictator in the symbolic representation of his government. This began with his relationship to the soldiers, which he addressed as milites – instead of the Caesarian commilitones44 –, and ended with his attitude towards his own deification in Italy.45 Caesar seems to lurk behind every office and every honor Augustus declined.46 The carefully cultivated memoria of the dictator always served as a convenient foil for his successor. It is therefore tempting to see a sober student of the first princeps in Tiberius’ subtle treatment of Augustus.

42 43 44 45 46

Vell. 2.128.2 f. Cf. Seebacher (forthcoming) for Hadrian, and Hekster 2002: esp. 46–50 for a discussion of Commodus’ dynamic innovations. Suet. Aug. 25.1; nota bene his explicit critique of risky military strategies (Suet. Aug. 25.4) which was obviously also directed against his adoptive father’s style of military leadership. Suet. Aug. 52. Suet. Aug. 52; for Augustus’ treatment of Caesar see Ramage 1985.

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The transition from Tiberius to Caligula was less subtle. Admittedly, the young man had it easy at first. The bad press surrounding the frustrated hermit of Capri let Caligula present himself as Rome’s new shining light,47 but he soon established nuances of his own, especially his emphasis on his descent from Germanicus and his rehabilitation of his ancestor Mark Antony.48 Claudius was in an even more advantageous position after Caligula was murdered: there was no question of preserving the political representation of the bad emperor.49 Thus, de-legitimizing Caligula was easy, and his more than questionable performance as emperor was a felicitous chance for Claudius to emerge as a brilliant princeps, despite the fact that the divine Augustus himself had judged him utterly unsuited for high public office. The fact, however, that Claudius successfully counterbalanced Caligula’s conspicuous lack of military successes and his own physical handicap with an unprecedented militarization of the imperial persona posed an obvious hurdle for his adopted son, Nero. By the end of his reign, Claudius had received significantly more imperatorial acclamations than Augustus.50 Consequently Nero made no attempt to invest in military aggrandizement. To demonstrate distance from his predecessor he chose two paths. First he denounced his adoptive father according to well-known patterns. Seneca’s Apocolocynthosis is unthinkable without Nero’s connivance,51 and it opened the door for Nero to present himself as new Augustus.52 The renunciation of Claudius’ apotheosis53 is an overt way of expressing his ex post derision and Nero’s contempt for the accomplishments of his adoptive father as a whole. How Nero changed the tone of positive imperial representation, however, is well known: he is said to have entered Rome in a triumphal procession showing all the victor’s crowns that an artist could win in Greece.54 This was the keystone of his specific representation. The difference between Nero and Claudius was also unmistakable in his public portrait.55 The caesura created by Galba’s putsch against Nero was visible on the same level: Galba exhibited severitas in imitation of the elder Cato and in opposition to 47 48 49 50 51

52 53 54 55

Suet. Tib. 75; Suet. Cal. 13–16. Suet. Cal. 15.2; Winterling 2003: 55–57; 85; 119. Suet. Claud. 11 f. Claudius could count 27 imperial acclamations at the end of his life, surpassing Augustus by six (cf. Kienast 1996: 66 f.; 91). For the military performance of the emperor, see Levick 1990: 137–161. The Apocolocynthosis compensates, in highly negative terms, for the apotheosis of the dead emperor, which could not be omitted for obvious, opportunistic reasons; see Kraft 1966: 120 f.; Wolf 1986: 4–9, very much against Baldwin 1964. For Nero’s very early self-distinction from Claudius: Suet. Nero 33; cf. Champlin 2003: 116. Suet. Nero 10.1; Champlin 2003: 139–144; for the image of Augustus in the early Principate, cf. Seebacher (forthcoming). Suet. Claud. 45. Cf. Champlin 2003: 229–234; for Nero’s tour of Greece cf. Champlin 2003: 53–61. For the interpretation of his artistic laurels as political legitimization see Gotter 2011b: 37–62, against Meier 2008: 588–591. For the portrait of Nero see Champlin 2003: 116–121; von den Hoff 2011: 27, stressing that the history of imperial portraiture seems to be a “Geschichte der Brüche” (30).

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the effeminate arts of the Greeks.56 It was inevitable that each of the rivals during the civil wars of the year of the four emperors in 69 CE should adopt roles diametrically opposed to those of their immediate predecessors. Thus, the construction of contrasts passed before the eyes of contemporary observers in brief half-life morsels: Otho à la Nero (against Galba); Vitellius also against Galba and pro-Nero, but anti-Otho, as well; Vespasian again with a positive memory of Galba and perhaps also Otho,57 while very much opposed to both Vitellius and the last of the Julio-Claudians.58 The illegitimacy of the Flavians on many levels – they were not related to the previous ruling dynasties, they were not of noble birth, and their ascendency was the result of civil bloodshed – led to a renewal and a creative and independent interpretation of tradition, and influenced their own organization of the succession which I wish to leave to the side for a moment. The murder of Domitian, the last Flavian, and the emphatic damnatio memoriae to which he was subjected, constituted a durable foil against which the two following principes, Nerva and Trajan, could construct their own images.59 Trajan distanced himself in a perfectly rude fashion from the civil hothouse that had brought his adoptive father to the throne. Instead of receiving the acclamation of the senate and people in Rome, he spent the first eighteen months of his reign organizing wars in the border provinces before he reconciled himself to a visit to the capital,60 only to present himself afterwards as the greatest conqueror the Principate had ever known, showering Rome and the empire with symbols of victory and military monuments.61 The very sharp caesura between Trajan and his successor probably derives from the successful, military fashion in which he constructed his persona. In any event, Hadrian assumed an equally radical position vis-à-vis Trajan’s policy: he renounced expansionism, withdrew from newly conquered Mesopotamia, and even toyed publicly with the idea of abandoning Dacia, the gem of Trajan’s conquests.62 Hadrian declined to build up a powerful military persona even on the basis of the achievement that would have made it easiest for him to do so: the suppression of the Bar Kokhba revolt.63 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

For Galba’s self-fashioning, see Flaig 1992: 288–304; Champlin 2003: 7 f. Suet. Vesp. 6.4. Cf. Flaig 1992: 405–407; Champlin 2003: 9; von den Hoff 2011: 27. For the options of dealing with a murdered princeps, see Strobel 2010: 150–153 and Geisthardt 2015: 32–82; 189–197. Cf. Strobel 2010: 182–193. For the military language of Trajan’s building program, see Seelentag 2004: 318–321, with further references. H. A. Hadr. 5 f.; see now comprehensively Seebacher (forthcoming). Seelentag 2011: 309 misses the semantics of discontinuity completely when he, actually in a very traditional way, interprets Hadrian’s change of policy as the result of political exigencies. Werner Eck has shown that Hadrian departed at least somewhat from his previous (negative) attitude toward accepting imperatorial acclamations (Eck 1999: 85–88; Eck 2012: 260 f.; see, however, Bowersock 2003); but Eck also notes, somewhat surprised, how few traces this Roman military success left in the self-representation of the princeps (especially compared to the flood of media unleashed by the Flavians on the occasion of their Judaean victory); cf. Eck 2012: 249–250; 261.

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While we cannot speak of continuity in the early second century, this situation did not change significantly during the comparative plateau of human happiness under the Antonines. Antoninus Pius managed to distance himself from his adoptive father Hadrian with such virtuosity that Hadrian’s apotheosis was ascribed to Antoninus’ pietas alone and not to Hadrian’s achievements.64 A sudden rupture in Antoninus’ self-representation was the brief war against the Picts, waged directly after his accession and leading to a marked imperatorial acclamation and the erection of the Antonine Wall.65 Later, again in contrast to Hadrian, who had been increasingly hated in senatorial circles not least on account of the execution of senators, Antoninus molded himself into the very incarnation of civilitas.66 Yet even this model of humanitas did not guarantee stable imperial self-representation. Antoninus’ adopted son Marcus Aurelius forged a decidedly personal imperial role. Forbidden to leave Rome as designated successor,67 he cultivated the image of a philosopher with irritating intensity; this persona was no variation of his adoptive father’s civilitas, but rather something entirely new.68 Later, under the pressure of the desperate military situation, he paired this representation with the image of a merciless warrior who conducted total war against the barbarians.69 Commodus’ reversal of his father’s self-representation resulted on the one hand in 64 65

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Cass. Dio 69.23.2 = Xiphil. 255.14–19; 70.1 f. = Xiphil. 256; H. A. Anton. 2.5–6; 5.1–2. He also stressed his distance from his predecessor by encouraging the erection of statues for his blood relatives, thus elegantly counterbalancing his adoption by Hadrian (H. A. Anton. 5.2). H. A. Anton. 5.4–5. The Historia Augusta organizes this militarily nearly irrelevant campaign as the first of a series of victorious engagements by Antoninus, one of them being directed even against the Jews, thus stressing the difference between his idea of government and the militant propagation of peace under Hadrian. H. A. Anton. 6 f. In H. A. Anton. 6.3–5 this anti-Hadrianic bias is evident: “He [Antoninus] besought the senate to pardon those men whom Hadrian had condemned, saying that Hadrian himself had been about to do so. The imperial pomp he reduced to the utmost simplicity and thereby gained the greater esteem, though the palace-attendants opposed this course, for they found that since he made no use of go-betweens, they could in no wise terrorize men or take money for decisions about which there was no concealment. In his dealings with the senate, he rendered it, as emperor, the same respect that he had wished another emperor to render him when he was a private man” (tr. D. Magie). This being my – hostile – reading of the friendly story in the Historia Augusta (Marc. Aurel. 7.2) that the love between Pius and Marcus grew to such an extent, that Marcus, in 23 years, left his adoptive father for not more than two nights, and those not being consecutive. He thus was unable to appear before the army and in the provinces and to shape a profile of his own within the administration of the empire. Cass. Dio 71.1.1–3; H. A. Marc. Aurel. 1.1; 2.1; 2.6 f.; 3.1–5; 4.8; 5.3–4; 11.4; 27.7 f. Other than an extraordinarily civil princeps, a philosopher with his uncompromising attitude could not be judged to be the ideal ruler – at least not at first glance and in Rome. This new-fashioned military persona had different aspects: first his continuous, striking presence at the front was decisive. By subsequently bringing his wife and son with him, he cultivated an image of inescapable fighting by the whole family, thus stressing the emperor’s dedicated engagement when final victory remained out of reach (H. A. Marc. Aurel. 21.7–22.2; 22.8). Second, he showed his devotion to the needs of the military sector by publicly auctioning precious objects from the palace (H. A. Marc. Aurel. 17.2–5). Third, he obviously planned to depict this war in shades of a brutality never before seen in Rome, as we can still muster on his

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immediate peace on the Germanic front,70 and on the other led him into the arena – which his father had held in demonstrative contempt.71 We could continue to follow this series of contrasts. At this point, however, I wish to draw attention to the one, highly visible departure I can detect from the treatment of respective predecessors described above: the self-description of the Flavian emperors. The Lex de imperio Vespasiani, the law empowering Vespasian,72 the new strong man in the empire, seeks to persuade the public that the Principate is nothing more than the quasi-bureaucratic accumulation of offices. To this end, as each office is conferred, it is repeated like a mantra that Vespasian should receive the office just as the divine Augustus, Tiberius, and Claudius had been granted them.73 This repetition, in my opinion, is a fundamental communicative element of the text and is intended to achieve two partly incompatible goals: on the one hand, an illegitimate candidate slipped into the ranks of the principes by forging quasi-dynastic continuity; on the other, he distances himself from his immediate predecessors by appealing to the exemplary figure of Augustus.74 This whirlwind tour of the history of the Roman imperial succession from Caesar to Commodus allows us to discern patterns that, however fuzzy in the details, are nevertheless clearly common to all: the differences between predecessor and successor that have been described are not differences reflecting individual personalities, but rather different imperial attitudes and role models. I will attempt to summarize the principles of this construction of difference in four points: First, the assumption of power in the Roman Principate normally took the form of a demonstration of difference, independent of the personal relationship between the respective predecessor and successor. This self-distancing did not change the basis of power under the Principate in the least, but it definitely shaped the discursive construction of one’s own government and thus the messages that were communicated to the various audiences in the capital and in the provinces. To take this point further, one might argue against Fergus Millar75 that the construction of the emperor’s persona is indeed a programmatic statement that is not reactive at all but had clear-cut implications for the Roman emperor’s agenda. If one looks, for example, at the policy of expansion, it is, in my opinion, neither by chance nor by inevi-

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Column (erected post mortem); for the transgressive language of the monument and especially for the differences between Marcus’ and Trajan’s Columns, see Pirson 1996. H. A. Comm. 3.5; Alföldy (1971: 106) and Hekster (2002: 46), however, argue vehemently against a political shift by the young emperor, stressing that many of his father’s counsellors continued to serve under Commodus. This indeed may hold true for the first years of Commodus’ reign; however, I cannot accept the denial of the crucial difference in political attitudes between the two rulers: the one moving personally to the Marcomannic front for good, claiming he had to do so to safeguard the Imperium Romanum, and the other immediately upon his accession negotiating a peace that proved stable over the long term. For the different attitudes of father and son towards the arena: H. A. Marc. Aurel. 11.4; 23.5 f.; 26.8 vs. H. A. Comm. 1.8; 8.5; 15.3; 17.10. CIL VI 930; Tac. hist. 4.3.3; Suet. Vesp. 9.1; for date and context see Brunt 1977. CIL VI 930, l. 1–2; 5–6; 15–16; 19–20; 21–23; 25–26. For this interpretation, see Gotter (forthcoming). Millar 1992: esp. 259–272; 611–620.

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tability that the provincialization of Asia Minor was advanced mainly by Claudius and Vespasian who both made generally great efforts to propagate their military successes. Second, the process of distancing oneself from one’s predecessor was not a private matter, but a byproduct of establishing one’s own imperial persona, which a Roman emperor was obviously expected to do. To continue the past regime as if it were a seamless transition was obviously not an option. And even when many or most fields of political action remained unchanged, the rhetoric of difference uttered by the successor rendered at least an illusion of discontinuity: on the one hand, adoption was the most important mark of designation to power, and the successor had to stage and to commemorate this privileged bond. On the other hand, he had to gain marked distance from his predecessor from the start in order to construct his own (meritocratic) profile. To that effect, the messages sent by the new regime were necessarily ambiguous. Third, explicit references to Augustus illustrate not claims to continuity, but quite the opposite. For example, when Vespasian or Hadrian appear to imitate Augustus, they signal their rejection of their immediate predecessors by means of a more distant, archaizing appeal that transcends the current tradition. The memory of Augustus thus has the potential to be constantly updated and reinterpreted.76 Fourth, the differentiation between predecessor and successor and the invention of an individual imperial persona were proportionately more complex the more successful the predecessor had been. Accordingly, it seems to have been easiest to play the part of princeps when one’s predecessor had been largely or utterly discredited in the eyes of the relevant public. In the latter case, the hope for change lent the new emperor a boost in credibility. If, however, one’s predecessor had been successful or brilliant – or even an optimus princeps – then the creation of the successor’s new persona must almost inevitably lead to friction and irritation.77 In short: a successful predecessor was the nemesis of every new regime. At this point in the discussion, it is worth returning to the scene in 14 CE described at the beginning of this paper, so that we may attempt one last time to understand what went wrong in the senate after Augustus’ death and why Tiberius could do nothing about it. In my view, it was not that Tiberius rejected the ritual of recusatio; rather the senate rejected Tiberius’ claim to be different from Augustus and to protect the interests of the aristocracy. The positive associations with Augustus were too pronounced, as was Tiberius’ adherence to the forma of the Augustan monarchy, namely, his accumulation of offices and his exclusive relationship with the army. As the first successor in an institution that had not yet become automatic, Tiberius could not surrender any of these prerogatives, but neither could he refuse

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On Hadrian propagating Augustus counterfactually as champion of peace, see Seebacher (forthcoming). In this respect Augustus and Trajan, of course, constituted the biggest problems for their successors. Symptomatic for their extraordinary success was the acclamation formula of late antique emperors by the senate that they should be felicior Augusto melior Traiano (Eutrop. 8.5).

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to establish his own defining persona. The impression of opaque incoherence was the dysfunctional result. 3. CONCLUSION: SUCCESSION AND INSTITUTIONALIZATION At first sight, it may seem paradoxical that it was precisely the success and quality of a predecessor that posed a problem for a new emperor. Yet if we accept this, then I believe that several characteristics of the Roman monocratic rule become more intelligible. I repeat: in contrast to the European monarchies of the later Middle Ages and early modern period,78 Roman emperors apparently could not legitimate themselves by depicting themselves in positive terms as representing continuity with earlier members of a dynasty. The reasons for this situation seem to lie in the specific character of the Roman monarchy, about which both Egon Flaig and Aloys Winterling have arrived at important conclusions over the past fifteen years. From their work, two aspects essential to my argument have emerged: First, in its systematic essence, the Principate was not a legal institution that had produced trust in how it was been run.79 Second, the Principate was a balancing act between diverse, incompatible expectations of a variety of subjects, which were extremely difficult to reconcile. Because these expectations were constitutive for the government, however, the imperial persona inevitably constituted a wide variety of roles which it was difficult to adopt with any consistency.80 Things were complicated further when it was acknowledged that sometimes not even one role sufficed for each segment of society. Communication between the princeps and members of the senatorial elite itself was obviously precarious, “doppelbödig,” as Aloys Winterling characterizes it, indicating that each participant in the role-play knew how things really were (i. e. specifically the relations of power) but had to act as if he neither knew nor could have known.81 Decisive for this precarious complexity were the circumstances in which monocracy in Rome came into existence. In order to adapt it to Roman conditions, Augustus propagated the idea of government by auctoritas, which essentially meant capitalizing on personal achievement.82 The meritocratic principle – which was 78 79 80 81 82

The most striking contrast is the counterfactual propagation of a far reaching dynastic relation by the French kings, who traced a continuous line from Charlemagne to the Bourbons (still pertinent Kantorowicz 1957). Cf. Flaig 1992: 174–207 and 550–568; see also Flaig 2011 and Gotter 2012. Cf. Flaig 1992: 179–184. Winterling 2003: 27–33 and 93–100. Characteristic of this pattern is the famous formulation of Augustus’ government in Res gest. Div. Aug. 34 (tr. F. W. Shipley): “In my sixth and seventh consulships, when I had extinguished the flames of civil war, after receiving by universal consent the absolute control of affairs, I transferred the state from my own control to the will of the senate and Roman people (in consulatu sexto et septimo, postquam bella civilia exstinxeram, per consensum universorum potens rerum omnium, rem publicam ex mea potestate in senatus populique Romani arbitrium transtuli). For this service on my part I was given the name of Augustus by decree of the senate, and

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accepted at least theoretically – presented subsequent emperors with a serious problem. Insofar as Augustus made his personal achievements the basis of his power, the shoes inherited by his successors were a size too large. Only Augustus and, to a lesser degree, Tiberius, could claim to have achieved anything that justified their stable preeminence among their peers. Later principes were largely nobodies at the beginning of their reigns, or at best a blank page, when judged by this meritocratic principle. Under these circumstances, a new emperor was forced to invent an independent and unmistakable profile as quickly as possible in order to sell his position of power as something natural. In seeking substance for a legitimate persona, they had little available to them beyond the crude fact of their power; and to abstain from using it would have required almost superhuman restraint. We therefore regularly encounter idiosyncratic efforts at one-upmanship, which also produced the typus of the “mad emperor”.83 And even when the expression of power was not so extreme, the demonstrative distancing of oneself from one’s successor was a crucial paradigm of the Roman Principate. The consequences for the Roman model of monocratic rule were considerable. I see here a fundamental reason for the astonishingly deficient institutionalization84 of the Principate. What was built up by one (successful) emperor in terms of meeting expectations was constantly undermined by his successor, whether one subtly rejected the achievement of the deceased or went straight for the jugular; in a sense, the process amounted to functional deconstruction, just as Penelope undid the death shroud of her father-in-law Laertes every night. Emperors thus became spokesmen of a discourse, which delegitimized the previous emperor and, in the endless repetition of the procedure, propagated tropes showing an anti-monarchic component. Strengthening one’s own position at the expense of one’s predecessor may have brought short-term communicative gain,85 but in terms of the sociology of government it was a losing game. The fact that principes obviously saw no alternative throws the character of this form of monarchy into stark relief, at least for the first

83 84 85

the doorposts of my house were covered by public act, a civic crown was fixed above my door, and a golden shield was placed in the Curia Iulia whose inscription testified that the senate and the Roman people gave me this in recognition of my valor (virtus), my clemency (clementia), my justice (iustitia), and my piety (pietas). After that time I took precedence of all in rank, but of power I possessed no more than those who were my colleagues in any magistracy (post id tempus auctoritate omnibus praestiti, potestatis autem nihilo amplius habui quam ceteri qui mihi quoque in magistratu conlegae fuerunt)”. Cf. Gotter 2012. Cf. Timpe 2011: 141–148 and 156–159; Winterling 2011: 9–11, with additional literature. Thus, an important legitimating factor like the idea of a familia imperatoris necessarily remained underexposed. The actions of individual principes seem to have been directed merely by their own interest in securing their power, which the precarious institutionality of the political system itself paradigmatically reflects. Even the designation of a viable successor, which interestingly occurred often enough quite late or not at all, seems in these circumstances to have served rather to maintain the current emperor’s power (and at most guarantee a positive memory post mortem) than to construct a stable dynasty over several generations. The monarchic agent in the Roman Principate thus remained isolated and did not, at least not intentionally, sublimate into an instance that transcended his person.

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and second centuries CE. The obvious incoherence of emperors’ interpretations of their role ultimately created considerable uncertainty not only for themselves: those outside the government were also regularly forced to adapt to the changed parameters.86 This need to adaptation in turn lead repeatedly to communicative disasters with more than a handful senators executed, and thus established fear as one of the core emotions between ruler and elite. Insofar the anti-discourse against the predecessor helps explain why, even two centuries after its foundation, the Principate had still failed to produce a system of regular succession, a child emperor, and an standardized recruitment of the imperial aristocracy, but instead relied on the permanent negotiation of power relations in the heart of the empire – with all the friction that resulted from it. BIBLIOGRAPHY Alföldy, G. 1971. “Der Friedensschluss des Kaisers Commodus mit den Germanen”. Historia 20: 84–109. Baldwin, B. 1964. “Executions under Claudius: Seneca’s Ludus de Morte Claudii”. Phoenix 18: 39–48. Börm, H. / Havener, W. 2012. “Octavians Rechtsstellung im Januar 27 v. Chr. und das Problem der ‘Übertragung’ der res publica”. Historia 61: 202–220. Bowersock, G. 2003. “The Tel Shalem Arch and P. Nahal Hever/Seiyal 8”. In The Bar Kokhba War Reconsidered. New Perspectives on the Second Jewish Revolt against Rome, Schäfer, P. ed., 171–180. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Brunt, P. 1977. “Lex de Imperio Vespasiani”. JRS 67: 95–116. Bruun, C. 2011. “Die Kaiser, die republikanischen Institutionen und die kaiserliche Verwaltung”. In Zwischen Strukturgeschichte und Biographie. Probleme und Perspektiven einer neuen römischen Kaisergeschichte 31 v. Chr. – 192 n. Chr., Winterling, A. ed., 161–180. Munich: Oldenbourg. Champlin, E. 2003. Nero. Cambridge/MA: Belknap. Dettenhofer, M. 2000. Herrschaft und Widerstand im augusteischen Prinzipat. Die Konkurrenz zwischen Res publica und domus Augusta. Stuttgart: Steiner. Eck, W. 1999. “The Bar Kokhba Revolt: The Roman Point of View”. JRS 89: 76–89. Eck, W. 2012. “Der Bar Kochba-Aufstand der Jahre 132–136 und seine Folgen für die Provinz Judaea/Syria Palaestina”. In Iudaea Socia – Iudaea Capta. Atti del convegno internazionale Cividale del Friuli, 22–24 settembre 2011, Urso, G. ed., 249–266. Pisa: ETS. Fischer-Lichte, E. 2003. “Performance, Inszenierung, Ritual. Zur Klärung kulturwissenschaftlicher Schlüsselbegriffe”. In Geschichtswissenschaft und “Performative Turn”. Ritual, Inszenierung und Performanz vom Mittelalter bis zur Neuzeit, Martschukat, J. / Patzold, S. eds., 33–54. Cologne: Böhlau. 86

This is a problem that emerges more vividly upon radical regime changes (e. g., the death of Domitian) and has reverberated somewhat in the scholarly literature. The phenomenon is less well studied for less dramatic transitions, but, if my arguments are correct, these too will have led each new ruler to produce a new imperial persona: the ubiquity of the model then creates a new emphasis for further research, in a very similar way to how Ralf von den Hoff (2011) has postulated for the emperor’s portrait: the question should be what manifestations and epiphenomena a structural history of the ruptures of the imperial persona has for our understanding of the imperial monarchy and the history of the Roman Empire.

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Flaig, E. 1992. Den Kaiser herausfordern. Die Usurpation im Römischen Reich. Frankfurt/Main: Campus. Flaig, E. 2007. “Falsche Bescheidenheit. Die Cunctatio des Tiberius – ein misslungener Rite de passage”. In Krumme Touren. Anthropologie kommunikativer Umwege, Reinhard, W. ed., 77–105. Cologne: Böhlau. Flaig, E. 2011. “The Transition from Republic to Principate: Loss of Legitimacy, Revolution, and Acceptance”. In The Roman Empire in Context, Arnason, J. / Raaflaub, K. eds., 67–84. Chichester: Wiley-Blackwell. Geisthardt, J. 2015. Zwischen Princeps und Res Publica. Tacitus, Plinius und die senatorische Selbstdarstellung in der Hohen Kaiserzeit. Stuttgart: Steiner. Gotter, U. 2008. “Die Nemesis des Allgemein-Gültigen. Max Webers Charisma-Begriff und die antiken Monarchien”. In Das Charisma. Funktionen und symbolische Repräsentationen, Rychterová, P. / Seit, S. eds., 173–186. Berlin: Akademie. Gotter, U. 2011a. “Abgeschlagene Hände und herausquellendes Gedärm. Das häßliche Antlitz der römischen Bürgerkriege und seine politischen Kontexte”. In Bürgerkriege erzählen. Zum Verlauf unziviler Konflikte, Ferhadbegovic, S. / Weiffen, B. eds., 55–69. Konstanz: Konstanz University Press. Gotter, U. 2011b. “Der Tyrann mit dem Rücken zur Wand. Neros künstlerische Selbstexpansion”. In Despoten dichten. Sprachkunst und Gewalt, Koschorke, A. / Kaminskij, K. eds., 27–64. Konstanz: Konstanz University Press. Gotter, U. 2012. “Monarchen ohne Monarchie. Augustus und die Geburt des ‘Prinzipats’” In Otto der Große und das Römische Reich. Kaisertum von der Antike zum Mittelalter. Puhle, M. / Köster, G. eds. 57–61. Regensburg: Schnell & Steiner. Gotter, U. (forthcoming). “The Lex de imperio Vespasiani reconsidered”. In Monarchy and the Law, Armgardt, M. ed. Stuttgart: Steiner. Havener, W. (forthcoming). Imperator Augustus. Die diskursive Konstituierung der militärischen persona des ersten römischen princeps. Stuttgart: Steiner. Hekster, O. 2002. Commodus. An Emperor at the Crossroads. Amsterdam: Gieben. Hekster, O. 2015. Emperors and Ancestors. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Huttner, U. 2004. Recusatio Imperii. Ein politisches Ritual zwischen Ethik und Taktik. Hildesheim: Olms. Kantorowicz, E. 1957. The King’s Two Bodies. A Study in medieval Political Theology. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Kienast, D. 1996. Römische Kaisertabelle. Grundzüge einer römischen Kaiserchronologie. 2nd ed. Darmstadt: WBG. Kienast, D. 2009. Augustus. Prinzeps und Monarch. 4th ed. Darmstadt: WBG. Kraft, K. 1966. “Der politische Hintergrund von Senecas Apocolocyntosis”. Historia 15: 96–122. Levick, B. 1976. Tiberius the Politician. London: Thames and Hudson. Levick, B. 1990. Claudius. London: Batsford. Meier, M. 2008. “‘Qualis artifex pereo’ – Neros letzte Reise”. HZ 286: 561–603. Millar, F. 1992. The Emperor in the Roman World (31 B. C. – A. D. 337), 2nd ed. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Mommsen, T. 1887/88. Römisches Staatsrecht. 3rd ed. Leipzig: Hirzel. Mommsen, T. 1974. Abriss des römischen Staatsrechts. Darmstadt: WBG. Pirson, F. 1996. “Style and Message on the Column of Marcus Aurelius”. PBSR 64: 139–179. Ramage, E. 1985. “Augustus’ Treatment of Julius Caesar”. Historia 34: 223–245. Schrömbges, P. 1986. Tiberius und die Res publica Romana. Untersuchungen zur Institutionalisierung des frühen römischen Principats. Bonn: Habelt. Seager, R. 1972. Tiberius. London: Methuen. Seebacher, C. (forthcoming). Zwischen Augustus und Antinoos. Tradition und Innovation in der Imago Kaiser Hadrians. Stuttgart: Steiner.

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Seelentag, G. 2004. Taten und Tugenden Traians. Herrschaftsdarstellung im Principat. Stuttgart: Steiner. Seelentag, G. 2011. “Trajan, Hadrian und Antoninus Pius. Deutungsmuster und Perspektiven”. In Zwischen Strukturgeschichte und Biographie. Probleme und Perspektiven einer neuen römischen Kaisergeschichte 31 v. Chr. – 192 n. Chr., Winterling, A. ed., 295–316. Munich: Oldenbourg. Shotter, D. 1971. “Tiberius and Asinius Gallus”. Historia 20: 443–457. Strobel, K. 2010. Kaiser Traian. Eine Epoche der Weltgeschichte. Regensburg: Pustet. Tambiah., S. 1985. Culture, Thought and Social Action. An Anthropological Perspective. Cambridge/MA: Harvard University Press. Timpe, D. 1962. Untersuchungen zur Kontinuität des frühen Prinzipats. Wiesbaden: Steiner. Timpe, D. 2011. “Moderne Konzeptionen des Kaisertums”. In Zwischen Strukturgeschichte und Biographie. Probleme und Perspektiven einer neuen römischen Kaisergeschichte 31 v. Chr. – 192 n. Chr., Winterling, A. ed., 127–160. Munich: Oldenbourg. von den Hoff, R. 2011. “Kaiserbildnisse als Kaisergeschichte(n). Prolegomena zu einem medialen Konzept römischer Herrscherporträts”. In Zwischen Strukturgeschichte und Biographie. Probleme und Perspektiven einer neuen römischen Kaisergeschichte 31. v. Chr. – 192 n. Chr., Winterling, A. ed., 15–44. Munich: Oldenbourg. von Friedeburg, R. ed. 2004. Murder and Monarchy. Regicide in European History, 1300–1800. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Winterling, A. 2003. Caligula. Eine Biographie. Munich: Beck. Winterling, A. 2005. “Dyarchie in der römischen Kaiserzeit. Vorschlag zur Wiederaufnahme der Diskussion”. In Theodor Mommsens langer Schatten. Das römische Staatsrecht als bleibende Herausforderung für die Forschung, Nippel, W. / Seidensticker, B. eds., 177–198. Hildesheim: Olms. Winterling, A. ed. 2011. Zwischen Strukturgeschichte und Biographie. Probleme und Perspektiven einer neuen römischen Kaisergeschichte 31 v. Chr. – 192 n. Chr. Munich: Oldenbourg. Wolf, S. 1986. Die Augustusrede in Senecas Apocolocyntosis. Ein Beitrag zum Augustusbild der frühen Kaiserzeit. Königstein: Hain.

10 IDLENESS. MONARCHIC AND ANTIMONARCHIC DISCOURSES AND THE CONSTRUCTION OF ROMAN IMPERIAL ORDER Mihály Loránd Dészpa One might think that life was easier and, above all, more secure under inactive rulers. There is a relatively simple calculation behind this logic: idle rulers do not decimate their socio-political environment, as they have nothing in common with the restless and criminal character traits of profoundly insecure despots. However, we know from early modern political theory that passivity was untenable as a concept of rule. At the latest with Machiavelli’s History of Florence, idle rulers no longer have it easy. Machiavelli depicts a cyclical process in history according to which states are in a constant condition of movement between order and chaos, which correspond to the terms ‘power’ and ‘idleness’ respectively. This recurring temporal pattern – shaped through the conjoint articulation of unrelated notions like quiete, ozio, disordine and ordine – is taken by Machiavelli from early Florentine and antique discourses which describe luxury, decadence, and idleness through accounts of political figures: It may be observed that provinces amid the vicissitudes to which they are subject pass from order into confusion, and afterward return to a state of order again; for the nature of mundane affairs not allowing them to continue in an even course, when they have arrived at their greatest perfection, they soon begin to decline. In the same manner, having been reduced by disorder, and sunk to their utmost state of depression, unable to descend lower, they, of necessity, reascend; and thus from good they gradually decline to evil, and from evil again return to good. The reason is, that valor produces peace; peace, repose; repose, disorder; disorder, ruin; so from disorder order springs; from order virtue, and from this, glory and good fortune. Hence, wise men have observed that the age of literary excellence is subsequent to that of distinction in arms, and that in cities and provinces, great warriors are produced before philosophers. Arms having secured victory, and victory peace, the buoyant vigor of the martial mind cannot be enfeebled by a more excusable indulgence than that of letters; nor can indolence, with any greater or more dangerous deceit, enter a well regulated community.1 1

“Sogliono le provincie, il più delle volte, nel variare che le fanno, dall’ordine venire al disordine, e di nuovo di poi dal disordine all’ordine trapassare; perché, non essendo dalla natura conceduto alle mondane cose il fermarsi, come le arrivano alla loro ultima perfezione, non avendo più da salire, convieneche scendino; e similmente, scese che le sono, e per li disordini ad ultima bassezza pervenute, di necessità, non potendo più scendere, conviene che salghino, e così sempre da il bene si scende al male, e da il male si sale al bene. Perché la virtù partorisce quiete la quiete ozio, l’ozio disordine, il disordine rovina, e similmente dalla rovina nasce l’or-

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In this paper I will first argue that idleness (desidia, inertia, and in particular ignavia) was an important part of a discourse in Rome, whereby the deconstruction of the princeps was detached from an exclusive meta-level set of norms and morals and transferred to the level of regular social practice.2 In accordance with the logic of this discourse, the ruler’s inertia resulted in the inaction of his social environment and thus caused the collapse of not only the moral, but also the political and social order. Another possible effect (mainly in times of peace) was the disruption of military discipline. However, the discourse on idleness itself – according to my second argument – was fully developed as part of a monarchic (self)-representation under the princeps Trajan. The purpose of this discourse was to create a clear distinction between himself and his predecessors through the shaping of his own discursive persona. As a result of the power of this discourse – according to my third argument – this was reflected in Hadrian’s self-representations and as such played an implicit role in the discursive and praxeological shaping of the imperial order during his reign. I will begin with a description of the morphology of this discourse and with the structural interweaving between literary text, genre and discourse. The contexts that were shaped by this discursive practice will be then discussed. Finally, I will outline the reflection of the discourse on idleness in Hadrian’s imperial self-representations – a discourse inherited from his predecessor, which he had to confront successfully in order to survive. 1. THE MORPHOLOGY OF THE DISCOURSE 1.1 Semantic collocations and discourse fields The words ignavia and inertia provide the foundation for this analysis; various authors used these words in relation to a series of principes. Both of these words were also used in various literary genres beyond the ruler discourse in the first two centuries after Christ, almost always in a negative sense. They stand in significant syntactical relation to other highly suggestive terms that were often understood even when not explicitly used. For example, ignavia is part of a frequent pattern of meaning used by Livy to explain battles and political confrontations. Ignavia and inertia are combined with words such as temeritas,3 scelus,4 sopio5 and mollitia,6

2 3 4 5 6

dine, dall’ordine virtù, da questa gloria e buona fortuna. Onde si è da i prudenti osservato come le lettere vengono drieto alle armi, e che nelle provincie e nelle città prima i capitani che i filosofi nascono. Perché avendo le buone e ordinate armi partorito vittorie, e le vittorie quiete, non si può la fortezza degli armati animi con il più onesto ozio che con quello delle lettere corrompere; né può l’ozio con il maggiore e più pericoloso inganno che con questo nelle città bene institute entrare” (Machiavelli Hist. 5.1). For another view, see Raaflaub 1986: 26–37, arguing that an ‘ideological’ opposition against the princeps and the Principate was developed (by the elite) only on the level of abstract morality. Liv, 6.24.6. Liv. 1.47.3. Liv. 33.45.6. Liv. 25.18.8.

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and conceived as contraries of virtus.7 Ignavia is often ascribed to Roman and enemy commanders and armies, and in a military context can also mean ‘cowardice’. If we shift our perspective from a historiographical to a scientific discourse, we find, for example, that Pliny the Elder surprisingly describes bees as being exceptionally lazy. The phlegmatic nature of bees is increased through their wealth in honey8 and can only be modified by means of subjecting them to something unpleasant such as intensive smoke.9 If we make a leap back in time to the Republic and Cicero’s advice in De inventione on how to discredit one’s opponent, we encounter a legal-rhetorical discourse in which the character traits of ignavia and inertia inspire contempt amongst an audience. In such a context he not only associates them with the terms neglegentia, desidiosum studium, and luxuriosum otium,10 but in his speeches against Verres he also associates them with lack of restraint, weakness, and a lack of virility, and thus composes a rich arsenal of invective.11 Moreover, Ignavia is a frequent occurrence in the oeuvre of Gaius Sallustius Crispus.12 The word occurs in a similar semantic field. Hence some of his collocation partners are socordia,13 luxuria14 and superbia.15 The word ignavia takes right from his first occurrence in Sallust’s text a central place in the construction of the moral decay.16 Ignavia is in the human sociology of Sallust the opposite of bonus, although both features lead to the pursue of the same type of social accomplishments: gloria, honos and imperium. The difference, however, is given by the means by which these two types of human beings pursue their social goals. The idle individual – as he lacks the bones artes – tries to achieve his social aims by deception (dolus) and intrigue (fallacia). Ignavia stands in this passage in a significant closeness to avaritia. The motor of the social from the first sentence – ambitio quam avaritia – matches the bonus et ignavus from the second phrase. The burst of the greed and idleness changes the means by which glory and honor are to be achieved: money is now the new social vehicle for pursuing social status.17 Important for the aim of the present article is the fact that Sallust links this psychological feature of human beings with the moral decay of the society and as 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

17

Liv. 4.32.1 Plin. nat. 11.35. Plin. nat. 11.45; 11.50. Cic. inv. 1.16.22. Cic. Verr. 2.78.192. Ignavia occurs over 36 times in Sallust’s oeuvre: eight times in De Coniuratione Catilinae; sixteen times in Bellum Jugurthinum; seven times in the fragments of the Historiae and five times in the letters to Caesar. Sall. Cat. 59.29.3; 58.4.1; 31.2.4; ad Caes. 2.6.3; 2.10.9. Sall. Cat. 2.4.3; Iug. 85.43.1. Sall. Iug. 85.1.3. Sall. Cat. 11. 1–3: Sed primo magis ambitio quam avaritia animos hominum exercebat, quod tamen vitium propius virtutem erat. nam gloriam honorem imperium bonus et ignavos aeque sibi exoptant; sed ille vera via nititur, huic quia bonae artes desunt, dolis atque fallaciis contendit. Sall. Cat. 11.4–5: avaritia pecuniae studium habet, quam nemo sapiens con cupivit (…).

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such with the decline of the res publica.18 More important is the superb manner in which Sallust shapes the atmosphere of moral and political decline. Tacitus and his contemporaries adapted this atmosphere brilliantly in order to give a new meaning to their recent past marked by the rule of the princeps Domitian.19 Aulus Gellius affords us one last example, which in a sense represents a philosophical discourse: in an excursus on pleasure (voluptas), the Peripatetic philosopher Critolaus holds pleasure to be the source of many other evils (multa alia mala), such as neglect (incuria), inactivity (desidia), forgetfulness (oblivio), and idleness (ignavia).20 Thus, we can provisionally conclude that a specific pattern of meaning was created through the plausible connection of things like idleness, luxury, lack of restraint, weakening, and pleasure.21 This pattern occurred in a wide range of discourse fields and was a constant of the cultural repertoire of the elite. During the Principate, however, this pattern of meaning was successfully linked with the princeps and as such used for the deconstruction of various principes. 1.2 Text and Texture of the Discourse At the beginning of 47 CE, the princeps Claudius appointed Domitius Corbulo legate to the army of Germania Inferior. Corbulo immediately undertook an energetic campaign against several Germanic tribes which had repeatedly proven troublesome during the previous years. In the course of this war, he penetrated ever deeper into enemy territory. In the midst of preparing for the integration of the new territory into the Imperium Romanum, however, he and all of his troops were ordered to withdraw back to the old frontier. Instead of erecting new camps in the newly conquered region, the soldiers of the lower Germanic frontier had to construct a 37 kilometer long canal. According to Tacitus’ narrative, Corbulo no longer understood the world, and this failed propagatio imperii is ascribed to the idleness of the princeps Claudius: A failure only reflects upon the state, but if he were to be successful (sin prospere egisset), such an exceptional man could become a danger to peace and a serious threat to the idle princeps (formidolosum paci virum insignem et ignavo principi praegravem).22

18 19 20 21 22

The construction of the moral and political decay is far more complex then presented above. However, it is not the intention of this article to give a overall picture of the archaeology of the human decline as shaped by Sallust. Cf. Dészpa (forthcoming). Gell. 9.5.6. There are many more examples of the occurrence of this pattern of meaning. For the purpose of this paper, however, these examples from a wide range of genres should be enough to illustrate the morphology of the pattern. Tac. ann. 11.19.3: Cur hostem conciret? Adversa in rem publicam casura: sin prospere egisset, formidolosum paci virum insignem et ignavo principi praegravem. Igitur Claudius adeo novam in Germanias vim prohibuit, ut referri praesidia cis Rhenum iuberet.

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This sentence, which breaks the flow of narration, raises Tacitus’ assertion to a historical-anthropological constant of the political system. When the ruler is idle, courageous members of the elite cannot act successfully without risk. With the following sentence, which is tied to the previous sentence by the adverb igitur, the author embeds his claim within the narrative flow and substantiates it with facts: the operations in Germania were stopped and the troops were withdrawn.23 The discourse on idleness, however, only reaches its crescendo when these sentences are seen as part of a larger context. The entire German episode of Corbulo begins with a breach of order. The Chauci undertook a plundering sweep within the borders of the empire, especially in the territory of the Gauls, who had become rich and peaceful. The re-establishment of order by Corbulo occurs on two levels: the Germans are defeated, and the idle legions, which had more pleasure in booty than in obeying orders, are restored to their former discipline (veterem ad morem reduxit). In the narrated world, the results are immediate: virtus increases among the Roman soldiers, while the Barbarians’ unrestrained lust for war quickly dissipates. Corbulo then does what any reasonable princeps would have done: he organizes the conquered territory by consigning the Frisians to new land, he establishes political institutions among them, and he consolidates the Roman position by building military bases. After he has reported how Corbulo had given up his propagatio imperii because of the idleness and angst of the princeps, the narrator introduces a significant caesura with the past by placing these words in his mouth: “How fortunate were the Roman commanders of earlier days” (beatos quondam duces Romanos).24 Tacitus depicts Corbulo at least in this episode as an ideal princeps.25 In contrast, what Claudius and his troops have in common is ignavia. The text does not make clear whether the idleness of the troops is to be seen as a direct consequence of the princeps’ inactivity, but Tacitus, in other accounts, like that of Corbulo’s Parthian campaign, as well as other authors all emphasize the relationship between the princeps and the army through this trait.26 If the princeps is idle, so too his soldiers become useless, which in turn has implications for the empire as well as for all who, like Corbulo or Agricola, are compelled to remain idle or condemned to senseless activities. Tacitus also employs indirect narrative strategies in order to ascribe idleness and all its consequences to the princeps. Thus Iulius Paelignus, who fails as procurator to re-establish order in Armenia, is depicted as obvious parallel to the princeps Claudius through ignavia animi and deridiculo corporis.27 His troops abandon him, and he is obliged to offer the Armenian crown to the usurper Rhadamistus. The discrediting of the procurator is achieved through the discourses surrounding both 23 24 25 26 27

The responsibility for the propagatio imperii was also discussed under Tiberius in terms of the fear of a lazy princeps before a successful commander: Tac. Ann. 4.74. Ignavia was not attributed to Tiberius, but rather luxuria and malum otium. Tac. ann. 11.20.1. On the stylizing of Corbulo as a perfect ruler, see also Benario 1972: 14–26 (esp. 22–23). Tac. ann. 13.35; 15.68. Tac. ann. 12.49.3–4.

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body and idleness. They serve here not merely to provide parameters for the events in Cappadocia, but also to suggest that Iulius Paelignus shares these traits with the princeps, so that the micro-level of Cappadocia parallels the macro-level of the empire, and the government of Claudius is thus indirectly incriminated. A few years after Tacitus, Suetonius also employs the idleness discourse in his literary construction of Tiberius. Interestingly, this author never explicitly ascribes ignavia to this princeps, but rather describes him extensively as having fallen victim to idleness and pleasure, while the explicit ascription of ignavia and luxuria is made of a completely different figure of the narrated world, the Parthian king Artabanes.28 At the beginning of the second century, the idleness discourse assumes an important function in the panegyric of Pliny: inertia, contumacia (obstinacy), and dedignatio (disdain) are all traits of the prioris saeculi malo.29 Pliny gives no names of those associated with that period, but a few lines later he speaks collectively of the principes. Trajan is the only actor in this passage, and he succeeds in re-establishing the disciplina castrorum. Pliny employs here a chain of causes and effects which has already been described: the idleness of the princeps results in a breach of order above all within the army. The soldiers no longer obey their superiors, and the commanders fear the principes far more than they fear the enemy. On the whole, the idleness discourse fulfils its principal function in the panegyric of establishing a difference between Trajan and a number of unspecified principes. Within the weaving of the discourse we recognize the strategy of the author by which he differentiates among the principes in the context of the army in order to answer the question why Trajan is the optimus princeps or why Trajan – and not Cornelius Nigrinus – should be preferred. The formulation of this answer requires a certain degree of rhetorical skill, as there was in fact little to praise. The re-establishment of order within the army as an anticipation of future victories afforded one of the few opportunities for beautifying the military persona of the new princeps.

28

29

Suet. Tib. 66: Urebant insuper anxiam mentem varia undique convicia, nullo non damnatorum omne probri genus coram vel per libellos in orchestra positos ingerente. Quibus quidem diversissime adficiebatur, modo ut prae pudore ignota et celata cuncta cuperet, nonnumquam eadem contemneret et proferret ultro atque vulgaret. Quin et Artabani Parthorum regis laceratus est litteris parricidia et caedes et ignaviam et luxuriam obicientis monentisque, ut voluntaria morte maximo iustissimoque civium odio quam primum satis faceret. Plin. paneg. 18.1: Aliud ex alio mihi occurrit. Quam speciosum est enim quod disciplinam castrorum lapsam extinctam refovisti, depulso prioris saeculi malo inertia et contumacia et dedignatione parendi! Tutum est reverentiam, tutum caritatem mereri nec ducum quisquam aut non amari a militibus aut amari timet; exinde offensae pariter gratiaeque securi, instant operibus, adsunt exercitationibus, arma moenia viros aptant. Quippe non is princeps qui sibi imminere sibi intendi putet, quod in hostes paretur; quae persuasio fuit illorum qui hostilia cum facerent timebant. Iidem ergo torpere militaria studia nec animos modo sed corpora ipsa languescere, gladios etiam incuria hebetari retundique gaudebant. Duces porro nostri non tam regum exterorum quam suorum principum insidias, nec tam hostium quam comilitonum manus ferrumque metuebant.

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The use of the concept of idleness as a means of differentiating between principes also occurs at other points in the panegyric. It functions in the distancing of Trajan from Domitian and likewise in the same distancing of Trajan from the majority of the earlier principes. Unlike them, Trajan was chosen as princeps because of his strength and courage, and not because he belonged to the family of a princeps.30 At the same time, he is positively associated with the imperatores of the Republican period. It is striking to see that while Tacitus evokes the difference between Claudius and the commanders of earlier days through his idleness discourse and the figure of Corbulo, this same idleness discourse is used by Pliny in order to distinguish the optimus princeps Trajan from his predecessors and to compare and associate him with those ideal figures. In one of Pliny’s letters to Aristo, the suggestive power of this discourse and the causal connotation of the idleness of the princeps with the inactivity of the collective become even more explicit: We, on the other hand, have lived in field camps in our youth, in which bravery was suspect, idleness was highly appreciated, commanders had no authority and their soldiers showed no respect to them. Nowhere was there an order, nowhere obedience, everything was in a state of abandonment, everywhere confusion and the opposite of what should have been: in short, conditions which are better forgotten than recalled.31

Once again, Pliny employs a representation which can also be found in Tacitus: as a result of the idleness of the princeps, virtus provokes fear and envy, so that the surest means of survival is inactivity. This is the chain of cause and effect that connects the ruler in his inertia with his subjects. The outcome is the loss of the senatorial auctoritas and hence the breach of order. In a manner similar to Pliny, Florus deploys the idleness discourse for a twofold purpose in that he uses it not only to differentiate but also to establish a new tradition. His apparent intention consists in recounting the history of the Roman people from the foundation of the city down to the time of Augustus. Within this time frame the metamorphosis of the corpus populi Romani into the corpus imperii occurs. During this process the Roman people pass through three ‘ages’: infantia, adolescentia, and the iuventus imperii, ostensibly characterized by a quasi robusta maturitas. With this, Florus could have been satisfied with his plot. In his praefatio, however, he includes a brief view of the period from Augustus to Trajan – and the period between these two principes is designated as senectus imperii. Florus considers the reason for this to lie in the inertia Caesarum: The Roman people during the seven hundred years, from the time of King Romulus down to that of Caesar Augustus, achieved so much in peace and war that, if a man were to compare the greatness of their empire with its years, he would consider its size as out of all proportion to its 30 31

Plin. paneg. 11–12.1. Trajan is often described in the panegyric as a hard-working ruler. On Plinius, Tacitus, and the emperor see now Geisthardt 2015. Plin. epist. 8.14.7: At nos iuvenes fuimus quidem in castris; sed cum suspecta virtus, inertia in pretio, cum ducibus auctoritas nulla, nulla militibus verecundia, nusquam imperium, nusquam obsequium, omnia soluta, turbata atque etiam in contrarium versa, postremo obliviscenda magis quam tenenda.

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Mihály Loránd Dészpa age (…). If anyone were to contemplate the Roman people as he would a single individual and review its whole life, how it began, how it grew up, how it arrived at what may be called the maturity of its manhood, and how it subsequently as it were reached old age, he will find that it went through four stages of progress. The first period, when it was under the rule of kings, lasted for nearly four hundred years, during which it struggled against its neighbors in the immediate vicinity of the capital. This period will be its infancy. Its next period extends from the consulship of Brutus and Collatinus to that of Appius Claudius and Quintus Fulvius, a space of 150 years, during which the Roman people subjugated Italy. It was an age of extreme activities for its soldiers and their arms, and may therefore be called its youth. The next period is the hundred and fifty years down to the time of Augustus Caesar, during which it spread peace throughout the world. This was the manhood and, as it were, the robust maturity of the empire. From the time of Caesar Augustus down to our own age there has been a period of not much less than 200 years, during which, owing to the inactivity of the emperors (inertia Caesarum), the Roman people, as it were, grew old and lost its potency, save that under the rule of Trajan it again stirred its arms and, contrary to general expectation, again renewed its vigor with youth as it were restored (tr. Forster).32

Here, the chain of cause and effect again comes to the fore: the idleness of the princeps leads to a kind of ageing and weakening of the empire. This decline, however, is halted by Trajan, who as it were restores youth to the empire, which in effect places the empire once more in the Augustan period. By emphasizing the inertia of the principes, Trajan is shown to stand within a tradition spanning from Romulus to Augustus. Yet if we compare the achievements of these three figures, we detect a fundamental difference: the greatness of Romulus and Augustus within the narrative consists of a sequence of war and peace. Initially, they conquer and expand, and then they establish order throughout the territory of the Roman people or the corpus imperii. During the reign of Augustus, peace was established with particularly strict laws directed against luxuria, lascivia, and other vices. It is he who lends the imperium unity (coitio) and harmony (consentio), and it is he who is anima and mens of the persona ficta of the imperial collective invented by Florus.33 During the reign of Trajan, on the other hand, this sequence is not fully completed. The Roman people only moves its upper arm, which presumably refers to the propagatio imperii. The ageing process is thus temporarily interrupted, but the second component of the 32

33

Flor. Praef. Populus Romanus a rege Romulo in Caesarem Augustum septingentos per annos tantum operum pace belloque gessit, ut, si quis magnitudinem imperii cum annis conferat, aetatem ultra putet… Si quis ergo populum Romanum quasi unum hominem consideret totamque eius aetatem percenseat, ut coeperit utque adoleverit, ut quasi ad quandam iuventae frugem pervenerit, ut postea velut consenuerit, quattuor gradus processusque eius inveniet. Prima aetas sub regibus fuit prope per annos quadringentos, quibus circum urbem ipsam cum finitimis luctatus est. Haec erit eius infantia. Sequens a Bruto Collatinoque consulibus in Appium Claudium Quintum Fulvium consules centum quinquaginta annis patet, quibus Italiam subegit. Hoc fuit tempus viris armis incitatissimum, ideoque quis adulescentiam dixerit. Deinceps ad Caesarem Augustum centum et quinquaginta anni, quibus totum orbem pacavit. Hic iam ipsa iuventus imperii et quasi robusta maturitas. A Caesare Augusto in saeculum nostrum haud multo minus anni ducenti, quibus inertia Caesarum quasi consenuit atque decoxit, nisi quod sub Traiano principe movit lacertos et praeter spem omnium senectus imperii quasi reddita iuventute reviruit. Flor. 4.3.6.

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sequence is absent: the establishment of order after war. The fact that Trajan is mentioned, when actually the history purports to span only the period from Romulus to Augustus, compels the reader in the time of Hadrian to position himself politically. The positioning of the reader is prefigured by the narrator on three levels: first, through the narrative order, which consists of the sequence war – peace; second, through the encomium and exclusive representation of Augustus; third, through the description of the symbiotic relationship between the princeps and the corpus imperii. By means of this arrangement, the implied reader has no choice but to see the fulfilment of Trajan in Hadrian. This is all the more the case insofar as the implicit association of the ‘narrated’ Augustus and the contemporary political reality made this conclusion not merely possible but perhaps even unavoidable, above all given the considerable investment of Hadrian in developing his own tradition, which has as its reference point the idealisation of the first princeps. With reference to this paradigm, Florus differentiates among the mass of principes by means of the idleness discourse and employs that discourse in order to associate Hadrian with Trajan and to raise them as a pair to the same level as Romulus and Augustus. 2. THE REFLEXIVITY OF THE DISCOURSE AND THE CONSTRUCTION OF IMPERIAL ORDER I will now attempt to describe the points of contact between discourse and world: we wish to see whether and how the idleness discourse helps to structure the world. This process is perhaps best seen in Pliny’s panegyric, where that discourse is employed in order to differentiate between the principes, but in which at the same time it unfolds as part of the representations which are constitutive for the discourse about the best ruler (optimus princeps). In other words, the anti-monarchic idleness discourse as a representation is, together with other interwoven representations, ultimately part of a pro-monarchic discourse. The question is, then, whether this discourse, which creates a caesura with the past, can become a disadvantage for a princeps in the real world? Did rulers ever react to the idleness discourse, which by the second century had established itself within a larger discursive context in which the persona of a princeps could be constructed and deconstructed? Can a modern observer identify an attempt by a princeps to disarm this discourse, and, if so, how should we analyze such an attempt? The only possibility that I see at present is to look for opposing monarchic representations. The idleness discourse encompasses a bundle of representations, which are used in particular ways to shape the princeps’ persona. Ultimately, the image of the idle princeps leads to nothing less than the collapse of order in both the civil and military spheres. Against this background, one might identify new representations in the imperial molding of discourses on order. It was probably Hadrian who most clearly saw himself confronted with this problem. As the not undisputed successor of Trajan, he was the first who had to address the discourse about the best ruler and thus also a pro-monarchic representation of inertia. The evocation

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of the optimus princeps depended upon a strategy of comparison and differentiation, and in my opinion Hadrian tried to work with both these approaches. On the military level and that of the propagatio imperii, however, it was scarcely possible to be better than the best of all principes; here, in all probability, he could only have produced the image of an epigone. Trajan’s successor thus sought to negotiate a new context within which he could be the optimus.34 In order to render this more plausible, he launched an extensive performative campaign that would keep him away from Rome for more than half of his reign. Early in 121 CE, shortly before he left Rome, Hadrian began to present his new imperial persona through ritual, performance, and other media. One of the most significant media and communication spheres within which this persona was to be constructed was the Pomerium – the traditional border of the city of Rome between domi et militia.35 The content of this ruler discourse, by which individual principes identified themselves with the Pomerium, is the invincibility of the princeps in terms of the propagatio imperii, and the ordering of the space of the city of Rome and that of the Imperium Romanum.36 But the stones placed in the Pomerium by Hadrian are notable for their radically different text, which modifies the conventional semantic of the Pomerium and creates a new parameter for action.37 The changes can be summarized into three points. First, Roman invincibility and thus the propagatio imperii is no longer a motif. Second, the establishment of order is made visible in another manner. Action is emphasized by the performative use of the verb restituere, which, however, does not refer to the border stones of the Pomerium alone: restituere and termini carry metonymical meanings in this context and represent pars pro toto the restitution of the borders and of order throughout the empire. The use of the title proconsul, which occurs for the first time among the titles of a princeps, suggests an exemplary peaceful activity beyond the Pomerium; it governs the modus of restituere of the termini and compels the audience to understand the Pomerium in a global sense.38 Third, unlike previous Pomerium stones, the agency of placing these stones is not attributed to the princeps alone but is 34 35 36

37

38

Cf. Gotter (in this volume). Labrousse 1937: 165–199; von Blumenthal 1952: 1867–1876; Boatwright 1986: 13–27; Rüpke 1990: 30–57; Liou-Gille 1993: 94–106; Andreussi 1999: 96–104. CIL VI, 31537a: VIII // Pomerium // Ti(berius) Claudius / Drusi f(ilius) Caisar / Aug(ustus) Germanicus / pont(ifex) max(imus) trib(unicia) pot(estate) / VIIII imp(erator) XVI co(n)s(ul) IIII / censor p(ater) p(atriae) / auctis populi Romani / finibus pomerium / ampliavit terminavitq(ue). CIL VI 40855: [Ex s(enatus)] c(onsulto) col[l]e[g]ium / [au]gurum auctore / [Im]p(eratore) Caesare divi / [T]raiani Parthici f(ilio) / [d]ivi Nervae nepote / [T]raiano Hadriano / Aug(usto) pontif(ice) max(imo) trib(unicia) / potest(ate) V co(n)s(ule) III proco(n)s(ule) / terminos pomerii / restituendos curavit // CLIIX // P(edes) CCXI. Cass. Dio 53.13.5: “Thus he borrowed these two titles (…) that of the praetor of the men appointed by him because it had been associated with leadership in war from the earliest times, and he named them propraetors; the remaining officials received the designation of consul, who had to devote themselves to responsibilities of peacetime, and these he called proconsuls.”

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shared by the senate, the augurs, the gods, and only lastly – which is highly exceptional – by the princeps. The distribution of this agency suggests a consensus about the necessity of constructing a new imperial sphere of action, and thus lends plausibility to the re-establishment of order within the empire. The word restituere (or restitutor) becomes, as it were, a mantra of the imperial discourse under Hadrian and implies success in the management of the empire. It is an excellently chosen, powerful term, as it not only evokes another world or a problem, but at the same time change or the solution to the problem. In the spring of 121, other rituals and performances were held. Coins were minted that contributed to the imperial discourse, for example some which celebrated the founding of Rome 874 years earlier and thus marked the beginning of a new age.39 The theme of this new age was made visible through terms such as restituere (RESTITUTORI ORBIS TERRARUM)40 and locupletator (LOCUPLETATORI ORBIS TERRARUM).41 The perspective offered here is no longer confined to Rome or Italy, but embraces the whole Imperium Romanum. By nominalizing the verb restituere, unlike in the Pomerium inscription, the actor merges with his action, the princeps becomes part of his sphere of engagement. This construction accentuates the exclusive ability of the actor to shape reality in a specific fashion. Ruler, sphere of engagement, and completion of action constitute a single unity and thus suggest the transformation of the known world. The dative adds further emphasis to the achievement.42 The way in which the discourse about the optimus princeps and the associated idleness discourse structured the relationship between Hadrian, the provinces, and the army becomes visible on coins that date from after the second journey of the princeps. Three types of coins were used to represent the relationship with and action in the provinces. First, the personification of the land named in the nominative; second, the arrival of the princeps is pictured (ADVENTUI AUGUSTI AFRICAE); third, Hadrian is portrayed in his role as restorer. For this last type of coin, the same legend was used as for coins minted in Rome that depicted restitution, except that the personification of the provinces was variously portrayed. The accompanying text is always the same: Restitutori Africae, Restitutori Hispaniae, etc.43 The interaction with the army was also made visible with three motifs. First, an adventus/ adlocutio scene with the mounted princeps who greets or addresses the troops; second, an adlocutio scene in which Hadrian speaks to the troops from a dais (these two motifs bear the same legend: exercitus Syriacus, exercitus Britannicus, etc.); third, the princeps is depicted marching at the head of the troops with a scroll in his

39 40 41 42 43

BMC 3, 282, No. 333. RIC 2, 416, No. 594. RIC 2, 415, No. 1193. For other so called agent-nouns see Sinclair 1995: 22–25. Cf. Strack 1933: 139–147, 152–162; Vitale 2012. On Hadrian’s itinerary see: Halfmann 1986: 40–44; 188–210; Birley 1997: 151–278. On the new way of the princeps Hadrian of handling and dealing with the empire see Ando 2001: 330–333.

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right hand, and the text accompanying this motif is exceptional: disciplina Augusti.44 Interestingly, Hadrian’s project seems to have gained such strong plausibility that, beginning with Fronto and Cassius Dio, authors could claim as a fact that Hadrian had restored the disciplina militaris. Cassius Dio, for example, reports that Hadrian had imposed strict discipline upon the army by, among other things, eliminating their luxurious life in camp, with the result that the legionnaires were neither disobedient nor arrogant45 – though we may recall that this is the same picture that Pliny painted in his panegyric on Trajan. The way in which Hadrian emphasizes his imperial persona in his ruler discourse with terms such as restitutor and locupletator or as the agent of disciplina militaris, and the dawning of a new age, reveals the reflection on the two now entangled discourses of the optimus princeps and the inertia Caesaris. That in turn means that these two discourses play an implicit role in the discursive and practical establishment of imperial order. The anti-monarchic idleness discourse established itself and persisted by coming to be reflected in a pro-monarchic discourse and, together with that discourse, became a significant constituent of the ruler discourse. This combination of the idleness discourse with that of the optimus princeps in the reception of Hadrian’s self-representation as ruler can be seen in a pointed remark in the Historia Augusta. This text includes two epigrams, one of which is ascribed to Florus, in which he alludes to the unenviable life of the princeps, while in the second Hadrian gives a response in the same spirit: “I don’t want to be a Caesar, stroll about among the Britons, and endure the Scythian winters”, to which Hadrian answers, “I don’t want to be a Florus, stroll about among the taverns, lurk among the pastry-shops, and endure round fat insects”.46 Hadrian’s response is structured around the topos of the vagabond poet. Thus the image of a ‘do-nothing’ in Rome is presented as a contrast to him who experiences all manners of hardship at the ends of the earth – the hard-working princeps. BIBLIOGAPHY Ando, C. 2001. Imperial Ideology and Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire. Berkeley: University of California Press. Andreussi, M. 1999. “Pomerium”. LTUR 4: 96–104. Benario, H. 1972. “Imperium and capaces imperii in Tacitus”. AJPh 93: 14–26. Birley, A. 1997. Hadrian. The Restless Emperor. London: Routledge. Boatwright, M. T. 1986. “The Pomerial Extension of Augustus”. Historia 35: 13–27.

44 45 46

RIC 2, 746. Cass. Dio 69.5; 69.9. Fronto (Ad M. Caesarem 2.4.1), however, is more trenchant in his remarks on Hadrian. He did not forget to also mention that Hadrian abandoned the territories conquered by Trajan and eased military training as well. H. A. Hadr. 16.3–5.

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Dészpa, M. L. (forthcoming): “Die Grammatik des Reiches. Imaginierte Räume und imperiale Wirklichkeit bei Tacitus”. In Raum-Ordnung. Raumkonzepte und sozipolitische Ordnungen im Altertum, Schmidt-Hofner, S. ed., Heidelberg. Geisthardt, J. 2015. Zwischen Princeps und Res Publica. Tacitus, Plinius und die senatorische Selbstdarstellung in der Hohen Kaiserzeit. Stuttgart: Steiner. Halfmann, H. 1986. Itinera principum. Geschichte und Typologie der Kaiserreisen im Römischen Reich. Stuttgart: Steiner. Labrousse, M. 1937. “Le Pomerium de la Rome impériale”. MEFRA 54: 165–199. Liou-Gille, B. 1993. “Le Pomerium”. MH 50: 94–106. Raaflaub, K. 1986. “Grundzüge, Ziele und Ideen der Opposition gegen die Kaiser im 1. Jh. n. Chr.: Versuch einer Standortbestimmung”. In Opposition et résistance à l’Empire d’Auguste à Trajan, Raaflaub, K. ed., 26–37. Geneva: Hardt. Rüpke, J. 1990. Domi Militiae. Die religiöse Konstruktion des Krieges in Rom. Stuttgart: Steiner. Sinclair, P. 1995. Tacitus the Sententious Historian. A Sociology of Rhetoric in Annales 1–6. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Strack, P. L. 1933. Die Reichsprägung zur Zeit des Hadrian. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Turchin, P. 2007. War and Peace and War. The Rise and Fall of Empires. New York: Plume. Vitale, M. 2012. “Personifikationen von provinciae auf den Münzprägungen unter Hadrian: Auf den ikonographischen Spuren von ‘Statthalterprovinzen’ und ‘Teilprovinzen’”. Klio 94: 156– 174. von Blumenthal, A. 1952. “Pomerium”. RE 21: 1867–1876.

11 JOSEPHUS ON HASMONEAN KINGSHIP The Example of Aristobulus I and Alexander Jannaeus Meron M. Piotrkowski 1. INTRODUCTION Within the broader framework of a discussion of antimonarchic discourses in antiquity, it is intriguing to scrutinize Jewish attitudes in respect to this topic.1 Antimonarchic tendencies seem to be omnipresent in most cultures of antiquity and seem to be rooted in ancient conceptions of and reflections on constitutions,2 and we may observe that antimonarchic tendencies are likewise inherent in ancient Jewish thought ever since biblical times.3 Rule invested in only one individual gave rise to suspicions and speculations over the efficiency and legitimacy of such form of rule. This notwithstanding, monarchy was, and still continues to be (in varying forms), a subsisting phenomenon and form of government. Needless to say that monarchy was the most dominant and, one may say, characteristic form of government in Hellenistic and Roman times. However, no matter how common and wide-spread the phenomenon of monarchic rule in antiquity may have been, it is hardly surprising to encounter certain opposition towards it. As such, antimonarchic tendencies seem to have been as common a feature in that age as was monarchic rule itself. Since monocracy was a characteristic of Hellenistic and Roman times alongside the antimonarchic discourse that went along with it, it is worthwhile to examine contemporary Jewish attitudes towards these issues, since Jews were, for most of that time, themselves subjects of various monarchs and monarchies. Since an overarching examination of Jewish attitudes towards monarchic rule in antiquity lies well beyond the scope of this inquiry, I choose to focus on one particular period in ancient Jewish history and the attitudes towards monarchic rule of one individual, namely that of Flavius Josephus.4 Josephus’ attitudes towards monarchic rule become, in my view, most explicit in his description of the later Hasmoneans, the successors of the Maccabean 1 2 3 4

All the following citations from Josephus’ works derive from the Loeb translations (Feldman, L. H., Thackeray, H. St. J., Marcus, R., Wikgren, A. eds., 1926–1965). Rabbinic sources are denoted as follows: The Mishnah (M.); the Babylonian Talmud (bT); the Palestinian Talmud (yT). See e. g. Aristot. pol. 3.1288a 1–5. Deut. 17:15–16; 1 Sam. 8; Ios. ant. Iud. 4.223–224; 6.35–44. For a survey on monarchic rule in ancient Judaea, see Goodblatt 1994.

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priests, who initiated a revolt that sought to oust the Seleucid overlord of Judaea, Antiochus IV Epiphanes (175 to 164 BCE), and to reinstitute the proper worship in the Jerusalemite Temple. The Maccabean revolt (167 to 164 BCE), apart from achieving the aforementioned goals, brought about another drastic change in the history of ancient Judaea, namely its independence. Ever since the Persian period, Judaea was, de facto, ruled by the Jewish high priest; de iure, however, it had been the subject of foreign overlords. Until the conquest of the east by Alexander the Great (ca. 333 to 331 BCE), the small state was subject to the Persian Empire and subsequently to the Ptolemaic and Seleucid dynasties. The Maccabees, in their quest to free Judaea from its Seleucid suppressors, changed this situation and initially sought to reinstitute the traditional and unconditional rule of the Jewish high priest. The struggle waged by them was not only a struggle for independence, but, more broadly, a religious one – one of Judaism versus Hellenism (2 Maccabees 4:13). With time, however, and quite ironically, the Hasmoneans5 themselves adopted the very same traits that their ancestors had battled against, and in effect turned into notorious Hellenistic monarchs.6 It is, inter alia, this development that at times triggered fierce opposition towards the Hasmoneans in particular, and against monarchic rule in general. Jewish opposition towards monocracy, however, is not to be seen as a reaction to bad experiences with monarchic rule per se, rather the antimonarchic tendencies are linked with the nature of conceptions of the ancient Jewish constitution, which is labelled by Josephus as “theocratic.”7 2. JOSEPHUS THE POLITICAL THINKER Flavius Josephus, or Josef ben Mattithyahu (37 to c. 100 CE), was an aristocrat and a member of the prestigious class of Jewish Jerusalem priests. That Josephus was particularly proud of his priestly-aristocratic background already becomes evident from a brief reading of his works; for instance in his introduction to his first and maybe most famous work, the Judaean War (Ios. bell. Iud. 1.3), he states that he is “a Hebrew by race, a native of Jerusalem and a priest, who at the opening of the war himself fought against the Romans (…)”. This remark does not remain the sole instance in his writings in which he stresses his background.8 Josephus, however, does not only emphasize his own heritage (i. e. his priestly background) in order to impress his mainly Graeco-Roman, non-Jewish readership, rather it bears deeper implications.9 Josephus wrote in Rome at a time of political vicissitudes shortly 5 6 7 8 9

The family name of the Hasmonean dynasty originates with the ancestor of the house, “Asamoneus” (Ἀσαμωναῖος), who is said to have been the grandfather of Mattathias, Judah the Maccabee’s father. See Ios. ant. Iud. 12.265. Cf. Baumgarten 1995. Cf. Ios. c. Ap. 2.165. See e. g. also bell. Iud. 5.419 and his autobiography, Ios. vita 1. See also, recently, Tuval 2013. Concerning Josephus’ intended readership, see Mason 1998.

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after the infamous “year of the four Caesars,” a civil war which had seen the rise of the Flavian dynasty – Josephus’ patrons.10 This period experienced a new wave of popularity of constitutional discussions.11 Josephus, being an ambitious writer and a literary homo novus, did not miss the opportunity of exploring such discussions for his own purposes, namely to show that the Jewish law, or the Jewish constitution, is the best of all available constitutions.12 This idea was riped by Josephus in his latest work – the apologetic work Contra Apionem, but was already well developed, yet not as explicitly articulated, in his Jewish Antiquities.13 Within this framework Josephus presents his readers several “constitutions,” both in his Jewish Antiquities and in his last work, the apologetic Contra Apionem. Especially in the latter work, Josephus compares Greek constitutions with the Jewish one, and declares the latter as being the best and most preferable one. He elaborates that the Jewish constitution is what one may understand to be an aristocracy, or “theocracy,” as Josephus chooses to call it (Ios. c. Ap. 2.165). He defines the “theocratic” constitution as a set of laws ordained by God, and considers their implementation as best overseen and supervised by priests, such as Josephus himself (as he frequently reminds us of).14 As a working-hypothesis, I propose that it is this conception that provides the background for understanding Josephus’ narratives on the later Hasmonean royals.15 3. JOSEPHUS ON HASMONEAN KINGSHIP After praising John Hyrcanus I (ca. 134 to 104 BCE) as an outstanding ruler, blessed by God with the privileges of the rule of the nation, the high-priesthood and the gift of prophecy, in his narrative on the latter in the Jewish Antiquities (13.300), Josephus notes in the same breath that: “the story of their [i. e. Hyrcanus’ sons, M. P.] 10 11

12

13 14 15

On Josephus’ life in Rome and his relationship with the Flavian dynasty, see in particular Mason 1998. On the so-called “year of four Emperors” (69 CE), see Morgan 2006. The question of the best constitution was first raised by Herodotus (3.80–82) and later adopted in Greek philosophical thinking by Plato (rep. 8.543–9.576) and Aristotle (pol. 3.5.1–2 [1279a]). Polybius famously assessed Aristotles’ model of three forms of government (monarchy, oligarchy or aristocracy, and democracy) against the Roman constitution (Pol. 6.1.4 f.; 6.4.7–9.14). The first Roman treatment of the subject is found in Cicero’s writings (On the Republic and On the Laws). Perhaps the demise of Nero’s reign renewed hopes for a reinstitution of the res publica libera which were shattered, however, by the rise to power of the Flavian dynasty. The debates about the most preferable form of government, however, did not cease. See also Mason 2000 and Mason 2009: 323–331. Josephus merely followed the norms of Greek literature by adding to his Antiquities discussions and descriptions of various peoples’ constitutions: “Josephus’ Greek reader was entitled to expect an account of the Jewish politeia as a part of an all around presentation of the Jewish archaeology” (Amir 1985–88: 84). See also Cancik 1987; Rajak 1998. See Rajak 1998: 234: “It seems that when Josephus wrote the Antiquities his conception of the Jewish politeia was not yet fully settled.” Cf. Amir 1985–1988: 84. Cf. Baumgarten 1995. On theocracy in the Hasmonean period, see also recently Trampedach 2013.

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downfall is worth relating, to show how far they were from having their father’s good fortune.” Josephus’ anticipating remark on the reigns of Hyrcanus’ I sons is not immediately comprehensible, since, we, as his readers, instantly wonder what his sons might have done that led to their downfall. In quest of an answer to this question, I have already suggested that Josephus’ remark has something to do with his own constitutional conceptions and his perception of how things ought to be. While we hold this thought for a moment, I want to add a composition-critical argument to our working hypothesis, namely, I shall first illustrate where Josephus places this datum (Ios. ant. Iud. 13.300) in his twenty-volume Jewish Antiquities. Book 13 of the Antiquities, in which our passage appears, is dedicated to the history of the Hasmonean dynasty and focuses on the period of political independence of the Hasmonean state (142 to 63 BCE). It begins with an account of the deeds of the Jewish priest (!), Jonathan the Hasmonean (152 to 142 BCE), and ends with the reign of queen (!) Salome Alexandra (76 to 67 BCE), Alexander Jannaeus’ widow.16 Josephus’ method of writing history, which is shared by many other ancient Greek and Roman historians of his age, constitutes a collection of biographies of the relevant and most important regents of a given period in time.17 By means of these portraits, ancient historians discussed moral issues, as well as undertaking “historical inquiries” that should teach the reader a lesson. As such, some have argued that Josephus’ Antiquities, inter alia, attempted to be a “guidebook” to pagan rulers of how to treat their Jewish subjects, since with all its history of revolts – particularly against the Romans – who, as I have mentioned, constituted the majority of Josephus’ audience and readership, Josephus attempted to show that Jews and Jewish faith do get along with foreign rule on the whole, and Roman rule in particular.18 Such a notion is, for instance, exemplified by his long account of Herod the Great. Therefore, one should not wonder that the latter story, namely that of Herod, is so prominently featured in the Antiquities.19 This is quite a substantial amount of space dedicated to one subject, given the fact that Josephus allots half of the Antiquities (10 books) to his paraphrase of the whole Hebrew Bible. In terms of composition, Josephus places the reigns of the Hasmonean rulers, Aristobulus I and Alexander Jannaeus (John Hyrcanus’ I sons), close to the middle and towards the end of his narrative in Book 13. As mentioned, in the beginning of the book he relates the history of the Hasmonean rulers, whom he increasingly praises until reaching an apogee (or climax) with John Hyrcanus’ I reign. This is the point where Josephus introduces his remark on a “downfall.” As such, we observe with Clemens Thoma that in Josephus’ understanding, “the high priestly office had reached its highest possible manifestation in John Hyrcanus I.20 The office of the high priesthood, accordingly, combined three functions in its ideal state, namely: 16 17 18 19 20

As we shall see, the distinction of “priest” vis-à-vis “king/queen” will be of importance to us. Shuttleworth Kraus 2005: 183–185 (n. 11). See also Varneda 1986. Schwartz 2002. It fills the space of three and a half books of the overall twenty books of the whole composition. Thoma 1989: 208.

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political government, the high priesthood, and prophecy.”21 Thus we observe, for the meantime, that Josephus composed his narrative on the Hasmoneans as a harmonious composition comprising of a climax and anticlimax. What is of particular interest to the present discourse, is the point of the beginning of the anticlimax, which we have identified – with the aid of Josephus’ remark about the “downfall” – with the beginning of the reigns of Hyrcanus’ I sons, Aristobulus I (104/103 BCE) and his brother and successor, Alexander Jannaeus (103 to 76 BCE). What I have attempted to show is, that Josephus – aside from its contents – likewise structured his whole narrative on the Hasmoneans to convey a “downfall” with the reigns of Hyrcanus’ I successors, which, from a composition-critically view point, functions as an anti-climax. Returning to our initial question, namely, what triggered this “downfall,” Josephus provides us with a clue in the ensuing paragraph that contains his anticipative remark on the fate of Hyrcanus’ I sons, in which he informs us that “after their father’s death [i. e. John Hyrcanus I] the eldest son Aristobulus saw fit to transform the government into a kingdom, which he judged the best form, and he was the first to put a diadem on his head” (ant. Iud. 13.301).22 The historicity of this datum put aside,23 Josephus insinuates that this “downfall,” thus, has something to do with (a) changing the traditional government and (b) changing the latter into a monarchy; and it is this datum that led us to suspect Josephus of antimonarchic tendencies in the first place. Indeed, as we shall see, the reigns of Aristobulus I and Alexander Jannaeus form perfect examples for what may be perceived as an antimonarchic tendency expressed by Josephus. After changing the traditional government of the high priest into a monarchy, Aristobulus I, who, notably, is described by Josephus as a most cruel and despicable character who imprisons his brothers and even allows his own mother to starve to death in prison. On the other hand though, Aristobulus I favored and loved one of his brothers, Antigonos, whom he involved in many of his governmental affairs.24 This seemingly harmonious picture is disrupted by a court conspiracy, initiated by none other than Aristobulus’ own wife and some other conspirators at court. This 21 22

23

24

Thoma 1989: 208. This datum is in concert with a previous comment by Josephus (ant. Iud. 11.111): “They [ i. e. the Jews] dwelt in Jerusalem under a form of government that was aristocratic and at the same time oligarchic. For the high priests were at the head of affairs until the descendants of the Asamonean [sic] family came to rule as kings.” There are good reasons to doubt this statement. The first being a statement by Strabo (16.2.40) that clearly negates Josephus’ datum (ant. Iud. 13.301) and attributes the assumption of the royal title to Jannaeus and not to his brother. We may add to that, that also the numismatic evidence supports this assumption. Cf. Main 2004: 384–387. Two further observations likewise allow us to doubt Josephus’ claim, namely: one, his own statement (ant. Iud. 14.44) in which we hear that the members of a Jewish delegation to Pompey speak about the royal title as assumed by Aristobulus’ II father (i. e. Alexander Jannaeus). The second hint is a document from Qumran (4Q425 [4QPseudo-Daniel]) that constitutes a list of Jewish high priests and kings. Intriguingly, the last mentioned high priest is Aristobulus I, while the individual that tops the list of kings is Alexander Jannaeus. See Wise 2005: 339. Ios. ant. Iud. 13.302.

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conspiracy, ultimately, claimed one victim, namely Antigonos, Aristobulus’ beloved brother.25 The grief over his deceased brother eventually took its toll on Aristobulus, who was stricken by a terrible disease to which he finally succumbed after only having ruled for only one year.26 This indeed may be summed up as quite an “unlucky” reign – to use Josephus’ words. The episode prior to Aristobulus’ death is illustrated and painted by Josephus in the highest and most dramatic tones – clearly intended to show his readers (a) his skills as a dramatic writer and (b), as promised in § 300, the dramatic turn-out of the life and rule of Hyrcanus’ I sons. Once more, we take note of the stark contrast between the dramatic and somewhat “unlucky” reign of Aristobulus I and the narrative depicted by Josephus on the latter’s father. As we have noticed, Josephus promises that ever since Aristobulus I had changed the traditional constitution to a monarchy, things deteriorated for the Hasmonean rulers; and indeed so. This is also evidenced by Josephus and elaborated quite significantly in his narrative on the rule of Alexander Jannaeus, Aristobulus I brother and successor to the throne, who is described as of no better character than his brother. Josephus reports that also Jannaeus, who is reported to have been hated by his father and therefore brought up in the Galilee, ridded himself of one of his remaining brothers, sending one to “live a private life,” while slaying one other.27 Throughout Josephus’ narrative on Jannaeus, we hear much about the latter’s conquests of Greek cities and his wars with Seleucid and Ptolemaic kings and local tyrants. Remarkably, Josephus, despite relating to Jannaeus’ successful conquests, depicts him as a rather untalented and incompetent general. Almost all battles he fights, he loses.28 This information, of course, is quite bothersome for historians, for while archaeological and numismatic findings demonstrate that Jannaeus successfully conquered vast territories, Josephus, on the other hand and as noted, chronicles a chain of lost battles.29 Thus, we are entitled to suspect that the successes described are essentially literary creations and that according to Josephus’ perception; things would have turned out quite differently for Jannaeus, had he respected the divine order and abdicated the royal honors. No wonder then that Josephus often condemns Jannaeus’ deeds.30 Let me furthermore note here, that Josephus, in his narrative on Jannaeus’ wife and later widow, queen Salome Alexandra (76 to 67 BCE), accentuates that she was somewhat the opposite of her late husband. Her reign and her persona are praised by Josephus and described as being mostly peaceful. 31 One of Jannaeus’ most profound offenses was to combine the profane office of “king” with the secular office of the “high priesthood.” This fact had bothered not 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

Ios. ant. Iud. 13.305–309. Ios. ant. Iud. 13.313–317. Ios. ant. Iud. 13.321–323. See e. g. Ios. ant. Iud. 13.341–345; 13.375 f.; 13.392 and Stern 1991: 461 f. On Jannaeus’ successful conquests and numismatic evidence see Shachar 2004. See e. g. Ios. ant. Iud. 13.380. Cf. Ios. ant. Iud. 13.407–410; 430–432.

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only Josephus, but apparently also the Judaean people, who initiated a civil war during Jannaeus’ reign.32 This episode is related by Josephus quite graphically. He relates that while once sacrificing – obviously quite peacefully – in the Jerusalem Temple at the Feast of the Tabernacles, the people began to pelt Jannaeus with citrus fruits (ant. Iud. 13.372) – an event that is echoed in rabbinic literature (M. Sukkah 4:9; bT Sukkah 48b; bT Yoma 26b). We should note here that the rabbinic sources put this conflict into the context of the conflict between the two major Jewish “sects” or parties, namely the Pharisees (which are believed to be the Rabbi’s predecessors) and the Sadducees, the latter of which were affiliated with Alexander Jannaeus. The Mishnah (Sukkah 4:9) thus mentions that the “high priest,” whom we identify with Jannaeus, was pelted with citrus fruits by an upset multitude on account of a libation that he conducted in a fashion that did not conform to practice considered proper by the people. The piece illustrates that Jannaeus performed the libation custom according to the Sadduccean ritual and not according to the “proper” Pharisaic one, favored by the Rabbis. Within the present context, it is important to note that conflict between Sadducees and Pharisees reflected the people’s dissatisfaction with the integration of the religious office of the high priest and the secular position/ role of king.33 Be that as it may, Jannaeus responded by slaying six thousand of these “trouble-makers”. Following that, the revolting Jews exploited Jannaeus’ current absence from Jerusalem, while fighting the Nabatean king Obedas, in order to seize control of the city. The returning Jannaeus subsequently was entrenched in a six-year-long civil war in which thousands perished (ant. Iud. 13.376). An anti-Jannaeus fraction consequently joined sides with the Seleucid monarch Demetrius III Eucerus who seized the opportunity to re-conquer the former Seleucid territory of Judaea and to further expand his conquests into the Arab and Nabatean territories. Interestingly, though initially being on the winning side, Demetirus suddenly withdrew. The reason for this, as explained by Josephus, was that Demetrius’ Jewish co-fighters changed sides “out of pity” for Jannaeus’ near devastation on the battlefield (ant. Iud. 13.379). Again, this is how Josephus presents us the story, which is blotched with many Greek literary topoi. Pity was hardly the reason that led to the change of hearts of Demetrius’ Jewish combatants. Conversely, we should simply assume that Jannaeus won the battle. Jannaeus reaction after his victory was to pursue his remaining opponents and either kill them or force them into exile. Josephus relates that he set an example by quite gruesomely crucifying 800 of his opponents before the eyes of their children and wives while dining with his

32 33

On the reaction of the Jewish people towards the simultaneous holding of the high priesthood and royal dignities see Schwartz 1992. This notion becomes the more evident in rabbinic sources such as bT Kiddushin 66a, where the Pharisees make air to their discomfort of Jannaeus combination of the two offices. Interestingly, they demand that Jannaeus should lay down his priestly office and should be content with the royal title. This view is most probably rooted in the rabbinic conviction that a priest should not be king. See yT Shekalim 6:1 (49d), and also Schwartz 1992: 50–56.

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concubines – a story that has parallels both in rabbinic, as well as in Qumranic sources.34 Now, what do all these events have to do with antimonarchic sentiments? Firstly, Jannaeus’ behavior allows Josephus to enforce his depiction of the former as a tyrant, which constitutes a point to which I will return below. Secondly, and historically speaking, the whole episode of Jannaeus’ civil war of 94 to 88 BCE should be interpreted exactly against the background of antimonarchic sentiments and not, as we have mentioned, against the background of Jannaeus’ adherence to one Jewish sect or another. This having been said, let us now depart from the path of Josephus and his perceptions and turn to historical facts. Jannaeus’ dated coins reveal a shift in titulature throughout his reign. Others have discussed this issue in pursuit of the question which of the Hasmonean rulers was really the first to adopt the royal crown (Aristobulus I or Jannaeus?).35 However, I do not intend to discuss this question presently. It shall suffice to note that some scholars suggested that Jannaeus had changed his royal title on his coins in order to reconcile his nation that was strictly against his assumption of the royal title.36 Later on, however, Jannaeus re-issued coins bearing the royal title and this came at a time, when most of his opponents were either appeased or sent into exile. We may thus surmise that Josephus was not the only Jew/Judaean, who was upset by some Jewish high priests who changed the government into a monarchy. Previously, we recall, I noted that Josephus’ antimonarchic attitude is not tangible in the narratives on the Hasmoneans only, but is also well represented in other places in his Antiquities. Most notable amongst those are two references, to which we shall presently turn, namely (1) Josephus’ rephrasing of the biblical passage 1 Sam. 8 (ant. Iud. 6.35–44) and (2), the story of a Jewish delegation appearing before Pompey (ant. Iud. 14.41). (1) Josephus’ rephrasing of 1 Sam 8: For the convenience of the reader we shall render the passage Josephus presents us (ant. Iud. 6.35–44): But the people, seeing these outrages upon their former constitution and government by the prophet’s sons, brooked their proceedings ill and together sped to Samuel, then living in the city of Armatha (…) They therefore begged and implored him to appoint from among them a king, to rule the nation and to wreak vengeance on the Philistines (…). These words sorely grieved Samuel by reason of his innate righteousness and his hatred of kings; for he was keenly enamored of aristocratic government, accounting it divine and productive of bliss to those who adopted it. So, from the anxiety and the torment which these speeches caused him, he had no thought for food or sleep, but passed the whole night turning over these matters in his mind. Such was his state when the Deity appeared and consoled him, telling him not to take these 34 35 36

The story appears in Talmudic literature in bT Kiddushin 66a and its parallels in bT Berakhot 48a; bT Sanhedrin 107a; bT Sotah 47a and in Qumranic literature in the Pesher Nahum (4Q169 [4QpNah], frgs. 3–4, col. 1.6–11). See Thoma 1989: 208. See Thoma 1989: 208.

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demands of the multitude amiss, since it was not him whom they had spurned, but God Himself, not wishing Him to reign alone; these deeds, moreover, they had (He said) been devising from the day when He had brought them from Egypt; howbeit they would ere long be seized with painful remorse, “a remorse by which naught will be undone of that which is to be, but which will convict them of contempt and of adopting a course ungrateful toward Me and to thy prophetic office. I therefore now charge thee to elect for them whomsoever I shall name as king, after forewarning them what ills they will suffer under kingly rule and solemnly testifying into what a change they are rushing.” Having heard these words, Samuel at daybreak called the Jews together and consented to appoint them a king, but he said that he must first set forth to them what would befall them at the hands of their kings and how many ills they would encounter. “For ye must know,” said he, “that first they will carry off your children and will order some of them to be charioteers, other horsemen and bodyguards, others runners or captains of thousands or of hundreds; they will make them craftsmen also, makers of armor, of chariots and of instruments; husbandmen too, tillers of their estates, diggers of their vineyards; nay, there is nothing which your sons will not do at their behest, after the manner of slaves bought at a price. Of your daughters also they will make perfumers, cooks and bakers, and subject to them to every menial task which handmaids must perforce perform from fear of stripes and tortures. They will moreover rob you of your possessions and bestow them upon eunuchs and bodyguards, and confer your herds of cattle upon their retainers. In a word, ye with all yours will be bond-servants to the king along with your own domestics; and he, when he is come, will beget in you a memory of these words of mine and (cause you) through these sufferings to repent and to implore God to take pity on you and to grant you speedy deliverance from your kings. Howbeit He will not hearken to your prayers, but will disregard them and suffer you to pay the penalty for your own perversity.” Yet even to these predictions of what was to come the multitude was deaf and obstinately refused to eradicate from their minds a resolution now deepseated in their calculations. Nay, they would not be turned, nor racked they aught of the words of Samuel, but pressed him importunately and insisted that he should elect their king forthwith, and take no thought for the future; since for the punishment of their foes they must need have one to fight their battles with them, and there could be nothing strange, when their neighbors were ruled by kings, in their having the same form of government. So Samuel, seeing that even by his predictions they were not turned from their intent but persisted therein, said, “For the present, depart ye each to his home: I will summon you at need, when I shall have learnt from God whom He gives you for your king”.37

The passage, in my view, clearly elucidates and mirrors Josephus’ own perceptions on monarchic rule.38 At the outset, we note that Josephus explicitly and quite blatantly writes that Samuel hated kingship. Upon comparing Josephus’ biblical Vorlage with his paraphrase, we find that Josephus inserted some interesting details into the text, such as, a more profound and explicit insight into Samuel’s negative attitudes on monarchic rule. In that vein, Josephus notes quite ironically and in somewhat exaggerated manner, that monarchic rule apparently bothered Samuel so much that it caused him sleepless nights. In addition, we take note of the fact that Josephus, here, frequently equates monarchic rule with punishment and slavery.39 Of particular relevance is Josephus’ reasoning for Samuel’s negative attitudes to37 38 39

Italics are mine, M. P. On this episode and on Josephus’ perceptions of monarchy, see recently Mason 2012: 141–143. Ios. ant. Iud. 6.39–42. We may note here that the notion that allegiance to one man amounts to slavery is a notion widespread among Roman aristocratic historians. See e. g. Tac. Agric. 2.3. Cf. Mason 2000: xxvii; Mason 2009: 330–337.

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wards monarchy, namely the latter’s preference of an aristocratic (i. e. theocratic) form of government.40 Hence, also in this instance, Josephus reasons antimonarchic sentiments with the notion that an aristocratic/theocratic form of government is clearly to be preferred, while simultaneously warning his audience that monarchy is to be considered a form of punishment and that being a subject of monarchic rule is equal to slavery, and in other words, monarchy will inevitably drift into tyranny (see below). Another aspect of interest is the counter-position of the people who petitioned monarchic rule. They object to Samuel’s admonition that all the other surrounding nations are governed by a king – implying that those nations are living quite decently under such form of government – and that the Jews, hence, should likewise be governed in that way. What Josephus’ readers may thus understand from this datum is that, basically, nothing is wrong with monarchic rule as long as other nations are governed in that way. For Jews however, monarchic rule is at variance with the traditional form of aristocratic/theocratic government ordained by God and is thus – preferably – to be avoided, as it is considered to contradict divine order. As we shall see, this notion should be kept in mind as we proceed. (2) A Jewish delegation before Pompey (ant. Iud. 14.41): The second passage we should consider is an often-cited one which appears in book 14 of the Antiquities. Here, while bemoaning the loss of Judaean independence to Rome (as also later reinforced in ant. Iud. 14.77) in wake of the contest for supremacy between Hyrcanus’ I grandchildren Hyrcanus II and Aristobulus II, Josephus relates of a Jewish delegation auditioning before Pompey. He writes as follows: Here [Damascus] he [Pompey] heard the case of the Jews and their leaders, Hyrcanus and Aristobulus, who were quarrelling with one another, while the nation was against them both and asked not to be ruled by a king, saying that it was the custom of their country (πάτριον) to obey the priests of the God who was venerated by them, but that these two, who were descended from the priests, were seeking to change their form of government in order that they might become a nation of slaves.41

What Josephus states here is very similar to the contents of our previous passage (ant. Iud. 6.35–44) and somewhat reflects the same spirit. Intriguingly, also here we encounter the notion that monarchy equals slavery, but what is more important is the observation that nothing good can come out of changing the government into a monarchy. This is due to the fact that doing so gainsays the “the ancestral customs”, i. e. the Jewish law, which was ordained by God. Instead, priests should oversee the people and should be the guardians of the divinely given constitution.42 In short, Josephus – as we may likewise observe in case of the story of prophet Samuel (ant. 40 41 42

See also Feldman 1998: 502–504. I have amended Marcus’ translation slightly, substituting “ancestral customs” with “the custom of their country” as rendered by Marcus. See also Ios. c. Ap. 2.185.

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Iud. 6) – here puts his own convictions into the mouth of the members of the Jewish delegation, who petition to change the existing monarchic governmental structure into what Josephus (c. Ap. 2.165) calls a “theocracy” – the divine law guarded by priests. As our two examples have revealed, Josephus’ antimonarchic tendencies are rooted in his conviction that the Jewish constitution is divinely ordained and should be guarded and overseen by priests. A change of that form of government equals changing the divine law. This notion is paired with another, namely, following the general logic, transgression of divine law brings about divine punishment. And accordingly, Josephus can claim – as we may observe in case of his paraphrase of 1 Sam. 8 – that the people who petitioned royal rule, will eventually be punished and suffer under their king(s). This being the case, Josephus’ approach is that (bad) monarchs usually act in a tyrannical fashion, which, in turn, constitutes a body of thought propagated by Greek political thinking,43 and we are hardly surprised to further encounter such notions elsewhere in Josephus’ narratives. (3) Monarchy equals Tyranny What has emerged from passages such as ant. Iud. 6, in which Josephus highlights the dark sides of monarchic rule, is the implication that monarchic rule equals tyrannical rule.44 Let us dwell for a moment on the point of the contrast of monarchy and tyranny and jump to a quite similar incident described by Josephus in Book 17 of his Antiquities. The episode to which we would like to draw attention ensues after Herod’s death in 4 BCE. Archelaus, his son and successor, travels to Rome to receive royal dignity from the hands of Augustus.45 This event is quickly turned into an ordeal for Archelaus. Herod Antipas, another of Herod’s sons and potential pretender to the Judaean throne, has his brother Antipater, who was a member of his delegation to Rome, accuse Archelaus before Augustus.46 The former points out Archelaus’ previous misdeeds in Judaea in his speech and refers to his flawed character: And the Temple had been filled with corpses, not indeed by an alien but by one who had sought to undertake the act with the lawful title of king in order that he might fulfil his tyrannical nature in an act of injustice abhorrent to all mankind. (Ios. ant. Iud. 17.237)

The incident referred to here by Antipater is Archelaus’ handling, or rather mishandling, of a precarious situation during the Passover festival of 4 BCE, in which the latter attempted to “calm” what he understood to be sedition by the people. Arche43 44 45 46

Cf. e. g., Plat. Politeia 1305a, 7; 1310b, 12; Pol. 6.1–3. See also Feldman’s conclusion in Feldman 1998: 508. On this issue, see Mason 2012: 148–152. Ios. ant. Iud. 17.219–249. On this episode see also Hoehner 1980: 18–42.

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laus reacted to the sudden public demonstration by introducing a multitude of soldiers to the site. The appearance of the troops in the Temple compound and their belligerent behaviour soon triggered a violent clash that resulted in the death of thousands of Jews. Thus we take note of the fact that Josephus, in the voice of indirect speech, accuses Archelaus of possessing a “tyrannical nature” which he juxtaposes with Archelaus’ royal aspirations. Similarly, 67 paragraphs later, we hear of new troubles for Archelaus. In the wake of a revolt unleashed in Judaea caused by Archelaus’ absence that was crushed by the then Roman governor of Syria, a certain Varus, with whom we are perhaps more familiar with in context of the disastrous battle in the Teutoburg forest, a Jewish delegation appears before Augustus expressing their wish for autonomy (Ios. ant. Iud. 17.300). In § 304 we read the following: Accordingly, when permission to speak was given to the Jewish envoys, who were waiting to ask for the dissolution of the kingdom, they applied themselves to accusing Herod of lawless acts. They argued that while he had been king in name, he had brought together in his own person the most ruthless cruelties of all the various tyrants and had used their devices for the destruction of the Jews (…).

We should note that Josephus’ main source for this episode, as well as for the greater part of the Hasmonean and Herodian periods in general, is the well-known philosopher and former Herodian court historian, Nicolaus of Damascus. That the reports on Archelaus and his trip to Rome derive from the latter can be further sustained by the fact that the first text cited here, namely Ios. ant. Iud. 17.237, is more or less directly followed by Nicolaus’ own speech, who according to Ios. ant. Iud. 17.240, was a member of Archelaus’ delegation (§ 219) and moreover, the person said to have defended him from Antipater’s accusations before Augustus. Thus, Josephus’ antimonarchic stand, i. e. the equations of monarchy with tyranny, might well reflect those of Nicolaus of Damascus too, as in compliance with Graeco-Roman political-philosophical thinking. Josephus, notably, who did not just merely copy his sources but rather arranged and sometimes rewrote them according to his own mind and fashion, did not seem to be bothered by the contents of his source, i. e. Nicolaus’ own perceptions on monarchy. They must have fitted his very own ones, perhaps though, for different reasons.47 Josephus thus, could harmonize his own negative perceptions on monarchic rule with common Graeco-Roman conceptions on the contrast of monarchic rule with tyranny.48 This in turn, served to make his narratives conform with the views held by his non-Jewish audience. In considering the place and time in which Josephus was active, namely Flavian Rome, such an observation evokes the question whether his non-Jewish (particularly his Roman) audience understood Josephus’ antagonism towards monarchic rule as current criticism of the Flavian emperors.

47 48

Cf. Mason 2005: 273, who points to another passage in the Antiquities (17.304–320) in which also Herod is termed a tyrant. See above, n. 43.

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4. JOSEPHUS AND FLAVIAN EMPEROR CRITICISM The Jewish Antiquities was written (93/94 CE) in the midst of the so-called “reign of terror” in Domitian Rome. Josephus’ portrayals in this work of various (Jewish and non-Jewish) monarchs, including those passages which have concerned us here, exhibit a distinct antimonarchic tinge. One may thus wonder how he could have dared to write such narratives during that period? It was, for obvious reasons, important and wise not to displease the emperor. This is especially so in the case of Josephus, who is traditionally viewed as a Flavian “lackey” – a view that, for good reason, is currently experiencing a gradual transformation in modern scholarship.49 But even if we put aside the issue of Josephus’ precise relation to his Flavian patrons and return to our initial question, could Josephus’ antimonarchic attitudes have resonated among his readers as criticism towards the Flavian emperors? This of course, is linked to the question of who exactly Josephus’ audience was – a matter that is still somewhat unsettled. The scope of this inquiry, however, inhibits us from engaging with this subject thoroughly. Suffice it to say, as I did above, that Josephus’ audience was primarily comprised of a group of Romans (and Greeks) interested in Jews and Judaism. Certainly this audience was aware of the current goings-on of Roman political life and would surely be capable of making links between current events and those Josephus described in his portrayals of Jewish and non-Jewish (Roman) monarchs in the remote and more recent past. For example, Domitian’s attempt to underpin the monarchic rule of the emperor, that created tensions with the senate and mitigated the aspirations of at least some sections of the Roman public to restore the republic after the Flavian assumption of power, could not have escaped the notice of Josephus’ audience.50 Actions such as these kept constitutional debates alive and certainly must have caused dismay with monarchic rule embodied by the emperor, and perhaps even with the emperor himself. Therefore, as I have noted above, constitutional debates were much en vogue by the time Josephus came to compose and make public his Antiquities. Consequently, it strikes us as counterproductive, and not particularly smart, for Josephus to utter criticism of the emperors, above all of Domitian, who is infamous for his nasty record with Roman literati.51 Although we may wonder to what extent the emperor himself would have closely read Josephus, overt criticism of him and monarchic rule in Domitian’s time was potentially dangerous and would, we suppose, somehow have come to the emperor’s ears. Nevertheless, Josephus, who is usually thought of as being a coward (especially in the eyes of many earlier Israeli scholars), did not seem to have been all that cowardly after all. This brings us to answer our initial question of whether or not Josephus would dare to write pejoratively about monarchic rule and Roman emperors. The answer to that question is in the affirmative, as has been shown also by 49 50 51

See in particular den Hollander 2014. For scholarly views about Josephus having been a “Flavian mouthpiece,” or their “lackey,” cf. Hollander 2014: 105 (n. 179). See Jones 1992: 20–23. On this issue, see Coleman 1986.

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others.52 I should add, however, that Josephus disguised his criticism of the Flavian emperors and of monarchic rule. From a safe distance and quite subtly he employed irony, figured speech, and hyperbolic praise of current rulers in his narratives.53 As I have attempted to show in this paper, one way of safely expressing such criticism of monarchic rule was to present it clothed in the form of narratives about one’s own monarchs, set in the remote past; in this particular case the later Hasmoneans, Aristobulus I and Alexander Jannaeus. Thus, while Josephus’ opinion of monarchic rule may have been a hard pill to swallow for those favoring it, it certainly was music to the ears of those opposing it. However, we have to note too that not everything that Josephus has to say and criticize about monarchs, and monarchy in general, necessarily pertains to Roman monarchs and Roman forms of monarchy. In fact, while Josephus may have focused his camouflaged criticism of Roman emperors and monarchy on a particular emperor (such as Titus or Domitian),54 in the case of the later Hasmonean kings which we have surveyed in this paper, Josephus seems to hint at quite a subtle distinction, namely that monarchy is perturbing the divine order and is a transgression of Jewish Law.55 Hence, all that Josephus says about monarchy or monarchic rule in the context of the later Hasmoneans is that, while it is not necessarily bad for Romans, it is bad for Jews. This observation is echoed in Josephus’ datum in the Samuel-episode. He states: “There could be nothing strange, when their [the Jews] neighbors were ruled by kings, in their having the same form of government” (ant. Iud. 6.44). It is true that criticism of Jewish monarchs and monarchy could compel Romans to rethink their own version of monarchs and monarchy. But whether or not Josephus’ remark in the Samuel-episode should be seen as a further instrument of masking his criticism of (Roman) monarchs and monarchy, we should keep in mind that in the Antiquities he was primarily concerned with presenting to his non-Jewish audience the Jewish constitution as an alternative constitution/philosophy. Thus, while obviously creating and playing on a parallelism between Romans and Jews and their respective constitutions,56 saying that monarchy is bad for Jews, but acceptable to Romans, does not explicitly undermine the Roman constitution per se. 52 53

54 55

56

See for instance Mason 2005, Mason 2009, Mason 2012, and den Hollander 2014. See in particular Ahl 1984 and Mason 2005. Note also Quintilian’s statement: “You can speak to good effect as openly as you wish against those tyrants as long as it can be understood otherwise because the danger (to you) and not the offense (to them) is then turned aside. And if it can be avoided by the ambiguity of expression, everyone will approve the trick” (quamlibit enim apertum, quod modo et aliter intelligi posit, in illus tyrannos bene dixeris, quia periculum tantum, non etiam offense vitatur. Quod si ambiguitate sententiae posit eludi, nemo non illi furto favet; Inst. 9.2.66, 67). See in particular den Hollander 2014. Feldman too, treats the question of how Josephus dared to express antimonarchic sentiments while being resident in a Rome ruled by emperors. He emphasizes that the emperors perceived themselves as principes (i. e. “first citizens”) and not as kings. Moreover, they made sure to preserve all the trappings of the republican government. He further notes that after the Roman kings were expelled, the word rex, had become anathema to most nobiles (cf. Cic. rep. 2.30.53). Cf. Feldman 1998: 502. On which see Mason 2009: 337 and Mason 2012: 144 f.

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But it does serve the purpose of extolling the one over the other. Emphasizing the preference of the Jewish constitution over the Roman, also aims at combating the bad press the Jews (and Judeans) suffered in wake of the Judaean revolt against Rome,57 while it may also serve the purpose of encouraging those of his Roman readership who were interested in, and well-disposed towards Judaism to embrace the Jewish faith (conversio).58 Indeed, this assumption is reinforced by the fact Josephus introduces a rather long episode on the conversion of the royal house of Adiabene (ant. Iud. 20.17–96) towards the end of his extensive account on the history of the Jews, the Antiquities. He thus concludes his narrative on Judaism and Jewish history with a positive outlook for those who wish to convert to Judaism. 5. CONCLUSION 1. The picture that emerges from Josephus’ description of the Hasmonean rulers, as well as from other examples elsewhere in Josephus’ corpus of writings, suggests that he was not a great admirer of monarchy. Our aim in this inquiry has been to recognize and explain Josephus’ antimonarchic position. At the outset, I suggested a working hypothesis that claimed that Josephus’ scorn towards monarchy does not result from the behavior exhibited by the monarchs he portrayed, but rather that his antimonarchic sentiments are rooted in his own constitutional conceptions, which profess monarchy as incompatible with the divinely given law guarded by priests. Accordingly, monarchy may be equated with impiety. 2. Consequently, the lesson Josephus wanted us learn from his narrative of the Hasmonean kings and their unfortunate fate is that all evil had its roots with the assumption of kingship by Aristobulus I. As such, Josephus implies that Aristobulus I was punished by God for having changed the traditional constitution, i. e. the change of the existing “hierocracy/theocracy” – the rule of the priests – into a monarchy. Similarly, the rule of his brother Alexander Jannaeus, who likewise assumed the royal title, was shaken by a six-year-long civil unrest due to the people’s opposition to his simultaneous holding of kingship and the high priesthood. Therefore, Jannaeus is described as a ruthless sovereign with a flawed character, for whom nothing really worked out the way it was intended. In the same vein, he is depicted as an incompetent military leader who was constantly preoccupied with armed conflicts that he, at least according to Josephus, frequently lost. 3. We have furthermore noted that Josephus – quite in concert with the common Graeco-Roman perception – links monarchy with tyranny. Resulting from that, and 57

58

In the many publications on the origins of anti-Judaism (or Judeophobia) in antiquity (e. g. Isaac 2004: 440 ff.; Schäfer 2010), virtually all scholars agree that outspoken anti-Jewish sentiments, in the likes of the fierceness of Tacitus’ diatribe on the Jews (hist. 5.1–13), arose in the wake of the first Jewish revolt (66 to 73 CE). See also Goodman 2007: 551–554. The philosophical interpretation of the term (conversio) was quite common and meant the adoption of a “new way of life.” While we are suggesting that Josephus may have attempted to encourage conversion, we also exert caution as to claim that this was one of the main motives behind the composition of his Antiquities. See also Mason 1998: 89 f.

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in connection with our previous point (# 2), Josephus likes to portray Jewish monarchs (of course with the exception of some monarchs of the biblical period he portrays)59 as tyrants. This we have observed in various instances. 4. Following this line of thought, and to return to our working hypothesis, had John Hyrcanus’ I sons not changed the constitution, they surely would have been blessed with the success and achievements attributed to their father – and this is what Josephus means when he writes that: “The story of their downfall is worth relating, to show how far they were from having their father’s good fortune” (ant. Iud. 13.300). Hyrcanus’ sons therefore, constitute examples for how things ought not to be. How things ought to be, in turn, is expressed by Josephus in our passage (ant. Iud. 14.41) that bespeaks the people’s plead for a constitution ordained by God, in which priests are paramount, priests just as Josephus himself.60 This view, thus, is a reflection of Josephus’ own constitutional conception that he labels a “theocracy”. 5. This finding is furthermore reflected in the composition-critical argument I have referred to above, namely that Josephus structured his whole narrative on the later Hasmoneans according to a climax-anti-climax pattern, which mirror the notion that things deteriorate for the Hasmoneans with the assumption of royal dignity. Let me add here, that we are familiar with such compositional structures also from other Graeco-Roman authors, such as Suetonius, for instance. In his biographies of the twelve Caesars, he equally illustrates such downfalls, for example in case of the reigns of Domitian and Nero.61 In addition, we may stress another observation, namely that Josephus had to rely on sources in order to produce his narratives on the Hasmonean and Herodian periods. Now, as I have mentioned, these sources each, reflect their very own perceptions and convictions, which in our case dealt with monarchs and/or monarchic rule. Accordingly, one may argue that whatever Josephus has to say about monarchy reflects the views of his sources, which would reduce him to merely being a compiler and a slave to his sources – a view that was indeed prevalent in older scholarship on Josephus.62 As we have seen however, Josephus was far from being a slave to his sources; quite on the contrary: the example of his narrative on the Hasmonean kings has shown that he arranged and edited his sources in a way that befitted his very own convictions and fulfilled his own purposes. That is to say, we may acknowledge the fact that Josephus used sources – in accordance with the view 59 60

61 62

Begg 2000: 623–635. Cf. Cancik 1987: 72, who cites this passage and notes that: “Die Priesterherrschaft hat die Jurisdiktion; neben ihr gibt es keinen König.” Another such explanation comes on the same page where he notes that: “Eine Theokratie im verfassungsrechtlichen Sinne fand Josephus in einigen Epochen der jüdischen Geschichte verwirklicht: unter Moses, die Politeia unter den Richtern bis Samuel. Das Königtum bedeutet eine, furchtbare Niederlage für die Aristokratie als eine göttliche und die selig macht diejenigen, welche ihrer Verfassung bedienen.” See also the following passages: Ios. ant. Iud. 4.223; 14:41, 78, 143; cf. 6.268; Ios. vita 29. On p. 75, he writes that Josephus “richtet sich gegen messianisch-monarchistische Tendenzen im Judentum: seine Theokratie hat keinen König und kein Militär”. Sallmann 2001: 1085. See on this issue Mason 2000: 47–49.

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held in Josephan scholarship concerned with Quellenkritik – while, at the same time, he should also be perceived as an author in his own right who was master of his sources and his compositions – in accordance with the view of a composition-critical approach. In other words, source-criticism and composition-criticism do not necessarily cancel each other out. 6. We have also been concerned with the question how Josephus was able to utter criticism on monarchic rule while himself living and writing in Flavian Rome. We have found that despite the fact that Josephus was an opponent of monarchic rule, and was not particularly shy about criticizing it, he however acknowledged it as a form of government for peoples other than the Jews.63 Jews, on the contrary, should be governed in accordance with the divinely given law guarded by priests. Josephus made use of the ongoing and current constitutional debates in Rome for his own apologetic goals by advocating the Jewish constitution as the best choice of government showing that Jews – despite their reputation as a rebellious and despicable people – are after all not that barbarous a people as many Romans would think. Secondly, the portrayal of the perfect Jewish constitution (at the backdrop of Josephus’ stories of conversion) invited his non-Jewish, Judeophile readers to adopt the Jewish faith.64 7. All this is to say, that Josephus was first and foremost a priest – and thus a member of the most privileged class in Judaism during that period – and a representative of a ruling class. Needless to say, that anything that undermines the priests’ claim for power, especially when this power is invested by God Himself and deeply anchored in the religious and historical tradition, such as a royal monarchic claim, such claim is met with scorn and resistance. Josephus thus, stands well in the Jewish biblical tradition (Deut. 17:15–16; 1 Sam. 8) of being suspicious of65 and opposing kingship.66 He shaped and edited his portrait of the later Hasmoneans as a warning-sign for his readers, who should learn that monarchy (or monarchic rule) belongs to the inferior forms of constitutions and ways of governing a people. In how far this view is representative of the average Judean of the Second Temple period, as mentioned, cannot precisely be assessed. We may however, surmise that a similar attitude towards kingship was shared both by Josephus and the social class of the Judaean public he represented. 63 64 65

66

Cf. Ios. ant. Iud. 6.44. This does by no means mean that the sole purpose of Josephus’ writings was the attraction of converts; quite the contrary so. Amir 1985–1988: 88: “He considered the Politeia of Moses to have been an aristocracy, although he must have admitted – we may say: grudgingly – monarchy as a permissible, if not commendable, variant (…). Now, of course, the aristocratic ruling class in charge of this Politeia would be the priesthood of Jerusalem.” Maier remarks: “Für Josephus war die höchste Tora-Prophetenfunktion fester Bestandteil der Ordnung, die er aus seiner priesterlichen Sicht für Israel als die beste Verfassung ansah und teils als Aristokratie, teils als Hierokratie und sogar als ‘Demokratie’ bezeichnete, weil er der monarchischen Gewalt prinzipiell skeptisch gegenüberstand. Das bedeutet aber, dass es sich nicht nur um ein marginales Verfassungskonzept im Rahmen enger Gruppentraditionen handelte, sondern um eine in der Priestertradition fest verankerte Vorstellung” (Maier 1996: 86). Cf. Cancik 1987: 72 f.; Mason 2005: 272 adds: “His account of the Judaean constitution is that of a decidedly antimoarchical, senatorical aristocracy (Ant. 4.223; 6.36; 11.111; 14.91)”.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Ahl, F. 1984. “The Art of Safe Criticism in Greece and Rome”. AJP 105: 174–208. Amir, Y. 1985–1988. “‘Theokratia’ as a Concept of Political Philosophy: Josephus’ Presentation of Moses’ ‘Politeia’”. SCI 8–9: 83–105. Baumgarten, A. 1995. “The Hellenization of the Hasmonean State”. In The Hasmonean Period, Amit, D. / Eshel, H. eds., 77–84. Jerusalem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi [Hebrew]. Cancik, H. 1987. “Theokratie und Priesterherrschaft: Die mosaische Verfassung bei Flavius Josephus, C. Apionem 2,157–198”. In Religionstheorie und politische Theologie: Theokratie, Taubes, J. ed., 65–77. Munich: Fink. Coleman, K. M. 1986. “The Emperor Domitian and Literature”. ANRW II.32.5: 3087–3115. den Hollander, W. 2014. Josephus, the Emperors, and the City of Rome: From Hostage to Historian. Leiden: Brill. Feldman, L. H. 1998. Josephus’s Interpretation of the Bible. Berkeley: University of California Press. Goodblatt, D. 1994. The Monarchic Principle. Studies in Jewish Self-Government in Antiquity. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Hoehner, H. W. 1980. Herod Antipas. A Contemporary of Jesus Christ. Grand Rapids: Zondervan Publishing House. Isaac, B. 2004. The Invention of Racism in Classical Antiquity. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Jones, B. W. 1992. The Emperor Domitian. London: Routledge. Maier, J. 1996. Der Lehrer der Gerechtigkeit. Münster: Institutum Judaicum Delitzschianum. Main, E. 2004. Les Sadducéens et l’origine des partis juif de la période du Second Temple. PhD Thesis, Jerusalem: The Hebrew University. Mason, S. 1998. “Should Any Wish to Enquire Further (Ant. 1.25): The Aim and Audience of Josephus’s Judaean Antiquities/Life”. In Understanding Josephus: Seven Perspectives, Mason, S. ed., 72–79. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Mason, S. 2000a. “Introduction”. In Flavius Josephus. Judean Antiquities 1–4, Vol. III, Translation and Commentary by Louis H. Feldman, Mason, S. ed., XXII. Leiden: Brill. Mason, S. 2000b. Flavius Josephus und das Neue Testament. Tübingen/Basel: Francke. Mason, S. 2005. “Figured Speech and Irony in T. Flavius Josephus”. In Flavius Josephus & Flavian Rome, Edmondson, J. / Rives, J. eds., 243–288. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mason, S. 2009. “Of Despots, Diadems, and Diadochoi: Josephus and Flavian Politics”. In Writing Politics in Imperial Rome, Dominik, W. J. / Garthwaite, J. / Roche, P. A. Eds., 323–349. Leiden: Brill. Mason, S. 2012. “The Importance of the Latter Half of Josephus’ Judaean Antiquities for His Roman Audience”. In Pentateuchal Traditions in the Late Second Temple Period, Moriya, A. / Hata, G. eds., 129–153. Leiden: Brill. Morgan, G. 2006. 69 A. D. The Year of the Four Emperors. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rajak, T. 1998. “The ‘Against Apion’ and the Continuities in Josephus’s Political Thought”. In Understanding Josephus: Seven Perspectives, Mason, S. ed., 222–246. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Sallmann, K. 2001. “C. Tranquillus Suetonius”. Der Neue Pauly: 1084–1087. Schäfer, P. 2010. Judenhass und Judenfurcht. Die Entstehung des Antisemitismus in der Antike. Berlin: Verlag der Weltreligionen. Schwartz, D. R. 1992. “On Pharisaic Opposition to the Hasmonean Monarchy”. In Studies in the Jewish Background of Christianity, Schwartz, D. R. ed., 44–56. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Shachar, I. 2004. “The Historical and Numismatic Significance of Alexander Jannaeus’s Later Coinage as Found in Archaeological Excavations”. In PalEQ 136/1: 5–33. Shuttleworth Kraus, C. 2005. “From exempla to Exemplar? Writing History around the Emperor in Imperial Rome”. In Flavius Josephus & Flavian Rome, Edmondson, J. / Rives, J. eds., 181–200. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Stern, M. 1991. “Nicolaus of Damascus as a Source of the History of Israel in the Herodian and Hasmonean Periods”. In Studies in Jewish History. The Second Temple Period, Stern, M. / Amit, M. / Herr, M. D. eds., 445–464. Jerusalem: Yad Yitzchak Ben-Zvi [Hebrew]. Thoma, C. 1989. “The High Priesthood in the Judgment of Josephus”. In Josephus, the Bible, and History, Feldman, L. H. / Hata, G. eds., 196–215. Detroit: Wayne State University Press. Trampedach, K. 2013. “Between Hellenistic Monarchy and Jewish Theocracy: The Contested Legitimacy of Hasmonean Rule”. In The Splendors and Miseries of Ruling Alone. Encounters with Monarchy from Archaic Greece to the Hellenistic Mediterranean, Luraghi, N. ed., 231– 259. Stuttgart: Steiner. Tuval, M. 2013. From Jerusalem Priest to Roman Jew. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Varneda, Pere Villalba I. 1986. The Historical Method of Flavius Josephus. Leiden: Brill. Wise, M. O. 2005. “4Q425 and the High Priesthood of Judas Maccabaeus”. Dead Sea Discoveries 12/3: 313–362.

12 ‘In Search of Good Emperors’ ‘IN SEARCH OF GOOD EMPERORS.’ EMPERORS, CAESARS, AND USURPERS IN THE MIRROR OF ANTIMONARCHIC PATTERNS IN THE HISTORIA AUGUSTA – SOME CONSIDERATIONS Matthias Haake* Non facile est in eum scribere qui potest proscribere. “It’s not easy to have a war of words with a man who can sign your death warrant.” Asinius Pollio ap. Macr. Sat. 2.4.21 (transl.: Kaster 2011)1 (…) maxime cum vel vivorum principum vita non sine reprehensione dicatur. “(…) especially since the biographies of at least living emperors cannot be written without incurring blame.”2 H. A. Car. 18.53

1. PROLEGOMENA “It is utterly unthinkable that this immoral, unchristian and pagan-tinted monstrosity was intended as a timely ‘mirror for princes’ disguised as biography for the use of a specific Christian emperor of the fourth century, such as Theodosius or even

*

1 2 3

The present text is the product of research conducted during the summer of 2008 at the Institute for Advanced Study in Konstanz and represents a revised and extended version of the talk given at the conference “Antimonarchic Discourse in Antiquity.” For their critical reading of the manuscript and valuable suggestions, I wish to express my warmest gratitude to Anna-Sophie Aletsee (Münster), Henning Börm (Konstanz), Ann-Cathrin Harders (Bielefeld), Anna Linnemann (Münster), François Paschoud (Geneva), and especially Massimiliano Vitiello (Kansas City), to whom I am also grateful for generously making two then unpublished papers available to me. For translating the present text I am much obliged to John Noël Dillon (Berkeley). Since the scholarly literature on the Historia Augusta is legion in the truest sense of the word, I neither intend to nor can include all the relevant literature on the subjects touched on in my reflections below. English translations of the Historia Augusta are taken from Magie 1921, Magie 1924, and Magie 1932 and in some cases have been slightly modified. Too late to be taken into account appeared Bertrand-Dagenbach/Molinier-Arbo 2014 and Zinsli 2014. On this passage, cf. Zadorojnyi 2006: 360 and Rutledge 2009: 47 f. For the meaning of vel as “at least,” see Paschoud 2005: 107. Cf. Paschoud 2005: 106 f. on this passage.

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Constantius II”.4 Thus declared the ancient historian Ernst Hohl in a posthumous 1958 article on what is, in the words of Theodor Mommsen, “one of the most miserable messes we have from antiquity.”5 Hohl’s statement must be placed in the context of the intense and controversial, and occasionally polemical, discussion of the date and purpose of a text corpus that raises countless questions,6 a work called Vitae diversorum principum et tyrannorum a divo Hadriano usque ad Numerianum in the oldest preserved manuscript7 and which now is conventionally known as the Historia Augusta.8 This collection of the vitae of emperors, Caesares, and usurpers – from Hadrian down to Carus and his sons Carinus and Numerianus9 – introduces a total of six different, otherwise unknown people as authors: “Aelius Spartianus,” “Aelius Lampridius,” “Iulius Capitolinus,” “Vulcacius Gallicanus,” “Flavius Vopiscus,” and “Trebellius Pollio.”10 They are the so-called Scriptores Historiae Augustae,11 who claim to have composed their works respectively during the First Tetrarchy and during the reign of Constantine I.12 The extremely lively, now over one hundred twenty year-old controversy over the date, authorship, and purpose of this work, despite its alleged authors and explicit 4

5 6

7 8 9

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Hohl 1958: 151: “Als aktueller, biographisch getarnter Fürstenspiegel für den Gebrauch eines bestimmten christlichen Kaisers des 4. Jahrhunderts, etwa des Theodosius oder gar des zweiten Constantius, kann dieses zuchtlose, unchristlich-pagan getönte Machwerk unmöglich gedacht gewesen sein.” Cf. Mommsen 1890: 229: “…eine der elendsten Sudeleien, die wir aus dem Alterthum haben.” Cf. Syme 1971a: 1: “The Historia Augusta is without question or rival the most enigmatic work that Antiquity has transmitted.” Cameron 2011: 743–782 discusses several scholarly views on the Historia Augusta in a sometimes outright polemical tone; he gives, however, what might be described as short shrift to German-language contributions to the debate on the Historia Augusta from the last decades. The manuscript in question is Cod. Palat. Lat. 899 from the 9th century; cf. Chastagnol 1994: xi. The original title of the work is not known, but possibly was De vita principum; cf. Thomson 2007. On the origins of the early modern and modern title, see Paschoud 2009. The Historia Augusta abruptly begins in H. A. Hadr. 1.1 with the words origo imperatoris Hadriani vetustior. Hartke 1951: 326–329 argues that this was the original beginning of the work; cf. also Meckler 1996. In contrast, Stubenrauch 1982: 59–99 reasons that vitae of Nerva and Trajan originally preceded Hadrian’s Life; cf. also Gaden 1976: 120–130. The question of the beginning of the Historia Augusta can hardly be answered with our present knowledge; cf. Fündling 2006: 10–13. The claim in H. A. Ael. 7.5 that the work began with Caesar is definitely false; see den Hengst 1981: 14–16. The Historia Augusta has a lacuna for the years between 244 and 260 that has not yet been satisfactorily explained; cf. Syme 1971: 199–203; Birley 1976; Stubenrauch 1982: 100–104; Chastagnol 1994: xlii–xlv; and Brandt 1996: 19–20. The Historia Augusta contains thirty vitae in total; cf. the brief description by Mellor 1999: 157– 158 and also Birley 2003, 132–133: “From Hadrian to Elagabalus each minor figure has a separate vita, while from the two Maximini onwards a single vita covers joint rulers, and usurpers (tyranni) are grouped together, thirty-two in one vita (TT), four in another (Q).” On these “pseudonyms,” see inter alia Birley 2003: 145–146; cf. also Syme 1971: 73–75. On this collective name, cf. Chastagnol 1994: xi and Pausch 2007: 108 n. 7. It is based on the description of the historian Tacitus as scriptor historiae Augustae in H. A. Tac. 10.3. See Birley 2003: 133; cf. also the respective lists of biographies dedicated to Diocletian and Constantine in Kolb 1987: 1 with n. 1 and 2.

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indications of date, was set in motion by an article by Hermann Dessau from 1889, titled “Über Zeit und Persönlichkeit der Scriptores Historiae Augustae.”13 In this essay, Dessau proposed that the vitae attributed to the various Scriptores Historiae Augustae were in fact a single work “aus der Feder eines und desselben armseligen Scribenten” in the late fourth century.14 It is no wonder that such a far-reaching theory did not meet universal approval. The first opponent was none other than Mommsen himself, Dessau’s teacher, who published a detailed response in 1890, titled “Die Scriptores Historiae Augustae”.15 For decades, the dispute over the authorship and date of the Historia Augusta that resulted from this response was among the most intense in the field of classical studies.16 Nonetheless, for some time now, a communis opinio on both these questions has emerged. That is not to say that the questions of authorship and date have definitively been answered: no definitive proof has been adduced and presumably never will be.17 However, a clear majority of contemporary scholars assume for very good reasons, first, that the Historia Augusta is the work of a single, unknown author using several pseudonyms;18 and, second, that the Historia Augusta was composed at the end of the fourth or the beginning of the fifth century, presumably in the 390s during the reign of the Theodosian dynasty.19 13 14 15 16 17 18

19

Dessau 1889. See Dessau 1889: 382 and 391. Mommsen 1890. See the discussion of the early research history of the Historia Augusta in Brandt 2009 and Brandt 2010. On Mommsen and the Historia Augusta, see also Béranger 1980. Cf. the overview and discussion of the scholarship in White 1967; Johne 1976: 11–46; Scheithauer 1987: 13–27 with 171–173; Chastagnol 1994: xix–xxxiv; and Fündling 2006: 27–77; cf. also Thomson 2012: 20–53. Thus, for instance, Brandt 1996: 24. Scholars have made various attempts to identify the anonymous author of the Historia Augusta or at least to determine his social milieu; cf. Zecchini 1993: 39–49; Chastagnol 1994: cli–cliii; Paschoud 2003a; Fündling 2006: 28–31; Rimbault 2011. Festy 2007 has argued in favor of Nicomachus Flavianus Iunior (PLRE I, Flavianus 14), whereas Ratti 2007 and Ratti 2007a have argued for his father, Virius Nicomachus Flavianus Senior (PLRE I, Flavianus 15); see also Ratti 2010. Thomson 2012: 70–83 has connected the author of the Historia Augusta to the only dimly known Iunius or Iulius Naucellius (PLRE I, Iulius [?] Naucellius). Cf. Birley 2003: 138; Brandt 2006: 12; 17; Fündling 2006: 58–67; Poignault 2007: 251; and Pausch 2008: 117–119; cf. in detail, inter alia, Brandt 1996: 21–26 and 35–38. Johne 1976: 11–46 and Chastagnol 1994: xv–xxxiv give a comprehensive overview of the scholarship. For an example of an attempt to determine the composition date more precisely, cf. Ratti 2010a, who argues for a terminus post quem of 390 and a terminus ante quem of 397. The “modern orthodoxy” among Historia Augusta scholars with respect to the late date of the work has unconvincingly been challenged by Lippold 1991: esp. 30–37; 217–278; and Lippold 1993: 4–7, who has returned to the “attitude réactionnaire” (thus Chastagnol 1994: xxi) and “die von der HA selbst insinuierte Abfassung des Werkes in diokletianisch-konstantinische Zeit akzeptiert”; see Brandt 1996: 35. For a convincing critique of Lippold’s position, cf. Brandt 1996: 35–43. Den Hengst 2002 anticipated that computer-assisted stylometric analyses would shed new light on the question of whether one or more authors wrote the Historia Augusta. Thus far, however, stylometric analyses of the Historia Augusta conducted by Marriott 1979 (on which, see Sansone 1990); Meißner 1997; Gurney/Gurney 1998b; Gurney/Gurney 1998; Gurney/Gurney 1998a; Tse/Tweedie/Frischer 1998; and Rudman 1998 have come to contradictory conclusions.

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The Historia Augusta thus should – as Dessau already formulated – be regarded as a forgery.20 What, though, was the reason behind this forgery? What was the author’s intention in producing this “mystification”?21 The search for an answer to this question of cui bono, raised already in 1890 by Mommsen,22 and all but ignored by Dessau23 in his 1889 “coup de tonnerre” for Historia Augusta research,24 has led to a long series of attempts to discern a “bias” (“Tendenz”) in the Historia Augusta, that the author would have considered dangerous to reveal in his historical situation.25 This line of inquiry was given impetus especially by Otto Seeck.26 Thus, on the one hand, the Historia Augusta was interpreted as a tendentious, pro-senatorial political work and, on the other hand, as a tendentious, apologetic pagan work, the historical context of which was sought in very specific circumstances.27 The approach of reading the Historia Augusta as a programmatic, tendentious work often led scholars to narrow the question of cui bono, as their search for the intended addressee of the text became wrapped up in the question of its date.28 Especially Ronald Syme repeatedly argued against the interpretation of the Historia Augusta as some kind of tendentious ideological work; he even questioned whether the author of the Histo-

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24 25

26 27 28

For criticism, cf. Brandt 1996: 24 and Paschoud 2003. The attempt by Meißner 1993 to infer several authors on the basis of the hypothetical authors’ differing understandings of history is not convincing; cf. the criticism of Brandt 1996: 22 n. 44. See Dessau 1889: 348, 350–352; 392. On the meaning of the word “forgery” with respect to the Historia Augusta, cf. the explanatory remarks of Barnes 1997, who criticizes the misleading remarks of Hohl 1914: 706 on the question of whether the Historia Augusta is a “‘Fälschungʼ im eigentlichen Wortsinne” and the scholarly positions that follow in this tradition. In the words of Dessau 1889: 392. Cf. Mommsen 1890: 229. Mommsen’s question of cui bono, though both important and justified, has significantly obscured one thing that already Dessau had stressed: the fact that the Historia Augusta is a forgery should be regarded as independent of the question of whether one can determine what motivated the forger to carrying out his project; cf. Dessau 1892: 572. Cf. the unsatisfying remarks of Dessau 1889: 375: “Die Absicht (…) dürfte gewesen sein, den Lebensbeschreibungen durch ihr scheinbares Alter mehr Ansehen und eine grössere Autorität zu geben als sie sonst gehabt hätten”; see also Dessau 1889: 392: “Der Gedanke, die Entdeckung der Fälschung dadurch schwieriger zu machen, dürfte ihm fern gelegen haben. Eher dürfte er die Absicht gehabt haben, durch die Annahme verschiedener Masken ein grösseres Interesse zu erregen, als ihm dies unter einer einzigen möglich gewesen wäre.” Dessau 1892: 572–579 discusses the author’s motivation in greater detail. “A bolt from the blue,” as Chastagnol 1994: xix characterizes Dessau 1889. Cf. the programmatic statement of Seeck 1890: 637: “Immerhin war diese art der schriftstellerei nicht ganz ungefährlich, und vorsicht ist die bessere hälfte der tapferkeit. so schrieb denn unser biograph unter fremden namen und verlegte zugleich, um jeder nachforschung nach dem hochverräterischen verfasser vorzubeugen, die entstehung seines buches in ein vergangenes jahrhundert.” Cf. Seeck 1890: 636–638 and Seeck 1912. The first position was taken resolutely by Seeck 1912; for the second view, see Geffcken 1920 and Hohl 1920. For an overview of various scholarly positions, cf. Chastagnol 1994: cxxxii– cliii; Brandt 1996: 27–34; and Fündling 2006: 47–58. This is characteristic of Seeck 1912; Baynes 1926; and Stern 1953, which may be considered exemplary in this respect.

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ria Augusta – whom he considered a scholasticus29 – “had any political and social beliefs of a pronounced order.”30 That the author of the Historia Augusta aimed to entertain his intended audience by offering a literary “garden of delights”31 is indisputable;32 but that does not rule out that the anonymous author also expresses political or religious views that either correspond to his own or reflect the positions of his intended audience(s). Already Johannes Straub in 1952 thus rightly stressed that determining the social and historical context of the values expressed in the Historia Augusta would be crucial for understanding this literary product.33 In this respect, scholars today generally agree that the social status of the anonymous author cannot securely be determined, but his social context can: according to the communis opinio, the author, educated and thoroughly versed in literature,34 undoubtedly has given the Historia Augusta a fundamentally senatorial-pagan tenor – Andrè Chastagnol aptly calls it an “atmosphère” or “ambiance.”35 It may not be as distinct in every biography, but it is always present.36 In light of this consensus, the purpose of the present chapter is to examine a specific aspect of the Historia Augusta taken “as a whole”: the figure of the emperor.37 I do not mean the much-scrutinized question of the author’s or his presumptive addressee’s image of good or bad emperors in the classical sense, and the character traits, principles, and deeds or misdeeds attributed to these generic ruler types.38 Rather, I will ask whether there are and structurally can be any good emperors in the Historia Augusta at all. I also intend to examine what argumentative means – whether explicit statements or narrative strategies – the author of the Historia Augusta uses to put both emperors with a bad reputation and emperors actually regarded as good in a bad light before his intended readership. I will subsequently call these argumentative means “antimonarchic patterns.” Their extent varies considerably, ranging from constructing an at least arguably positive figure in 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

37 38

Already Hohl 1920: 308 saw the author of the Historia Augusta as a grammaticus and scholasticus; cf. Syme 1968: 183–186. See Syme 1968: 191; cf. Chastagnol 1994: xxxii. Momigliano 1954: 43 also expressed skepticism of any bias in the Historia Augusta. See further den Hengst 1981: 161: “I do not believe that the author intended to teach his readers any lesson, moral or otherwise.” In the words of Syme 1968: 4. Cf. Brandt 2006: 12. For instance, on forms of humor in the Historia Augusta see, e. g., Reekmans 1997. See Straub 1952: 137; cf. Brandt 1994: 53. On the “literary talent” of the author of the Historia Augusta, cf. Syme 1971: 248–262, who describes him as a “rogue scholar” (263). On the author’s “literary culture,” cf. also den Hengst 1991. Cf. Chastagnol 1994: cxxxiii. Cf. Alföldy 1978: 47–51; Johne 1976: 66–104; Scheithauer 1987: 147–153; Chastagnol 1994: cxxxii–clxxiv; Brandt 1996: 27–34; Birley 2003: 144–145; Molinier Arbo 2008: 87, and Thomson 2012: 115–117. Johne 1984: 635 expresses this concisely: “Die Historia Augusta verbreitet ein Geschichtsbild, wie es bei der heidnischen, stadtrömischen Senatsaristokratie anzutreffen ist.” On the importance of considering the Historia Augusta “as a whole,” see Syme 1971a: 5–6. See, for example, Scheithauer 1987; see also Béranger 1976.

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Roman imperial regalia to the unambiguously negative depiction of a bad ruler as a tyrant.39 The author’s systematic approach to this topic so critical in several aspects implies that the (de)construction of the alleged boni principes is not merely to be considered as a literary play of the Historia Augusta’s “unreliable narrator”, but as a (political) statement, which the anonymous author deliberately inscribed into his text.40 However, the goal of this analysis of antimonarchic patterns is not to give the Historia Augusta a new label and characterize it as a tendentious antimonarchic work or to assess the reliability of these antimonarchic patterns and deconstruct them in order to write historical imperial biographies.41 Rather, I wish to examine and explain an aspect of the Historia Augusta as a phenomenon in toto that up to now – despite all the important studies on such subjects as mali principes – has not received adequate attention: namely, the ubiquitous deployment of antimonarchic patterns in the text of the Historia Augusta not only to depict bad emperors, but also to discredit supposedly good emperors.42 In the scope of this article, I neither can nor intend to exhaustively analyze all or even most of the relevant evidence from the Historia Augusta – only a monograph could accomplish that; on the contrary, it is necessary to limit the inquiry to selected examples. In the light of the aims of the following remarks, the extensively discussed question on the various sources of the Historia Augusta are not relevant a role for my considerations: The reason therefore lies in the fact that it is all about the disposition of the antimonarchic material and not about its possible origins. An instructive point of departure for this task is to focus first precisely on the emperors generally regarded as boni or optimi principes and who are described as such in the Historia Augusta. While scholars have previously taken interest in these rulers in order to analyze the figure of the bonus princeps according to the standards of the author of the Historia Augusta,43 in the following I will consider whether and in what way the author attempts to discredit these rulers in the reader’s eyes and thus call their status as “good” emperors into question. 2. ‘THERE MUST, THERE MUST, THERE’S GOT TO BE A GOOD EMPEROR’? In a discussion of “[l]es empereurs [sc. romains] comme historiens,”44 Ronald Syme once ended with the words “(…) propagande pour lʼidée impériale dans lʼHistoria Augusta, jʼen doute…”; Arnaldo Momigliano immediately took up this

39 40 41 42 43 44

On this last aspect, see Zadorojnyi 2006: 357. On the Historia Augusta as “unreliable narration”, see esp. Pausch 2011: 138–139. On this aspect, cf. Winterling 2012. For example, see Rösger 1977 and Scheithauer 1987: 39–45; 48–64. Cf. Scheithauer 1987: 28–33; 36–39 and 46–48 for a paradigmatic example. Thus the abbreviated title of Durry 1958.

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thought with the words, “Certo è il contrario.”45 The following reflections continue this line of thought, beginning with a central and much debated passage in which the author of the Historia Augusta discusses boni or optimi and mali principes – one of his favorite subjects.46 In the vita Aureliani, the anonymous author says at length in an appendix to the biography: Now what shall I say of this, that whereas so many have borne the name of Caesar, there have appeared among them so few good emperors? For the list of those who have worn the purple from Augustus to the Emperors Diocletian and Maximian is contained in the public records. Among them, however, the best were Augustus himself, Flavius Vespasian, Titus Flavius, Cocceius Nerva, the Deified Trajan, the Deified Hadrian, Antoninus Pius and Marcus Antoninus, Severus the African, Alexander the son of Mammaea, the Deified Claudius, and the Deified Aurelian. For Valerian, though a most excellent man, way by his misfortune set apart from them all. Observe, I pray you, how few in number are the good emperors, so that it has well been said by a jester on the stage in the time of this very Claudius that the names and the portraits of the good emperors could be engraved on a single ring. But, on the other hand, what a list of evil! For, to say naught of the Vitellii, the Caligulas, or the Neroes, who could endure the Maximini, the Philippi, or the lowest dregs of that disorderly crew? I should, however, except the Decii, who in their lives and their deaths should be likened to the ancients.47

There are good reasons to assume that the author of the Historia Augusta actually based his list of boni or optimi principes on an index publicus, potentially a kind of “public” calendar, drawing on such an “official” document to list the canonical emperors who were designated divine in the author’s time – and thus permanently, not just temporarily, recognized as “good.”48 Has the search for good emperors in the Historia Augusta thus already come to an end in this passage? No. A glance at the author’s statements on supposedly good emperors since Hadrian, that is, on the same emperors that are part of the Historia Augusta, shows that these canonical boni or optimi principes all have variously pronounced dark sides as depicted by the

45 46 47

48

Cf. Durry 1958: 238. Cf. Schwartz 1966: 205. H. A. Aur. 42.3–6: Quid hoc esse dicam, tam paucos bonos extitisse principes, cum iam tot Caesares fuerint? nam ab Augusto in Diocletianum Maximianumque principes quae series purpuratorum sit, index publicus tenet. (4) Sed in his optimi ipse Augustus, Flauius Vespasianus, Flauius Titus, Cocceius Nerua, diuus Traianus, diuus Hadrianus, Pius et Marcus Antonini, Seuerus Afer, Alexander Mammaeae, diuus Claudius et diuus Aurelianus; Valerianum enim, cum optimus fuerit, ab omnibus infelicitas separauit. (5) Vides, quaeso, quam pauci sint principes boni, ut bene dictum sit a quodam mimico scurra Claudii huius temporibus in uno anulo bonos principes posse perscribi atque depingi. (6) At contra quae series malorum? ut enim omittamus Vitellios, Caligulas et Nerones, quis ferat Maximinos et Filippos atque illam inconditae multitudinis faecem? tametsi Decios excerpere debeam, quorum et uita et mors ueteribus comparanda est. Cf. the commentary by Paschoud 1996: 197–199 ad loc. Slightly different lists of boni or optimi principes appear in H. A. Heliog. 1.2; 35.2; Tac. 16.6; Prob. 12.2; Car. 3.1–7. On this, see also Dmitriev 2004: 219 n. 52. There is no biography of the Decii in the Historia Augusta; they fall into the ominous lacuna, on which see above, n. 9. Cf. Rösger 1977: 386; Rösger 1980: 189–190; Bonamente 1991: esp. 66–70; Paschoud 1996: 198 ad loc.; Bonamente 2010: esp. 76–78; cf. further Zecchini 1990. On remembrance and forgetting in Imperial festival calendars, see Behrwald 2009: here esp. 158–159.

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author. At the very least, this results in an ambivalent general impression of these rulers.49 Thus we are told in the vita Hadriani that Hadrian, who became emperor only on account of a mistake by Trajan,50 was both cruel and kind and had a thoroughly mercurial character; he was moreover open to rumors about his friends, so that he treated even his closest friends as enemies – a notion with deep roots in ancient topoi concerning tyrants. All this not only resulted in all kinds of things – and thus also negative things – being said about him after his death, but also in the senate placing him among the gods only at the insistence of his successor Antoninus Pius.51 As for Antoninus Pius, princeps bonus par excellence,52 the author of the Historia Augusta relates a detail in the vita Antonini Pii that serves to mar the image of this ideal ruler: his wife, Annia Galeria Faustina Maior, led a disreputable lifestyle, resulting in all kinds of talk that Antoninus Pius bore with a heavy heart.53 The uncontrolled or uncontrollable, transgressive lifestyle of Antoninus’ wife discredits him, because the emperor thus proves to be incapable of ruling his own domus.54 How should someone who cannot control even his own domus – the text implicitly asks – be able to rule the empire? Marcus Aurelius, also, “pre-eminent among emperors in purity of life”55 and another princeps bonus par excellence,56 is shown in a thoroughly negative, even monstrous light – by calling to mind his wayward son. In the vita Marci Antonini, the author writes: “[A]nd had he been truly fortunate he would not have left a son.”57 That this declaration is yet an understatement becomes immediately clear if

49 50 51

52 53

54 55 56 57

It is not the goal of the following discussion to pinpoint and analyze all the discrediting strategies used by the author of the Historia Augusta with respect to the optimi principes, but rather only to illustrate them with examples drawn from individual cases. H. A. Sept. Sev. 21.3; on the meaning of this statement, see below. H. A. Hadr. 14.11; 15.2–9; 27.1–2. Cf. Callu/Gaden/Desbordes 1992: 115–116; 138 ad. loc.; and Fündling 2006: 716–736 (K 321–328) ad loc.; 740–756 (K 330–339) ad loc.; and 1151– 1157 (K 536–537) ad loc. On the assessment of Hadrian in the Historia Augusta, see Birley 1997: 2727–2731 and most recently Fündling 2006: 200–208. On the image of Antoninus Pius in the Historia Augusta, see Walentowski 1998: 292–295. H. A. Anton. 3.7; on this passage, which Syme 1968a: 140–141 considers an “addition” by the author of the Historia Augusta, see Callu/Gaden/Desbordes 1992: 148 ad loc. and Walentowski 1998: 167 ad loc. Cf. also Pflaum 1983: 247–248 and Frézouls 1994: 122–123; the remarks by Wallinger 1990: 30–33 are not entirely convincing. Cf. the instructive remarks of Späth 2000: 131 and Späth 2001: 14–15 on Agrippina Minor in Tacitus’ Annales, as well as Späth 2011: 131–132 and 142–144; see also Fischler 1994: esp. 121–127 and Harders (in this volume). H. A. Marc. Aurel. 1.1: (…) qui sanctitate vitae omnibus principibus antecellit (…); see Adams 2013: 56. On aspects of Marcus Aurelius’ depiction as a princeps bonus in the Historia Augusta, cf. Scheithauer 1987: 28–32 and, despite some fundamental problems, Adams 2013: 185–212. H. A. Marc. Aurel. 18.4: (…) si felix fuisset, filium non reliquisset; see Adams 2013, 173–174. Cf. also H. A. Sept. Sev. 20.5.

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one reads the biography of Commodus in the Historia Augusta.58 But not only Commodus, one of the most disastrous educational projects of world history, but also Marcus Aurelius’ wife, his cousin and adoptive sister Annia Faustina Minor, is used by the author of the Historia Augusta to pin a negative aspect on the “philosopher on the throne” and thus at least scratch his highly positive image.59 This is particularly true when, according to the Historia Augusta, Marcus Aurelius claims in his own words to owe his rule to none other than his wife.60 Not only does Faustina’s lifestyle of unbridled sexual libido make her appear to be a “Messalina reloaded,” she is also a wife who is not under her husband’s control. She thus overturns male-female gender roles anchored in Roman thought and ultimately even annihilates the social order.61 It is not surprising that the founder of the Severan dynasty, Septimius Severus, is not an optimal candidate for the list of boni or optimi principes in the eyes of the author of the Historia Augusta, despite his acknowledged merits toward the Roman senate, if one considers his behavior toward senators as depicted in the Historia Augusta: the author mentions a large massacre62 that hardly makes the murder fit to be included in the ranks of the allegedly boni principes from the author’s point of views; rather, Septimius Severus is assigned by the author with a clear tyrannical trait.63 Even with Severus Alexander, the bonus princeps of the Historia Augusta par excellence,64 who receives the longest vita in the entire collection, aspects emerge that undermine this ideal emperor’s image at least to some extent.65 Thus the author 58 59

60 61

62 63

64 65

On the vita Commodi in the Historia Augusta, cf. Scheithauer 1987: 33–35; 54–58 and the brief description given by Hekster 2002: 7. Pausch 2007: 123–145 has analyzed the literary strategies of the author of the Historia Augusta in the vitae Marci Antonini philosophi, Lucii Veri, and Avidii Cassii in detail; by adding negative aspects, they serve to transform the overall positive character portrait of Marcus Aurelius in the vita Marci Antonini philosophi into a general literary figure that exhibits some gray areas. See further also Dubreuil 1995 and cf. Birley 2012: 18–26 in general on the vita Marci Antonini philosophi in the Historia Augusta. Cf. H. A. Marc. Aurel. 19.8–9. On the depiction of Annia Faustina Minor in the Historia Augusta, see the discussion of Pflaum 1983: 248 and Wallinger 1990: 44–46 and 52–56, which by no means exhausts the interpretation of the figure of Faustina Minor; see also Priwitzer 2009: 170–173 and passim. Again, Späth 2000: 131; Späth 2001: 14–15; Späth 2011: 131–132 and 142–144 are relevant here, as well as Harders (in this volume). H. A. Sept. Sev. 13.1–8; 17.7; cf. Alföldy 1968 and Alföldy 1970, as well as Bruun 1990: 5–9; Jacques 1992 and further also Okoń 2012. On the crudelitas of Septimius Severus, Mouchová 1972: 179–182 is fundamental. On the depiction of Septimius Severus in the Historia Augusta, cf. Alföldy 1968: 112–114 and Birley 1999: 199–200. Regrettably and surprisingly, a comprehensive analysis of the ambivalent depiction of Septimius Severus in the Historia Augusta, such as emerges clearly in H. A. Sept. Sev. 18.7, remains a desideratum. Thus following the title of a chapter in Bertrand-Dagenbach 1990: 139–163. On the depiction of Alexander Severus in the Historia Augusta, see Bertrand-Dagenbach 1990, which is comprehensive in many respects; cf. further Moreno Ferrero 1999 and Gaillard-Seux 2006. The author of the Historia Augusta summarizes his criticism of Severus Alexander in H. A. Alex. Sev. 64.3.

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writes that, despite other authors’ claims to the contrary, Alexander’s reign was by no means bloodless;66 likewise, the claim that Severus Alexander did nothing without his mother’s advice cannot be considered praise according to established Roman notions of masculinity.67 It is very significant that actually only Claudius II, who combined “[t]he valour of Trajan, the piety of Antoninus, the self-restraint of Augustus, and the good qualities of all the great emperors,”68 receives a consistently positive image, without any qualification, in the depiction of his life and work given by the author of the Historia Augusta; only the fact that Claudius’ reign was so short is regrettable.69 A very simple reason, however, can be found for this thoroughly positive depiction of Claudius by the author: from 310 on, Constantine claimed Claudius as his ancestor.70 Since the author of the Historia Augusta wants to create the illusion that “Trebellius Pollio” composed the vita Claudii under the reign of Constantius Chlorus,71 a historical anachronism comes to light, because during Constantius Chlorus’ reign, nothing was known about his dynastic descent from Claudius’ house.72 The “author” of Claudius’ vita, “Trebellius Pollio,” repeatedly denies that the family and dynastic connection between Constantius and Claudius, invented and claimed by the former one, influenced his positive depiction in the vita;73 but this is done in such a way that the intended reader, familiar with the conventions of imperial historiography and biography, is more or less subtly led to doubt Claudius’ consistently panegyrical depiction.74 66 67

68 69 70

71 72

73 74

H. A. Alex. Sev. 25.1–2; see also H. A. Alex. Sev. 52.2. On severitas as a feature of both eulogistic and incriminating passages of the vita Alexandri Severi, cf. Mouchová 1972: 183–186 and also Bertrand-Dagenbach 1990: 178. H. A. Alex. Sev. 60.2; for a foil, cf. Späth 1994: 234–239 and Harders (in this volume). The claim in H. A. Alex. Sev. 59.8, that the soldiers who killed Alexander Severus together with his mother still called him a puer despite his being allegedly twenty-nine (in reality, twenty-six), illustrates the conclusion made above. Arand 1999: 31–32 adds little in this respect. H. A. Claud. 2.3: in quo Traiani virtus, Antonini pietas, Augusti moderatio, et magnorum principum bona sic fuerunt (…). Cf. Paschoud 2011: 248–249. H. A. Claud. 1.3–2.1; see Paschoud 2011: esp. 247–248 ad loc. It is said for example in H. A. Heliog. 1.3 that a princeps bonus dies a natural death after a long reign. Paneg. Lat. 6(7).2.1–2; cf. MacCormick 1975: 165; Nixon/Saylor 1994: 29; 219–220 n. 6 ad loc. and see also the discussion in Schlange-Schöningen 2004: 176–177; 180–182 and, most recently, Wienand 2012: 154–155. Chausson 2007: 25–95, conversely, adduces much material in an attempt to prove that Constantine really was descended from Claudius II; this is, however, unconvincing; see Paschoud 2007: 363. Cf., for example, Dessau 1889: 339–340. This inconsistency, at the time, was a central support for Dessau’s deconstruction of the Scriptores Historiae Augustae; see Dessau 1889: 340–344. Constantine’s or his father Constantius’ descent from Claudius Gothicus in the Historia Augusta is explicitly discussed in H. A. Claud. 1.1; 9.9; 10.7; 13.2 (with Paschoud 2011: 291–292; 295–298; 313–315 ad loc.) and in H. A. Gallien. duo 7.1; 14.3 (with Desbordes/Ratti 2000: 119–120 n. 3; 161 n. 1 ad loc.); cf. also Syme 1974 and Bird 1997. H. A. Claud. 3.1; 6.5; 8.1–2; 11.5. Cf. Paschoud 2011: 255; 278–279; 284–286 ad loc. See also H. A. Heliog. 35.2. On biography and historiography under the conditions of the Roman Principate, cf. Zimmermann 1999 and Paschoud 2005.

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And last of all, it will excite no surprise that even the restitutor orbis Aurelian does not enjoy an unqualified positive assessment in his biography, despite his immeasurable service to Rome and the Empire, which the author of the Historia Augusta praises at length;75 indeed he, the optimus princeps – and this is a contradictio in adiecto in the purest sense of the term – was supposedly feared rather than loved.76 The author thus delivers a laconic, yet devastating verdict: namely, that Aurelian was a ruler “who was necessary rather than good.”77 As for Valerian, who had neither been consecrated nor subjected to damnatio memoriae,78 the author of the Historia Augusta sees no need to consider him in connection with the boni principes.79 He had been of excellent character,80 but was doomed81 to suffer exceptional historical failure, the ‘clades Valerianiana’ against the Sasanian King Shapur I, which culminated in his capture and ignominious end in captivity in 260. Good character may be an essential trait of a princeps bonus, but it alone does not make a good ruler; disastrous unsuccessfulness does not fit the necessary profile of a princeps bonus. In this context, it is highly instructive to take a glance at a ruler who does not figure in any of the catalogues of principes boni in the Historia Augusta, yet according to the explicit testimony of the author was undoubtedly a princeps vere optimus: namely, Probus. In the vita Taciti,82 it is said that this ruler was …a man, of note both at home and abroad, and one to be preferred to Aurelian, to Trajan, to Hadrian, and to Claudius, for the reason that, while they had various virtues, he had all combined and to a surpassing degree…

If, after the vita Taciti, one then reads the vita Probi, which the author claims departs from the rules of prose style on account of his great love for this eminent ruler,83 it seems to confirm the passage quoted above – until the reader comes to the end of the vita. There the author informs the reader of his plan to write a short book about a “four-span of pretenders” after the vita Probi. This book covers this “fourspan of pretenders” separately because they supposedly do not belong in the biography of a good emperor – and given the author’s efforts to guide the reader, it is 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83

On Aurelian’s depiction particularly in the vita Aureliani of the Historia Augusta, see Pausch 2011: 133–146. H. A. Aurel. 21.8; see Paschoud 1996: 130 ad loc. One might also refer to the highly instructive very last paragraph of the vita Aureliani: HA Aurel. 50.5; cf. Paschoud 1996: 224 ad loc. H. A. Aurel. 37.1: (…) principi necessario magis quam bono. Cf. Paschoud 1996, 176 ad loc.; on Aurelian’s crudelitas, Allard 2006 is fundamental. Cf. Goltz/Hartmann 2008: 255 and also Oman 1931. H. A. Aurel. 42.4. H. A. Aurel. 42.4; see also H. A. Val. duo 5.1–7; cf. Desbordes/Ratti 2000: 63–82 ad loc. H. A. Val. duo 7; see also H. A. Aur. 42.4. In contrast to the view taken here, Goltz 2006: 332 considers the depiction of Valerian in the Historia Augusta entirely positive; cf. also Goltz/ Hartmann 2008: 254, n. 175. H. A. Tac. 16.6: (…) vir domi forisque conspicuus, vir Aureliano, Traiano, Hadriano, Antoninis, Alexandro Claudioque praeferendus, quia in illis varia, in hoc omnia praecipua iuncta fuere (…); cf. Paschoud 1996: 312–314 ad loc. H. A. Prob. 21.1; see Paschoud 2001: 150–153 ad loc.

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inevitable to think that this good emperor can only be Probus.84 This ominous quartet of usurpers is made up of Firmus, who unsuccessfully attempted to seize the imperial purple under Aurelian, and Saturninus, Proculus, and Bonosus, who were usurpers under Probus. The function of the vitae of these usurpers may be inferred from the author’s alleged reason for their separate treatment: to discredit the reign of Probus which is principally depicted in a positive manner by the author of the Historia Augusta.85 After this cursory overview of the literary negation strategies used by the author of the Historia Augusta with respect particularly to the principes boni cited in the vita Aureliani and given a biography in the Historia Augusta, as well as Valerian and Probus, it is worthwhile to cast a glance at the first princeps bonus and founder of the Principate himself, Augustus. In the preface to the vita Cari et Carini et Numeriani, the last vita in the Historia Augusta, it is said of Augustus in downright Tacitean manner that he restored the res publica – if one can call it restoration, since libertas also came to an end.86 Prominently placed in the preface to the last vita in the Historia Augusta, this statement about the nature of the Principate, namely, a commonwealth bereft of libertas, becomes even more ominous when one reflects on its argumentative context:87 In a tour de force through over a thousand years of Roman history, from the founding of Rome by Romulus to the reign of Carus and his degenerate son Carinus, the author of the Historia Augusta presents the good and bad fortune of the Roman state. Augustus – unsurprisingly – marks a prominent caesura: according to the author, from this point on, not only were libertas and the internal condition of the state in poor shape,88 but the structures of the new political system founded by Augustus meant that the good or bad fortune of the Roman state – as already under the kings – now depended on a single person, the monarch, whereas no individual Roman could have been blamed for the systemically determined vicissitudes of the history of the Roman Republic.89 Just like the first Roman emperor, although one of the principes boni, so too the latest Roman emperor mentioned in the Historia Augusta is depicted as an at least ambivalent figure on the Roman throne and is discredited by alleging to have taken a great interest in one of the mali principes par excellence, Heliogabalus:90 Con84 85 86 87 88 89 90

H. A. Prob. 24.7–8; see Paschoud 2001: 167–168 ad loc. On the book about this “four-span of pretenders,” cf. Poignault 2007; on the four usurpers, see also Brandt 2006: 19. On the narrative function of usurper vitae in the Historia Augusta, see below. H. A. Car. 3.1; cf. von Haehling 1985: 212–213 and Paschoud 2001: 334 ad loc. On the multifaceted depiction and assessment of Augustus in the Historia Augusta, von Haehling 1985 is fundamental. On the forward to the vita Cari et Carini et Numeriani, cf. the fundamental discussion by den Hengst 1981: 149–157, but with a different focus, as well as Paschoud 2001: 323–337 ad loc. H. A. Car. 3.1–2; see Paschoud 2001: 334 ad loc. H. A. Car. 2.1–3.8; see Paschoud 2001: 332–337 ad loc. H. A. Heliog. 35.1; see Turcan 1993: 234 ad loc. To better understand the message of this passage, it is instructive to cite a passage in the vita Commodi: according to the author of the Historia Augusta, Domitian had a man thrown to wild animals because he had read Suetonius’ biography of Caligula; see H. A. Comm. 10.2.

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stantine, whom the author of the Historia Augusta represents as the nadir of a degenerating sequence of rulers beginning with Diocletian as the father of a shorttime saeculum aureum.91 The author ostensibly dedicates some of his vitae – namely, those of Clodius Albinus, Geta, Heliogabalus, Alexander Severus, the two Maximini, and the three Gordiani92 – to Constantine,93 who is not pervasively but often judged negatively in pagan historiography.94 The author claims he declined to write about Constantine himself – using well-established arguments in ancient historiography and biography – on account of his inadequate ability.95 This, however, does not prevent him from announcing in virtually the same breath a whole series of further biographies96 – including, as a “Greek gift,” Licinius, Severus, Alexander, and Maxentius, all of whom are put under the rubric “Constantine’s defeated adversaries.”97 Whether these vitae were written or not, merely their announcement highlights an essential quality shared by all usurper vitae in the Historia Augusta: the state of affairs under a ruler against whom usurpers take the political stage can hardly be considered positive.98 The following may be said with respect to the above-mentioned statements made by the author of the Historia Augusta: if in a political system considered fundamentally flawed, the Roman Principate, the weal and woe of the state is structurally bound to individuals, the principes, who – even when they number among the presumably good representatives of the species – are never represented in unequivocally positive terms, then it seems warranted to attribute an antimonarchic attitude to the author at least on the level of discourse. 3. THE HISTORIA AUGUSTA – A FLORILEGIUM OF ANTIMONARCHIC PATTERNS The following section will illustrate by means of a variety of instructive examples the antimonarchic patterns in which the author’s antimonarchic attitude comes to light in the discourse of the Historia Augusta. In principle, five different types of antimonarchic patterns can be identified in the Historia Augusta.

91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98

H. A. Heliog. 35.4; on which, see Turcan 1993: 234–235 ad loc. and Zinsli 2005: 134–135. Cf. Kolb 1987, 1 with n. 2. On the image of Constantine in the Historia Augusta, cf. Turcan 1988; Neri 1992: 283–326; Zinsli 2005; Bleckmann 2010: 344–345; and Bonamente 2014. Cf. Bleckmann 2010. H. A. Heliog. 35.5; see, e. g., Zinsli 2005: 135 and also Paschoud 2005: 108–109 and 111. H. A. Heliog. 35.2–5; cf. Turcan 1993: 234–235 ad loc. H. A. Heliog. 35.6; see Turcan 1993: 235–236 ad loc. and Zinsli 2005: 135. On this function of usurper vitae in the Historia Augusta, see below.

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3.1 Against Roman Emperors (I): Emperors and Topoi Related to Tyrants The first type of antimonarchic pattern represented in the Historia Augusta concerns statements by the author that exploit character attributions and behavioral patterns derived from topoi related to tyrants that explicitly make a Roman emperor appear to be a malus princeps or at least a discredited or ambivalent figure on the throne. Related arguments such as turpitude, lust, maliciousness, and cruelty especially, but not exclusively, against members of the senatorial class represent recourse either to Greek and Roman Republican notions of the tyrant or to senatorial norms and their inversion.99 Among the vitae in the Historia Augusta, alongside the vita Heliogabali,100 the vita Commodi may be considered a model of a highly literary biography of a malus princeps based on established stereotypical paradigms concerning tyrants.101 While in his depiction of Commodus in the vita Commodi the author makes use of more or less the entire spectrum of typically tyrannical behavioral patterns and character traits, or vitia, in other vitae, he returns only to individual elements of the canonical topoi to put the emperor in question in a more or less bad light.102 3.2 Against Roman Emperors (II): Individual Statements with Normative Connotations Not Derived from Topoi Related to Tyrants References by the author of the Historia Augusta to individual traits unrelated to the character of a ruler that have negative normative connotations under specific circumstances under specific auspices, and thus help to give an emperor a less-than-positive or even bad image, are the second type of antimonarchic pattern in the Historia Augusta. This type has received far less scholarly attention than statements derived from topoi related to tyrants used to put emperors in a bad light. How this type of antimonarchic pattern functions is illustrated paradigmatically by the figure of Gordian III. Although Gordian III is explicitly depicted as a good ruler loved by all in the vita Gordianorum trium,103 there are also aspects that undermine – at least to some extent – this positive general assessment. The author’s criticism constantly revolves around Gordian’s young age. That is why as emperor he is unable to show sufficient achievements to legitimate his rule and accumulate auctoritas.104

99 Cf. still Springer 1952 and Wickert 1954: 2119–2127; see also Dunkle 1967; Erskine 1991, as well as Haake 2003: 101 with n. 216; and Tuori 2012: 111–114. 100 On the vita Heliogabali in the Historia Augusta, see Mader 2005 and Icks 2008. 101 See for instance Scheithauer 1987: 33–35 and 54–58 and Molinier-Arbo 2012: 75–81. 102 On vitia, cf. Scheithauer 1987: esp. 39; see also Straub 1939: esp. 158 and Szelest 1984: 371– 373. 103 H. A. Gord. tres 31.4–7; see Lécrivain 1904: 295 on this passage. 104 See Hartke 1951: 190–242; Straub 1952: 75–86; Kolb 1987: 52–87; Kolb 1997b; and especially Gotter 2008: 179 and McEvoy 2013.

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According to the author of the Historia Augusta, Gordian III was acclaimed emperor by the soldiers only because no one else was available;105 at the end of his biography, after a eulogistic recapitulation of his six-year reign, the author states that the reign of Gordian III lacked nothing – except the necessary age.106 Undoubtedly, during his short life, Gordian III had lacked the necessary age to act independently and successfully as emperor: he was elevated to the rank of emperor at the age of twelve or thirteen and was murdered already at eighteen or nineteen. Although it is stated that, from the time of his marriage at the age of fifteen or sixteen, his rule no longer seemed childish and contemptible107 – that his marriage thus virtually represented a double “rite de passage,” from youth to man on the one hand and from child emperor to mature ruler on the other – still, in his lifetime, Gordian III failed to prove he could rule on his own. Thus, in terms of total achievements, Gordian III, the offspring of emperors and scion of a preeminent family,108 stands in the shadow of bad emperors like the nefarious Maximinus Thrax: as depicted by the author of the Historia Augusta, in spite of his stigmatization as a monstrous figure on the throne, Maximinus Thrax is nonetheless credited with great military ability prior to his elevation to emperor.109 The author of the Historia Augusta confirms Gordian III’s lack of achievements of his own in a seemingly innocuous way already in relating his early career as Caesar. He says in the vita Gordianorum trium that no young man had ever enjoyed as much popularity as Gordian III – thanks to the merits of his grandfather and father or uncle.110 The latter two are credited with rising up on behalf of the senate and people of Rome against Maximinus Thrax,111 who at the time was behaving like a wild beast. This positive assessment of Gordian I and Gordian II, however, is subsequently qualified insofar as their deaths for their country are not really portrayed as glorious: while Gordian II indeed meets his end on the battlefield – if in a defeat at the hands of a partisan of Maximinus Thrax that is explicitly attributed to his lack of military experience112 and implicitly blamed on his devotion to “women, wine, and song”113 – Gordian I supposedly committed suicide in the most disgraceful form possible: he hung himself.114 Gordian III’s 105 H. A. Max. et Balb. 14.7; see Brandt 1996: 221–222 (K 145) ad loc. 106 H. A. Gord. tres 31,4; cf. Hartke 1951: 198. 107 H. A. Gord. tres 23.7. It is worth mentioning that the text also states that the now mature emperor escaped the influence of the eunuchs and courtiers of his mother, which must be considered an aspect with clearly positive connotations. 108 H. A. Gord. tres 30.1; cf. Alföldy 1978: 14–17. 109 H. A. Max. duo 1.4; 2.2; 4.4–7.2; cf. Lippold 1991: 295–296 (K 17) ad loc.; 303–305 (K 26–29) ad loc. u. 329–381 (K 75–169) ad loc. On the depiction of Maximinus Thrax in the Historia Augusta in general, see Burian 1988: 235–242 and Escribano 1996: 204–234; and further also Arand 2003: 132–133. 110 H. A. Gord. tres 22.6. Cf. also H. A. Max. et Balb. 9.5; see Brandt 1996: 185 (K 97) ad loc. 111 H. A. Max. duo 10.1; see Lippold 1991: 419 (K 218) ad loc. 112 H. A. Gord. tres 15.2–16.2. 113 H. A. Gord. tres 19.1–5. 114 H. A. Gord. tres 9.2; 16.3; cf. also H. A. Max. duo 19.2; H. A. Max. et Balb. 4.3 with Brandt 1996: 142–143 (K 45) ad loc.; see Voisin 1999: 307. On the semantics of dishonorable suicide by hanging, cf. Voisin 1999: 311 and Hofmann 2007: esp. 166.

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profile as a weak ruler is also affirmed in the description of his own death. In a scene that is anything but honorable and worthy of an emperor, Gordian vainly pleads for his life and a position with Philip the Arab, his adversary, murderer, and successor.115 In light of Gordian III’s lack of accomplishments, it is also instructive that the successes achieved during his reign against the Sasanians, as depicted by the author of the Historia Augusta, are all credited to his father-in-law, the praetorian prefect Misitheus.116 Yet the author does not merely mention this damaging information to the emperor’s image: he strengthens it by quoting, according to his own statement, an alleged letter from Gordian to the senate, in which he has the emperor himself explicitly state that he had had no part in the successful campaign.117 A statement in the vita Didii Iuliani – put in the mouth of the consular and augur Marcus Peducaeus Plautius Quintillus,118 a son-in-law of Marcus Aurelius – criticizing Didius Julianus and his undignified behavior, highlights the problem of Gordian III’s failure to show he could take military action on his own initiative: in the passage in question, it is stated that someone “who could not withstand an opponent by force of arms had no right to rule.”119 The author of the Historia Augusta makes repeated use of statements with stereotypically negative normative connotations that are not originally derived from topoi related to tyrants. An overview of the relevant passages in the entire Historia Augusta reveals that these statements are made especially in vitae in which the subjects are not categorized as mali principes. Such statements thus prove to be a favorite means for the author to discredit the emperor in question. 3.3 Against Roman Emperors (III): Stereotypically Negative Character Traits Not Derived from Topoi Related to Tyrants The third rubric for antimonarchic patterns encompasses statements made by the author of the Historia Augusta about stereotypically negative character traits that structurally are not specific to any one ruler, to discredit an emperor as a ruler and as a person. An instructive example of this technique is the depiction of the senatorial emperors Maximus and Balbinus as terrified. When Maximinus Thrax began his “march on Rome” to assert his rule over the Roman Empire after the death of the elder Gordian and his son, he was driven primarily by rage, according to the author of the Historia Augusta, to take vengeance on the senate for recognizing the two Gordians. If we follow the depiction of events at the beginning of the vita Maximi et Balbini, the senators in Rome seem to have 115 H. A. Gord. tres 30.3–9. 116 H. A. Gord. tres 27.2. The name is corrupt; the person in question is C. Furius Sabinius Aquila Timesitheus (PIR² F 581); on the latter, see also Gnoli 2000. 117 H. A. Gord. tres 27.4–10; cf. already Lécrivain 1904: 85 and 293 as well as Straub 1952: 87. 118 PIR² P 474. 119 H. A. Did. Iulian. 6.6.

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been seized with “metus Maximinicus.”120 On account of his own political leanings, the author sympathetically recounts the actions of the senate in 238, has a senate meeting take place in this atmosphere of fear in the Temple of Concord in the Forum Romanum.121 Of particular interest is his depiction of Maximius and Balbinus, two consulars and eminent men, who would leave this meeting no longer being ordinary mortals, but as Roman emperors.122 Of these two well-respected consulars, according to the author of the Historia Augusta, the one had distinguished himself by his good nature and the other by his virtuousness and severity.123 There is absolutely no doubt that these two principes dilecti a senatu124 are shown in a fundamentally positive light.125 The two emperors are described as boni imperatores in the Historia Augusta126 – how could they be anything else, asks the author, since the senate, given the opportunity to elect the emperor, would not have nominated bad men?127 Yet the author attributes to even these two senatorial emperors aspects that cannot be considered entirely positive. We should not think only – and also in the context of this chapter, not foremost – of the false rumor of Maximus’ descent from an ignoble family128 or his allegedly unappealing person,129 Balbinus’ immoderate sensuality,130 or even their dispute, caused by mutual distrust and discord, over how to deploy their shared Germanic bodyguard against mutinous soldiers – which resulted in both their deaths.131 Rather, we should recall their emotional state in the fear-ridden senate meeting after the death of the two Gordians: according to the author of the Historia Augusta, Maximus and Balbinus had their fear of Maximinus Thrax written on their faces as they entered the Temple of Concord.132 120 H. A. Max. et Balb. 1.1; see Brandt 1996: 111–112 (K 7) ad loc. 121 On the author’s attitude toward the events of 238, see Brandt 1994: 54–55. Neither the date nor the place indicated in the vita Maximi et Balbini correspond to historical reality; cf. Chastagnol 1987: 915–916 and Brandt 1996: 112–113 (K 8) ad H. A. Max. et Balb. 1.1 for an explanation of the date; see Brandt 1994: 57–60 and, again, Brandt 1996: (K 8) 112–113 ad H. A. Max. et Balb. 1.1 for an explanation of the place. 122 On Balbinus and Maximus, their social background, and their career, see Dietz 1980: 99–103 no. 16 (D. Caelius Calvinus Balbinus), 129–134 no. 26 (M. Clodius Pupienus Maximus). 123 H. A. Max. et Balb. 1.2; cf. Brandt 1996: 114–115 (K 10) ad loc., 119–121 ad loc., and see further also Brandt 1994: 54–55. 124 H. A. Max. et Balb. 16.6; see Brandt 1994: 55, 62 and Brandt 1996: 241–242 (K 169) ad loc. 125 Cf. Brandt 1994: 55–57. H. A. Max. et Balb. 4.5 is instructive in this respect; cf. Brandt 1996:146 (K 49) ad loc. 126 H. A. Max. et Balb. 15.1; cf. Brandt 1996: 224 (K 148) ad loc. 127 H. A. Max. et Balb. 15.1; see Brandt 1996: 224–225 (K 150) ad loc. 128 H. A. Max. et Balb. 5.11; according to H. A. Max. et Balb. 5.1 Maximus’ homonymous father was a blacksmith or maker of travel-carriages. On both passages, cf. Brandt 1996: 156–157 (K 60) ad loc., 147–150 (K 50) ad loc; on Maximus’ social background, see also n. 112. 129 H. A. Max. et Balb. 6.2; on this passage, see Brandt 1996: 159–161 (K 64) ad loc. 130 H. A. Max. et Balb. 7.4; see Brandt 1996: 166–167 (K 71) ad loc. and cf. further also the remarks in Lippold 1991: 534–535 (K 376) ad H. A. Max. duo 20.1, whose interpretation, however, is not convincing. 131 H. A. Max. et Balb. 14.1–5; Cf. Brandt 1996: 216–220 (K 136–143) ad loc. 132 H. A. Max. et Balb. 1.2.

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The emperors’ fear of the “Thracian monster,”133 which can only be described as excessive and contrary to Roman norms, is a theme taken up once more in the vita Maximi et Balbini.134 Even allowing that the author of the Historia Augusta depicts their fear to enhance the drama of the situation, to emphasize Maximinus Thrax’s monstrous, tyrannical nature, and – again, necessarily, given the situation – to portray the action taken against Maximinus Thrax by the senate and its emperors as particularly courageous:135 the temporary extreme fear ascribed to both senatorial emperors during their confrontation with Maximinus Thrax is a stereotypically negative character trait that adds a negative note to their generally positive image in the Historia Augusta.136 Of course, the fact that the author of the Historia Augusta wrote fear into the character of Maximus and Balbinus is not grounds to doubt his fundamentally friendly bias for the senate.137 On the contrary, it is significant that the author of the Historia Augusta neither draws on the pool of tyrant-related topoi to partially discredit the two senatorial emperors nor exploits arguments based on individual personal traits unrelated to character that have negative connotations under specific conditions according to Roman norms. Instead, he seizes on a stereotypically negative character trait in both rulers that is not specific to either of them, and yet brings them into disrepute. 3.4 Against Roman Emperors (IV): Literary Strategies to Discredit an Emperor in the Historia Augusta The fourth type of antimonarchic pattern deployed in the Historia Augusta does not relate to statements about an emperor’s character, but rather is a literary strategy used by the author that affects the conception of the vitae and the Historia Augusta as a whole and serves to show the emperors in a bad light: namely, the narrative function of usurper vitae. In order to assess the significance of the usurper vitae to the author’s general conception of the Historia Augusta, it is instructive to begin with the introductory passage of the prooemium to the vita Firmi, Saturnini, Proculi et Bonosi: The minor pretenders, I am well aware, have either been wholly omitted by most of the writers or else passed over briefly. For Suetonius Tranquillus, a most accurate and truthful author, has said nothing of Antonius or Vindex, content with having touched on them in passing, and Mar133 This characterization is based on H. A. Max. duo 8.5; see Lippold 1991: 394–395 (K 184–187) ad loc. 134 H. A. Max. et Balb. 11.1; cf. Brandt 1996: 193–194 (K 110) ad loc. 135 Thus the interpretation in Brandt 1996: 111–112 (K 7) ad H. A. Max. et Balb. 1.1. 136 This is all the more true when one considers that the author’s model, namely Herodian (Herod. 7.10.1; see Brandt 1996: 111–112 (K 7) ad H. A. Max. et Balb. 1.1), and also Aurelius Victor (Aur. Vict. 26.7) do not in fact mention the fearfulness of the two emperors when describing the climate of fear prevailing in Rome – it thus is a deliberate addition to the depiction of the two senatorial emperors in the Historia Augusta. 137 Contra Lippold 1991: esp. 41; 265 – a position that has rightly, if not entirely convincingly, been criticized by Brandt 1996: 111–112 (K 7) ad H. A. Max. et Balb. 1.1.

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ius Maximus treated of Avidius in the time of Marcus and of Albinus and Niger under Severus in no special books of their own but merely joined them to the lives of others. (2) Now in regard to Suetonius we feel no wonder, for he was naturally a lover of brevity. But what of Marius Maximus, the wordiest man of all, who involved himself in pseudo-historical works? Did he descend to such accuracy of detail? (3) But, on the other hand, Trebellius Pollio, in writing of the emperors, both good and bad, showed such industry and care that he also included, though briefly and in a single book, the thirty pretenders of the time of Valerian and Gallienus and the emperors who lived shortly before or after them. (4) Wherefore we also, even though we may show no such diligence as his, will yet make it by no means our smallest care, after telling of Aurelian, Tacitus and Florian, and Probus, too, that great an peerless prince, and having further to tell of Carus, Carinus and Numerian, to see to it that Saturninus and Bonosus and Proculus and Firmus, who revolted under Aurelian, be not passed over in silence.138

What led the author of the Historia Augusta to do what his literary predecessors, despite an observably greater interest in usurpers since the 350s, had never done139 – namely, to give usurpers vitae of their own in a biographic collection on Roman emperors?140 Even if it may have played a role in constructing the author’s authority, the diligence he cites here cannot be regarded as a satisfactory and sufficient explanation141 any more than the reference to the inherent agon with one’s predecessors in historiography and biography, whom one had to surpass.142 Rather, it is essential that the author of the Historia Augusta deliberately uses the usurpers’ vitae to discredit emperors.143 The author’s statements to this effect in the vita Firmi, 138 H. A. quadr. tyr. 1.1–4: Minusculos tyrannos scio plerosque tacuisse aut breviter praeterisse. Nam et Suetonius Tranquillus, emendatissimus et candidissimus scriptor, Antonium, Vindicem tacuit, contentus eo quod eos cursim perstrinxerat, et Marius Maximus, qui Avidium Marci temporibus, Albinum et Nigrum Severi non suis propriis libris sed alienis innexuit. (2) Et de Suetonio non miramur, cui familiare fuit amare brevitatem. Quid Marius Maximus, homo omnium verbosissimus, qui et mythistoricis se voluminibus implicavit, num ad istam descriptionem curamque descendit? (3) Atque contra Trebellius Pollio ea fuit diligentia, ea cura in edendis bonis malisque principibus ut etiam triginta tyrannos uno breviter libro concluderet, qui Valeriani et Gallieni nec multo superiorum aut inferiorum principum fuere temporibus. (4) Quare nobis quoque, etiamsi non tanta,non tamen minima fuerit cura, ut, dictis Aureliano, Tacito et Floriano, Probo etiam, magno ac singulari principe, cum dicendi essent Carus, Carinus et Numerianus, de Saturnino, Bonoso et Proculo et Firmo, qui sub Aureliano fuerat, non taceremus; see den Hengst 1981: 140–148 and Paschoud 2001: 195–203 ad loc. 139 It is the so-called Enmann’sche Kaisergeschichte, which according to Burgess 1995 was probably composed between 355 and 357 by Eusebius of Nantes, for which a special interest in usurpers can be demonstrated, that subsequently influenced authors and works dependent on it, such as Aurelius Victor, Eutropius, the Epitome de Caesaribus, Polemius Silvius, and Ausonius, as well as the Historia Augusta in a particular way. Cf. Burgess 1993, as well as the delineations of Rösger 1977: 365–393, which are, however, not entirely convincing. 140 Cf. the programmatic statements in H. A. Ael. 1.1 and further in H. A. Ael. 7.5. and H. A. Avid. 3.3; see esp. Rösger 1977: 363–365. It is worth noting that the author of the Historia Augusta, writing as “Flavius Vopiscus”, refers to his alter ego “Trebellius Pollio” as the first author of usurper vitae. 141 In contrast, Burian 1977: 291. 142 Thus argued, however, by Scheithauer 1986: 137–138. 143 Grey 2010 attributes a different function to the usurpers and their vitae in the Historia Augusta. In his opinion, they are “a tool for exploring the ways in which an emperor might claim, retain, or lose legitimacy and power” (88).

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Saturnini, Proculi et Bonosi have already been noted.144 It is possible to discredit an emperor’s reign with usurper vitae because, for the author of the Historia Augusta, the appearance of usurpers is an indisputable symptom of the dysfunctionality of an emperor’s rule. If we take this function of the usurper vitae as our starting point for interpreting them, not only does the debate over their historical reliability become irrelevant, but also the discussion of the vitae of usurpers who have been invented by the author of the Historia Augusta takes on a different character.145 The use of usurper vitae to discredit emperors may be illustrated by two striking passages from the vitae given the semantically loaded title triginta tyranni.146 The author of the Historia Augusta thus writes in the vita of the fictional usurper Trebellianus:147 I am by this time ashamed to tell how many usurpers there were in the reign of Gallienus, all on account of the vices of that pestiferous man, for such, indeed, were his excesses that he deserved to have many rebels rise up against him, and such his cruelty that he was rightly regarded with fear.

And at the beginning of the vita Zenobiae,148 the author of the Historia Augusta says something outrageous from a Roman perspective, namely: Now all shame is exhausted, for in the weakened state of the res publica things came to such a pass that, while Gallienus conducted himself in the most evil fashion, even women ruled most excellently. For, in fact, even a foreigner, Zenobia by name, about whom much has already been said, boasting herself to be of the family of the Cleopatras and the Ptolemies, proceeded upon the death of her husband Odaenathus to cast about her shoulders the imperial mantle; and arrayed in the robes of Dido and even assuming the diadem, she held the imperial power in the name of her sons Herennianus and Timolaus, ruling longer than could be endured from one of the female sex.

As a woman, Zenobia was structurally incapable of ruling in Roman eyes, and moreover was not even Roman; the fact that she is portrayed practically as an opti144 H. A. Prob. 24.7–8: Nunc in alio libro, et quidem brevi, de Firmo et Saturnino et Bonoso et Proculo dicemus. Non enim dignum fuit ut quadrigae tyrannorum bono principi miscerentur. – “Now in another book, and that a short one, we will tell of Firmus and Saturninus, Bonosus et Oroculus. For it has not seemed suitable to combine a four-span of pretenders with a righteous prince.” 145 Cf. Syme 1970; Paschoud 1997a; and Brandt 2006. On the inventions of the author of the Historia Augusta in general, see Paschoud 1997b. 146 Cf. Zecchini 1997. 147 H. A. trig. tyr. 26.1: Pudet iam persequi quanti sub Gallieno fuerint tyranni vitio pestis illius, si quidem erat in eo ea luxuria et rebelles plurimos mereretur et ea crudelitas ut iure timeretur; cf. Paschoud 2011: 165–166 ad loc. and see Marasco 1988: 216–226 on the figure of Trebellianus. 148 H. A. trig. tyr. 30.1–2: Omnis iam consumptus est pudor, si quidem fatigata re publica eo usque perventum est ut Gallieno nequissime agente optime etiam mulieres imperarent. (2) Et quidem peregrina enim, nomine Zenobia, de qua multa iam dicta sunt, quae se de Cleopatrarum Ptolemaeorumque gente iactaret, post Odaenathum maritum imperiali sagulo perfuso per umeros, habitu Didonis ornata, diademate etiam accepto, nomine filiorum Herenniani et Timolai diutius quam femineus sexus patiebatur imperavit; see Paschoud 2011: 184 ad loc. and Krause 2007: 314.

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mus (or optima [!] respectively) princeps in the vitae of the triginta tyranni can be considered the most extreme form of discrediting Gallienus’ rule.149 The vitae of the triginta tyranni and the quadrigae tyrannorum, as well as the vita of every individual usurper, normally contribute little to a historical reconstruction of the period, but they are an important tool in the literary kit used by the author and thus are also a key to understanding his work. Even if all usurper vitae essentially serve to discredit the emperor challenged, the literary construction of the individual usurpers varies considerably – whether with respect to their social background or their peculiar character, which can fluctuate between the poles of “good usurper” and “bad usurper.” 3.5 Against the Roman Monarchy – Negative Statements about a Form of Rule The antimonarchic patterns thus far observed are directed primarily against specific emperors, but we have to stress that, in principle, they also discredit the political system that was the “breeding ground” of the evils caused by individual emperors’ reigns. Besides antimonarchic patterns that target primarily the person of the emperor himself, there is a fifth type that consists of explicit statements by the author of the Historia Augusta that criticize or discredit the monarchic system as such. The fact that the author of the Historia Augusta was definitely interested in the “system question” already emerges clearly in the above quoted question as to why there were so few good emperors between Augustus and Diocletian and Maximian in the appendix to the vita Aureliani.150 After naming both the good emperors and summarizing the bad emperors by evoking some notorious names in the text,151 the author introduces his answer to the question as follows: The question, indeed, is often asked what it is that makes emperors evil; first of all, my friend, it is freedom from restraint, next, abundance of wealth, furthermore, unscrupulous friends, pernicious attendants, the greediest eunuchs, courtiers who are fools or knaves, and – it cannot be denied – ignorance of public affairs.152

The message behind these statements is as clear as it is instructive: it is not only an emperor’s character flaws – as one might assume in light of the arguments used to discredit emperors discussed above – but rather also structural features of the mo149 On Zenobia as optimus princeps in the Historia Augusta, see Molinier Arbo 2008: esp. 106. On the depiction of Zenobia in the Historia Augusta, which is by no means consistent, cf. Wieber 2000: 287–295; and further also Wallinger 1990: 139–149; Frézouls 1994: 133–135; Burgersdijk 2004–2005: 141–148; and esp. Krause 2007: 313–332 and Paschoud 2011: 177–184; Lippold 2006: 356–368 is unconvincing. See also the discussion of “women’s rule” (“Frauenregiment”) under Heliogabalus in Straub 1966. 150 H. A. Aur. 42.3 (see above). 151 H. A. Aur. 42.4–6 (again, see above). 152 H. A. Aur. 43.1: Et quaeritur quidem quae res malos principes faciat; iam primum, mi amice, licentia, deinde rerum copia, amici praeterea improbi, satellites detestandi, eunuchi avarissimi, aulici vel stulti vel detestabiles et, quod negari non potest, rerum publicarum ignorantia; cf. Paschoud 1996: 201–202 ad loc.

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narchic system itself that create bad monarchs or enhance their negative qualities; at the same time, these features may not rule out the possibility of a good monarch entirely, but they certainly make such an emperor an unforeseeable exception.153 It is indisputable, however, that certain aspects of the author’s systemic criticism of the imperial monarchy bear especially on very specific characteristics of the late antique court, such as eunuchs, for example; and there can also be no doubt that the idea of the clausus princeps inspired statements such as that quoted above.154 Most of the points of criticism nonetheless plausibly apply structurally to the monarchic system of the Roman Empire from beginning to end and are made again and again over the history of the Roman Imperial period. One might think, for instance, of the question of access to the emperor or the role of the emperor’s friends. Besides these critical remarks about the monarchy, the author of the Historia Augusta also discusses, in a variety of ways, a central issue of every monarchy that he uses to discredit the political system of sole rule: the question of succession, much-discussed in imperial literature.155 In this respect, a passage in the vita Septimii Severi is of special interest: the author here discusses the subject of succession and significantly takes aim at Diocletian, the author of what was undoubtedly the most elaborate succession mechanism under the Roman Empire.156 The discussion begins with the claim that the author of the Historia Augusta had read that on his deathbed Severus joyfully, but (as hindsight would reveal) mistakenly, boasted of his superiority to Antoninus Pius: Severus was leaving behind two biological sons to govern the state, namely Caracalla and Geta, whereas Antoninus Pius had left behind only two adopted sons, namely Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, to govern the state. But both in the case of Antoninus Pius and in that of Severus, their respective “succession projects” were not really successful: Lucius Verus succumbed to a hedonistic lifestyle, and Caracalla ended up a fratricide.157 The author’s principal reflections on the subject of succession follow this introductory narrative example: Indeed, when I reflect on the matter, Diocletian Augustus, it is quite clear to me that practically no great man has left the world a son of real excellence or value. (5) In short, most of them either died without issue of their own, or had such children that it would have been better for humanity had they departed without offspring.158

153 It might be worth to refer in this context to a statement at least partially similar to the quoted passage: Zos. 1.5.3–4. I owe this reference to F. Paschoud. 154 H. A. Aur. 43.3–4; see Paschoud 1996: 204 ad loc. On the princeps clausus, see especially Stroheker 1970; Chastagnol 1985; Kolb 1987: 52–87. 155 Molinier-Arbo 2002 takes a different direction from the reflections here. 156 Cf. the concise discussion in Kolb 1997a: 37–38. 157 H. A. Sept. Sev. 20.1–3. On these remarks as well as on the following discussion, cf. also Béranger 1974 and Frézouls 1991. 158 H. A. Sept. Sev. 20.4–5: Et reputanti mihi, Diocletiane Auguste, neminem prope magnorum virorum optimum et utilem filium reliquisse satis claret. (5) Denique aut sine liberis veris interierunt aut tales habuerunt plerique, ut melius fuerit de rebus humanis sine posteriate discedere; see also the brief remarks by Scheithauer 1987: 67.

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The author of the Historia Augusta underpins this seemingly anthropological principle with a series of examples taken especially, but not exclusively, from Roman history, from the regal period to far into the Empire – such as Romulus, Numa Pompilius, Camillus, Scipio, the two Catones, Caesar, Augustus, Marcus Aurelius, and Septimius Severus.159 Even if the problem of disappointing biological or adopted sons is self-evidently not limited to a specific political system, the consequences are graver in certain political systems than in others. In every single form of monarchic rule – such as the Roman Empire – the consequences are ultimately catastrophic: in a functioning meritocracy, in contrast – such as the Roman Republic – the system itself prevents such a catastrophe from occurring. This criticism not only of the succession of biological sons, which is amply attested in Roman imperial literature, but also of adoption as a succession mechanism, decisively sets the author of the Historia Augusta outside the imperial literary mainstream. Since Pliny’s Panegyricus, the adoption of a presumptive successor had been intimately connected to the notion of choosing the most qualified candidate for the succession and had figured prominently in the argumentative repertoire of the political language of the Roman monarchy.160 4. CONCLUDING REMARKS To reprise the words of Edward Gibbon:161 ‘If the author of the Historia Augusta were called to fix the period in the history of the Roman imperial period, during which the condition of the human race was most happy and prosperous, he would, without hesitation, name that which elapsed from the death of Aurelian to the accession of Tacitus.’ Why? The answer the author gives his readers is clear: And the senate and the people of Rome passed through an unusual and a difficult situation, namely, that for six months, while a good man was being sought, the res publica had no emperor. What harmony there was then among the soldiers! (2) What peace for the people! How full of weight the authority of the senate! Nowhere did any pretender arise, and the judgement of the senate, the soldiers and the people of Rome guided the entire world; it was not because they feared any emperor or tribunician power that they did righteously, but – what is the noblest thing in life – because they feared themselves.162

Modern scholars may have dramatically revised the picture of this interregnum presented by the author of the Historia Augusta,163 but that is not the decisive point 159 160 161 162

H. A. Sept. Sev. 21.1–6. Cf. esp. Plin. paneg. 5.1–9.4; in general, see Hekster 2001. Imitating and partially quoting Gibbon 1776: 80. H. A. Tac. 2.1–2: Ergo, quod rarum et difficile fuit, senatus populusque Romanus perpessus est ut imperatorem per sex menses, dum bonus quaeritur, res publia non haberet. Quae illa concordia militum! (2) Quanta populo quies! Quam gravis senatus auctoritas fuit! Nullus usquam tyrannus emersit, sub iudicio senatus et militum populique Romani totus orbis est temperatus; non illi principem quemquam, ut recte facerent, non tribuniciam potestatem formidabant sed – quod est in vita optimum – se timebant; cf. Paschoud 1996: 256 ad loc. 163 Cf. Estiot 2005 and Johne 2008; on the quoted passage, see now also Vitiello 2015: 31 and 33.

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in the present context: what matters rather is the construction of a period under the Roman Empire that is good in all respects. And this brief period of six months is, in the absence of an emperor, logically marked for the author by precisely the absence of everything that makes the Roman monarchy a fundamentally bad political system. This is why there can never be an unequivocally good emperor for the author of the Historia Augusta. This fact is reflected again and again in the vitae of emperors, Caesars,164 and usurpers. The ubiquity of antimonarchic patterns in the Historia Augusta used to discredit emperors and the monarchy and their argumentative force are significantly enhanced by the fact that the author naturally is well acquainted with the figure of the bonus princeps and discusses it many times in his work.165 It is especially interesting in this context that the princeps bonus is ultimately constructed as an inversion of the princeps malus, that is, the author stresses that the constitutive elements in the figure of the princeps malus are absent in the figure of the princeps bonus.166 Although the remarks of the author of the Historia Augusta are extremely critical of the system of sole rule over the Imperium Romanum, and he presents the reader a “cage aux monstres impériales” especially according to parameters167 such as (un)controlled sexual behavior,168 excessive use of violence,169 cruelty,170 physical appearance,171 clothing,172 fondness for luxury,173 overindulgence,174 and manner of death:175 That four hundred years after its establishment there was no alternative to the Roman monarchy on account of the potential power of the emperor is the view that the author of the Historia Augusta has the protagonist of the vita Avidii Cassii represent: Now Cassius, sprung, as we have said, from the family of the Cassii who conspired against Gaius Julius, secretly hated the Principate and could not brook even the title of emperor, saying that the name of empire was all the more onerous because an emperor could not be removed from the state except by another emperor.176

Even though the Roman imperial system had undergone major historical transformations over the course of its history, on a structural level this passage in many 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176

See the (not entirely convincing) discussion in Bertrand-Dagenbach 1998: esp. 23–39. On the author of the Historia Augusta’s knowledge of the Panegyrici latini, cf. Paschoud 2002. H. A. Alex. Sev. 65.1–67.3 is instructive here; in this context, see Haake 2013: 176. Cf. H. A. Alex. Sev. 65.1. Cf. Pflaum 1978. In general, see Zimmermann 2007. On this aspect, see, e. g., Timonen 1992. Cf., e. g., Neri 1998. See Harlow 2005. See only Neri 1999. In this context, one might refer to Gutsfeld 2014. Cf. Brandt 2002. H. A. Avid. 1.4: Hic ergo Cassius ex familia, ut diximus, Cassiorum, qui in curia in C. Iulium conspiraverant, oderat tacite principatum nec ferre poterat imperiatorium nomen dicebatque esse eo gravius nomen imperii, quod non posset e re publica tolli nisi per alterum imperatorem.

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ways undoubtedly reflects the attitude of the senatorial elite toward the monarchy and their way of coping with it since Augustus had established sole rule in Rome. Even four hundred years after the founding of the Principate, it is clear that at least in certain social circles that had no small influence on the literary discourse, the monarchy in Rome was seen as something incompatible with the traditional Republican order, which constituted a fixed normative reference point for them.177 Scholars have rightly stressed that the author of the Historia Augusta did not exclusively attempt to reach a monolithic audience as the intended readership of his text,178 but rather tried to serve highly distinct target audiences with varying strategies and different levels of argumentation. It is beyond question, however, that the author primarily focused precisely on the social group that must have been considered especially open to antimonarchic discourses, which were certainly a central, if not the only, theme of his work, because the members of this group could be regarded as the proponents of these discourses: the aristocracy of the city of Rome.179 At the date of the composition of the Historia Augusta, the aristocracy found itself increasingly marginalized outside the eternal city. In the Historia Augusta, the aristocracy could find a text that both affirmed their own position and reflected their splendor and misery. In choosing this primary audience for his work, the author of the Historia Augusta could anticipate a positive reception for the web of antimonarchic patterns he wove into the text, ranging from imagining Roman emperors as monstrous tyrants, to systematic criticism of the imperial monarchy, to mockingly180 discrediting emperors and the imperial system. This thick web of antimonarchic patterns, which entails that in the author’s explanations there had never been an indisputably good emperor between Augustus and Diocletian (or Constantine respectively), and ultimately never could be, is what makes the Historia Augusta such an instructive and rich example of late antique “Kaiserkritik”181 and criticism of the imperial system. It stands in many respects in a long tradition of literary texts that reaches back, allowing for caesuras, to the time of Augustus, in which antimonarchic and anti-ruler discourses can be identified with varying intensity.182 177 178 179 180

Cf. also Gotter 2008: 185. See Straub 1966: 238. On the fundamentally senatorial tenor of the Historia Augusta, see chapter above. The name game played with Regilianus is an instructive example of how the author mocks emperors and the institution of emperors. Someone who bore this name was allegedly declared emperor on account of the pun rex, regis, regi, Regilianus; see H. A. trig. tyr. 10.3–7 with Paschoud 2011: 91–92 ad loc. 181 For the concept of “Kaiserkritik,” see the adaptable remarks of Cameron 1977: 14–17 on Byzantine Kaiserkritik. See also Börm (in this volume). 182 Cf. Zimmermann 1999. The claim by Eich 2009: 331, that “[d]ie überwältigende Mehrheit antiker Schriftsteller oder, abstrakter und allgemeiner formuliert, antiker Textproduzenten, (…) fest und kompromißlos auf der Seite der etablierten Ordnungen stand”, should, in this form, be rejected at least on the level of discourse. Likewise unconvincing is the statement by Binder 1995: 125, that “[v]or allem aber (…) kritische Literatur in aller Regel das politische System als solches nicht in Frage stellte” and that “Kritik (…) sich vielmehr gegen das politische Handeln herausragender Politiker oder einflußreicher Familien oder gegen das Regiment einzelner

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All this was not simply a largely irrelevant parlor game played in certain circles of the urban Roman aristocracy; the antimonarchic patterns ubiquitous in the Historia Augusta had considerable, if not precisely measurable, appeal in the fourth century. An example will illustrate this: Theodosius I’s representation with respect to his interest in libertas undoubtedly targeted especially, if not exclusively, the urban Roman elite, hence one of the most important proponents of antimonarchic discourses at the time when the Historia Augusta was composed.183 Yet the times were not so favorable that the author of the Historia Augusta could, in Tacitean terms, feel what he wanted and say what he felt. The author of the Historia Augusta makes this more than clear, on the one hand, with a literary-compositional antimonarchic pattern of obfuscation by means of his hidden identity and, on the other, by placing the discussion of emperors and the imperial system in the past. The reigning emperor was, after all, in the opinion of imperial authors, to be avoided at all costs as a literary subject in the genres of historiography and biography, unless the purpose was to celebrate the ruler encomiastically:184 and thus the author of the Historia Augusta has his six pseudo-authors allegedly from the time of Diocletian and the reign of Constantine discuss emperors and the imperial system on the basis of emperors of the past in an imaginary authorial present. This strategy is not surprising if one reflects on the thick net of antimonarchic patterns that the author has woven into the text of the Historia Augusta along with many other threads, as well as the anti-Theodosian statements variously teased out by scholars.185 In the first speech that the author of the Historia Augusta has the emperor Tacitus deliver before the senate after his accession, he has the new emperor programmatically explain that, among other things, he wished to build a temple to the principes boni.186 If the author could have had his way in carrying out the plan, the temple to the principes boni would have been left empty for lack of suitable candidates and been rededicated as a cenotaph for Libertas. BIBLIOGRAPHY Adams, G. W. 2013. Marcus Aurelius in the Historia Augusta and Beyond, Lanham/Boulder/ NewYork/Toronto/Plymouth, UK: Lexington Books. Alföldy, G. 1968. “Septimius Severus und der Senat”. BJ 168: 112–160. Alföldy, G. 1970. “Die Proskriptionsliste in der Historia Augusta”. In Bonner Historia-Augusta-Colloquium 1968/1969, 1–11. Bonn: Habelt.

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Kaiser und ihre Helfershelfer, also gegen negative Erscheinungen und Entwicklungen im Rahmen des Systems richtete.” Cf. Vitiello 2014 and especially Vitiello (forthcoming). Cf. Zimmermann 1999: 30 and Paschoud 2005: 111. See Chausson 1998: esp. 114: “Les biographies impériales qu’il accumulerait seraient un moyen de travestier l’idéologie impériale contemporaine afin de mieux la critiquer et de pouvoir se livrer aux délices de la satire politique et du règlement de comptes sous un déguisement parfaitement perceptible pour le public contemporain.” Cf. in general Chausson 1998 and Chausson 2007: 240–254. H. A. Tac. 9.6; see Paschoud 1996: 282–283 ad loc.

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Turcan, R. 1988. “Héliogabale précurseur de Constantin?”. BAGB 1988: 38–52. Turcan, R. ed. 1993. Histoire Auguste. Tome III–1ère partie: Vies de Macrin, Diaduménian, Héliogabale. Texte établi, traduit et commenté. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Vitiello, M. 2014. “L’imperatore che amava la storia e i sui amici: Nicomaco Flaviano e Teodosio fra Annales e Historia Augusta”. In Historiae Augustae Colloquium Nanceiense. Atti dei Convegni sulla Historia Augusta XII, Bertrand-Dagenbach, C. / Chausson, F. eds., 483–503. Bari: Edipuglia. Vitiello, M. 2015. “Blaming the late republic: senatorial ideology and republican institutions in late antiquity”. CRJ 7: 31–45. Vitiello, M. (forthcoming). “Emperor Theodosius’ liberty and the Roman past”. HSPh 108. Voisin, J.-L. 1999. “L’Histoire Auguste et la mort volontaire”. In Historiae Augustae Colloquium Genevense. Atti dei Convegni sulla Historia Augusta VII, Paschoud, F. ed., 301–316. Bari: Edipuglia. von Haehling, R. 1985. “Augustus in der Historia Augusta”. In Bonner Historia-Augusta-Colloquium 1982/1983, 197–220. Bonn: Habelt. Walentowski, S. 1998. Kommentar zur Vita Antoninus Pius der Historia Augusta. Bonn: Habelt. Wallinger, E. 1990. Die Frauen in der Historia Augusta. Wien: Österreichische Gesellschaft für Archäologie. White, P. 1967. “The authorship of the Historia Augusta”. JRS 57: 115–133. Wickert, L. 1954. “Princeps (civitatis)”. RE 20,2: 1998–2296. Wieber, A. 2000. “Die Augusta aus der Wüste – die palmyrenische Herrscherin Zenobia”. In Frauenwelten in der Antike. Geschlechterordnung und weibliche Lebenspraxis, Späth, T. / Wagner-Hasel, B. eds., 281–310. Stuttgart: Metzler. Wienand, J. 2012. Der Kaiser als Sieger. Metamorphosen triumphaler Herrschaft unter Constantin I. Berlin: Akademie. Winterling, A. 2012. “Probleme historischer Biographie am Beispiel des Kaisers Caligula”. Historische Anthropologie 20: 186–199. Zadorojnyi, A. V. 2006. “Lord of the Flies: Literacy and tyranny in imperial biography”. In The Limits of Ancient Biography, Mcging, B. / Mossmann, J. eds., 351–394. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales. Zecchini, G. 1990. “Costantino e i ‘natales Caesarum’”. Historia 39: 349–360. Zecchini, G. 1993. Ricerche di storiografia latina tardoantica. Rome: Bretschneider. Zecchini, G. 1997. “I Tyranni triginta: la scelta di un numero e le sue implicazioni”. In Historiae Augustae Colloquium Bonnense. Atti dei Convegni sulla Historia Augusta V, Bonamente, G. / Rosen, K. eds., 265–274. Bari: Edipuglia. Zimmermann, M. 1999. “Enkomion und Historiographie: Entwicklungslinien der kaiserzeitlichen Geschichtsschreibung vom 1. bis zum frühen 3. Jh. n. Chr.”. In Geschichtsschreibung und politischer Wandel im 3. Jh. n. Chr. Kolloquium zu Ehren von Karl-Ernst Petzold (Juni 1998) anläßlich seines 80. Geburtstages, Zimmermann, M. ed., 17–56. Stuttgart: Steiner. Zimmermann, M. 2007. “Gewalt in der Historia Augusta”. In Historiae Augustae Colloquium Bambergense. Atti dei Convegni sulla Historia Augusta X, Bonamente, G. / Brandt, H., eds., 355–370. Bari: Edipuglia. Zinsli, S. C. 2005. “Gute Kaiser, schlechte Kaiser. Die eusebische Vita Constantini als Referenztext für die Vita Heliogabali”. WS 118: 117–138. Zinsli, S. C. 2014. Kommentar zur Vita Heliogabali der Historia Augusta. Bonn: Habelt.

13 PROCOPIUS, HIS PREDECESSORS, AND THE GENESIS OF THE ANECDOTA Antimonarchic Discourse in Late Antique Historiography Henning Börm* In Late Antiquity, monocracy had long become a matter of course in the Imperium Romanum.1 From the third century, at the very latest, no one in Rome seriously thought of returning to senatorial rule any longer. Not even in 238 CE, when the patres conscripti had declared the princeps Maximinus Thrax as hostis publicus, had there been any consideration of abolishing imperial rule.2 In late antique literature expressions such as rex or regnum had lost their unpleasant aftertaste,3 even if it was not until Heraclius (610 to 641 CE) that an emperor officially took on the title of basileus.4 Nevertheless, some distinctive structural features of imperial rule were preserved. The princeps had turned into a dominus,5 but his office for* 1

2 3

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I would like to thank Benjamin Biesinger, Johannes Geisthardt, Fabian Goldbeck, Ulrich Gotter, Geoffrey Greatrex, Wolfgang Havener, Nino Luraghi, Christian Seebacher, Conor Whately and Hans-Ulrich Wiemer for their criticism and suggestions. In an order in which the leadership of the optimus was advocated there could, in principle, only be one princeps who had the greatest auctoritas, cf. Szidat 2010: 46–58. Therefore, the Roman Empire was, in my view, in principle always a monarchy in which power ultimately lay with a single individual – even when several emperors shared power, as had been the rule for two hundred years prior to 476/80 CE: theoretically, at least, one of the Augusti had to take precedence. Disputes concerning rank were, of course, not infrequent either. Porphyry stated that a monarchia was not defined by the fact that there was only one ruler, but by the fact that only one individual really ruled; cf. Porph. apud Macarius Magnes 6.20. Börm 2008a: 75 f. In the Greek sphere, βασιλεύς had been customary for a while in unofficial usage alongside καῖσαρ, αὐτοκράτωρ and σεβαστός. John Lydus (mag. 1.2–6) offers an interesting discussion of the terminology. In the late antique Latin context, Christian or biblical influence seems to have been the main reason that rex was increasingly used to denote a ruler in general – including the Roman ruler (cf. Lact. mort. pers. 7.2; Aug. contr. Faust. 22.75). Cf. Suerbaum 1961: 147 f.; Reydellet 1981: 25 f. As if it were entirely natural, Isidore of Seville counts the Roman Empire as one of the regna ruled by reges (Etym. 9.3.2). At the same time, however, he is vaguely aware of the problems: Tyranni Graece dicuntur. Idem Latine et reges (Etym. 9.3.19 f.). Rösch 1978: 106 f. However, alongside this, the designation of the emperor as princeps remained usual throughout all of Late Antiquity: Thus, Phocas is still referred to by this term in 608 CE (CIL VI 1200 = ILS 837). Terms such as tyrannus or (less commonly) usurpator, on the other hand, were intended to mark a ruler out as being illegitimate.

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mally continued not to be hereditary.6 The dynastic idea, which had never been insignificant, had gained considerable importance with regard to the legitimation of an individual ruler since the time of Septimius Severus and, above all, since Constantine I, but the meritocratic principle was also kept alive.7 A good emperor presented himself as the champion of the Roman people and protector of the res publica,8 and there were fairly precise ideas of the expectations which he had to meet in order to remain a legitimate and accepted ruler. These ideas of what made a good emperor and in particular the criticism which late antique historians formulated (“Kaiserkritik”) while having recourse to this ideal will be the focus of the following pages. In this respect, particular attention will fall on an author who is considered the major Greek historian of Late Antiquity: Procopius of Caesarea.9 The unusual significance of this author can, not least, be gathered from the fact that his entire work survives practically complete, an honor which has been granted only to very few ancient historians. The transmission of sources is notoriously bad for classicizing historiography of the years after 395, which is of particular relevance for the present contribution. While Latin secular historiography of this period has been lost almost without trace, there are at least fragments of Greek authors, such as Eunapius, Olympiodorus, Priscus, Candidus, Malchus, Nonnosus and Eustathius of Epiphania, that have been preserved.10 Admittedly, these fragments hardly make it possible to make any really conclusive statements regarding the lost works, but they do at least offer sufficient comparative material in order to place Procopius, who followed directly on from these authors, more firmly into this context. Procopius’ most famous work, the infamous Anecdota (ἀνέκδοτα) with their vicious attacks on the emperor Justinian (527 to 565 CE), of course, requires particular attention in this context. However, before that, the first step will be to consider the representation of good and bad rulers in Procopius’ main work, the Histories or Bella (“Wars of Justinian”), in order to place them subsequently within the context of late antique secular historiography. In as far as possible, the existence of the Anecdota (“Secret History”) is, for the time being, to be ignored in this context: in the first instance the question will be what effect the Bella had on a contemporaneous reader who did not know that the Anecdota existed. In addressing this question, I will work on the assumption that the sum of the individual observations, despite certain inconsistencies, allows general inferences regarding the ideal of a ruler that was promoted and the criticism of the emperor deriving from this. 6 7 8 9 10

Cf. Jones 1964: 322. Cf. Chausson 2007; Drake 2014: 233; Börm 2015. However, already authors such as Tacitus took the view that they were, in reality, no longer living in a res publica. He used the term for the time before Augustus; cf. Tac. ann. 1.3. Cf. Gowing 2005. Cf. Greatrex 2014a; Meier (forthcoming). I rely on the collection and edition by R. Blockley for the Greek secular historians of the fifth century, whose work has been preserved in fragments. Despite some criticism, Blockley’s work remains the most commonly used, although, in the meantime, new editions of some of the authors, especially Priscus, have become available.

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1. CRITICISM OF RULERS IN PROCOPIUS’ BELLA In recent years, attempts have repeatedly been made to find in Procopius’ other two works, too, the criticism of Justinian, Belisarius and Theodora, which is expressed in so open and, in parts, bizarrely exaggerated a manner in the “Secret History”. While the approaches which have so far been taken in attempts to identify extremely subtle criticism also in his third work,11 De aedificiis, are not particularly convincing,12 the situation is somewhat different with regard to the Bella.13 However, attention should first be drawn to a basic methodological problem which is not always given sufficient attention: assuming that the extremely critical stance regarding the emperor that Procopius takes in the Anecdota reflects his actual opinion carries with it the risk of overinterpreting a number of things in the Bella. It is highly problematic to attempt to resolve apparent and actual inconsistencies in Procopius’ works (and also within a single text) in order to reconstruct a consistent worldview of the texts’ author, because such an approach risks, amongst other things, blurring the fundamental distinction between narrator and author.14 I will elaborate on this point later on. Criticism of the emperor was always only one of a number of factors that determined the form, structure and content of the Bella,15 and it is hardly the most important. However, there is no doubt that reflections on monarchic rule were of significance in the Bella. For although Justinian does not, if one considers the work superficially, play a central role in this “History of the wars” – contrary to what the first sentence of the work suggests –, there is no scarcity of monarchs in Procopius’ Bella, be they earlier emperors or Persian kings, the reges of the emerging realms on western Roman soil or simply barbarian warlords.16 Like its classical models, late antique historiography could not deny its roots in rhetoric, and, for this reason, one of its aims was to influence the reader.17 And although Procopius in his Bella generally tries to adhere to the facts known to him, the representation of earlier and of foreign rulers, nevertheless, provides him with a virtually ideal medium with which to introduce certain ideas regarding good and bad rule to his audience. It is left to the readers themselves to then place the mon11 12 13 14 15 16 17

Cf. Rousseau 1998. Cf. Whitby 2000. Cf. Signes Codoñer 2003b; Kaldellis 2004; Kaldellis 2010b (with references to further secondary literature). Ancient historiography is a form of narration and, as such, is subject to certain rules. In the same way as with any literary work of art, the narrator must not be equated with the author. I have tried to demonstrate this elsewhere using the example of Procopius’ representation of Roman-Sasanian contacts; cf. Börm 2007: 235–275. The use of this term with regard to Late Antiquity is customary (cf. MacGeorge 2002; Laycock 2009) but not unproblematic; cf. Zimmermann 2010. On this point and on the question of whether ancient historians were “allowed” to invent material freely regardless of the fundamental postulate of “truth”, cf. Grethlein 2011: 155 f. In addition to this, the observations in Woodman 1988, who also emphasizes the “rhetorical” character of ancient historiography, are fundamental.

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archs described alongside Justinian and to draw their conclusion from this. This method of implicit comparison (σύγκρισις) is as simple as it is efficient.18 In this context, one thing quickly catches the eye: on the evidence of Procopius’ works, he did not consider there to be an alternative to imperial rule. (Anti-)monarchic discourse in his works – as in the work of other late antique authors – is, therefore, rather more reminiscent of reflections on the difference between good and bad rulers, particularly as there was already a long tradition of this in the Ancient Near East. But what are, according to Procopius, the characteristic features of good and of bad monarchs? It is remarkable that the emperor whom Procopius praises well-nigh as the ideal Augustus in a brief sketch in the third book of the Bella is a ruler who is only known to experts today: it is in fact the western Roman Emperor Majorian (457 to 461 CE), whom Procopius calls Μαϊορῖνος. According to him, this ruler literally exceeded everyone who had ever been emperor in Rome with regard to all virtues.19 Procopius immediately elaborates on what this means in practice: Majorian, it is claimed, never hesitated, and, above all, he never feared war and carried out all important tasks himself (Proc. Hist. 3.7.4 f.). Thus, disguised as an envoy, he even travelled himself to Gaiseric, rex of the Vandals, where wondrous omens nearly gave him away. After that, he personally led a Roman army from Italy to the Pillars of Hercules. The Romans had, it is said, already begun to hope that the emperor would now also reconquer Africa, but then, unfortunately, an illness carried away the ruler, who had been good to the people and had been feared amongst his enemies.20 It is hardly a coincidence that, contrary to the facts, Procopius assigns his ideal emperor a natural death: in reality, Majorian was deprived of his power by the magister militum Ricimer in 461 and executed after he had not immediately returned to Italy following an unsuccessful naval expedition against the Vandals.21 This ending would hardly have fitted in with Procopius’ intention of presenting an exemplary Augustus to his readers. At the same time, his praise for the emperor’s clemency did not appear from nowhere. Majorian’s contemporary Gaius Sidonius Apollinaris had already praised the emperor for this quality. Mention should be made, for example, of the affair 18

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Cf. Brodka 2004: 34 f. J. Signes Codoñer (2003b: 216) distinguishes five strategies in total of “Kaiserkritik” in Procopius’ Bella: In addition to identifying positive models who are superior to Justinian, the strategies include criticism by remaining silent (ex silentio), criticism through omina and dreams, through explicit remarks and, finally, through words spoken by a third party (criticism per personam interpositam). Ὁ Μαϊορῖνος, ξύμπαντας τοὺς πώποτε Ῥωμαίων βεβασιλευκότας ὑπεραίρων ἀρετῇ πάσῃ (Proc. Hist. 3.7.4). ἀνὴρ τὰ μὲν εἰς τοὺς ὑπηκόους μέτριος γεγονώς, φοβερὸς δὲ τὰ ἐς τοὺς πολεμίους (Proc. Hist. 3.7.14). Cf. Hydat. Chron. 210 (205): Maiorianum de Galliis Romam redeuntem et Romano imperio vel nomine res necessarias ordinantem Rechimer livore percitus et invidorum consilio fultus fraude interfecit circumventum. Eastern Roman sources also report the emperor’s inglorious death, cf. Prisc. fr. 36,2 (Blockley). On Majorian’s execution, cf. Henning 1999: 40, MacGeorge 2002: 178–214, and Börm 2013a: 106.

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concerning an anonymous satire in which the emperor and other high-ranking officials were fiercely attacked.22 Another senator had accused Sidonius of being the author. However, according to Sidonius, Majorian decided not to pursue the matter and, instead, made the assurance that he did not wish to allow prosecution by delatores.23 (Incidentally, if we had the text in question, we might be able to fit the “Secret History” into its context better, too.) The importance that Procopius attaches to imperial clemency towards the aristocracy24 is also illustrated by the fact that such behavior in the Bella allows a ruler whom Procopius considers in principle to be a usurper (τύραννος) to receive great praise: John, who had assumed power in Italy in 423 but was defeated by the eastern Roman army in 425, which, by order of Theodosius II, installed Valentinian III as the new Augustus of the west,25 is described in a conspicuously positive way in the Bella: ἦν δὲ οὗτος ἀνὴρ πρᾷός τε καὶ ξυνέσεως εὖ ἥκων καὶ ἀρετῆς μεταποιεῖσθαι ἐξεπιστάμενος. He is said to have used his power in moderation, not to have listened to slanderers, not to have ordered any unjust executions and to have spared people’s property – in other words, according to this, John was a very good ruler regarding home affairs. Moreover, the fact that he was unable to defend the empire against external enemies was, ultimately, not his fault, but was down to the civil war with the Eastern Roman Empire (Proc. Hist. 3.3.6 f.). This excuse is telling. For, in contrast to the aforementioned John, Majorian stands out among the emperors of the fifth and sixth centuries above all on account of the fact that he acted as a military leader himself. This is likely to be one of the main reasons for his positive depiction in the Bella; proving one’s own worth is a matter which Procopius cannot praise too highly in this work even with regard to some non-Roman rulers. The most famous example is doubtless the last Ostrogothic king, Teias, whose death in battle in 552 at the mons Lactarius in the shadow of Vesuvius is described right at the end of the Bella and is explicitly grouped with the deeds of mythical heroes (Proc. Hist. 8.35.20), despite the fact that, in the cold

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Temporibus Augusti Maioriani venit in medium charta comitatum, sed carens indice, versuum plena satiricorum mordacium, sane qui satis invectivaliter abusi nominum nuditate carpebant plurimum vitia, plus homines. inter haec fremere Arelatenses, quo loci res agebatur, et quaerere, quem poetarum publici furoris merito pondus urgeret, his maxime auctoribus, quos notis certis auctor incertus exacerbaverat; Sidon. epist. 1.11.2. It should be noted that, unlike Procopius’ Anecdota, the text was written by a truly secret author, and moreover, the Secret History can hardly be called a satire – with the exception, perhaps, of the first chapters. Cf. Sidon. epist. 1.11.2–15. Although he had risen to prominence through the military, Majorian appears to have tried, overall, to maintain good relations with the nobiles, as his speech De ortu imperii domini Maiorani Augusti shows. In this speech, he emphasizes the fact that he was elected not just by the army but also by the patres conscripti (Nov. Maior. 1). It was always extremely difficult for the emperors to rid themselves of an overly powerful aristocrat without losing acceptance themselves. On the relations between elites and ruler, cf. Börm 2010. Cf. PLRE II: 594 f. Although Theodosius II did wage war on John, his end was only sealed when, according to Olympiodorus, dissatisfied members of the military betrayed him; cf. Olymp. fr. 43,2 (Blockley). Cf. Börm 2013a: 67.

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light of day, the battle was merely the futile and desperate fight of a loser who had been cornered.26 If, then, proven military ability and drive, in particular, make a good ruler, the obvious thing to do is to look for counter examples. It is, in fact, easy to find these in the Bella. In this regard, Honorius might be considered the greatest failure of all the earlier emperors. Procopius gives a caricature of Honorius’ life as that of an un-warlike palace emperor in the famous anecdote in which the Augustus, who had previously fled to Ravenna in a panic to escape the approaching barbarians instead of fighting them, is presented as so unworldly and so full of stupidity (ἀμαθία) that he believed, when given the message that the end of “Roma” had come, not that the eternal city had been captured but that his favorite hen, which bore the same name, had died (Proc. Hist. 3.2.25 f.). This episode, which is first found in Procopius’ writing, exerted a significant negative influence on posterity’s image of Honorius.27 Moreover, Procopius finds an example of an un-warlike failure amongst the barbarian kings, too: Theodahad (Θευδάτος), nephew of Theoderic and the last Amal rex of the Ostrogoths.28 In the alleged speech by the imperial envoy Petrus Patricius he is compared to Justinian, of all people. The Goth is said to be hopelessly inferior to Justinian: the former does not have the harshness necessary in a ruler because he is an intellectual and a philosopher (Proc. Hist. 5.6.10 f.). Shortly afterwards, Procopius has the unfortunate Gothic king declare in an alleged letter to the emperor himself that he, Theodahad, may know about philosophy and life at court,29 but that he has never personally seen a battlefield, and, for this reason, is now himself forced to admit that he is not eligible to claim the honor of basileia (Proc. Hist. 5.6.16–20). It must have been clear to any reader that basileia referred to monarchy in general. No great intellectual effort was necessary to see that Justinian could be much more readily compared to the un-warlike failure Honorius than to vigorous Augusti such as Majorian: although Justinian had held the office of magister militum before 527,30 he had, according to the sources, never himself led a Roman army into 26 27

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On Teias, cf. PLRE III: 1328–1332; Krautschick 2005; Whately 2009: 336 f. The most famous example is doubtless the painting The Favorites of the Emperor Honorius from 1883 by John Waterhouse, on which the emperor is shown surrounded by his hens, clergy and civil dignitaries while Roman soldiers can barely be made out in the background. Friedrich Dürrenmatt also took up the motif of the poultry-breeding palace emperor, but transferred it to Romulus Augustulus (Romulus der Große, 1949). On the Honorius episode and the history of the motif before Procopius, cf. Engels 2009. On Honorius, see now McEvoy 2013: 135–220. Cf. Kuhoff 1996. The explanation given to the Senate for choosing Theodahad as Amalasuntha’s new husband and as rex of the Goths was, in fact, that he was an educated man; cf. Cassiod. var. 10.3.4: Accessit his bonis desiderabilis eruditio litterarum, quae naturam laudabilem eximie reddit ornatam. ibi prudens invenit, unde sapientior fiat: ibi bellator reperit, unde animi virtute roboretur: inde princeps accipit, quemadmodum populos sub aequalitate componat: nec aliqua in mundo potest esse fortuna, quam litterarum non augeat gloriosa notitia. Here, Procopius thus consciously takes up Theodahad’s presentation of himself. On Justinian’s career prior to 527, cf. Croke 2007a.

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battle either at that time or later on. In this, he resembled all his eastern Roman predecessors since 395.31 In the Bella, however, the charismatic component of rulership, nevertheless, plays a prominent role. An emperor who cannot distinguish himself through vigor and military success puts his auctoritas at risk and faces being exposed to ridicule like Honorius.32 Together with this, the question of a monarch’s path to power is significant for his assessment. Does he accede to the throne with the approval of or perhaps even through election by the leading aristocrats? Does he belong to a ruling dynasty? What, apart from success, is the source of his legitimacy? One aspect which, remarkably, is of very little importance in Procopius’ work, is the religious legitimation of political authority. One looks in vain for any indications of the sacral character of late antique imperial rule,33 which culminated in Justinian’s claim to a symphonia of empire and church,34 to a rule ἐκ θεοῦ.35 Procopius was obviously a Christian36 and he thus did not skimp on miracle stories or barbs against the “Arian” Vandals, whom he contrasted with the Roman “Christians” (Proc. Hist. 3.21.19–25).37 In his Buildings, Justinian appears now and then as a divinely inspired builder.38 But in the Bella God does not appear to the emperor himself to tell him in a dream to attack Vandal Africa. Instead, an anonymous bishop is “interposed” (Proc. Hist. 3.10.18–20). Though Justinian may boast in the preface to the Codex Iustinianus that God, through his divine benevolence (divinae humanitatis, Cod. Iust. 1.17.2), had personally granted him the grace of defeating the Vandals, there is no word of this in Procopius. As God does by all means appear elsewhere in the Bella, this cannot be explained with the historiographer’s classicizing concern for form. In his view monarchic rule is entirely a matter of this world and its splendor is transient: when the captive rex of the Vandals, 31 32

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On the establishment of late antique metropolitan emperorship, cf. Diefenbach 2002; Pfeilschifter 2013. In this context, Hellenistic thinking may have played a part alongside Roman traditions. According to the former, vigor and military ability had always been central to basileia. One need only be reminded of the famous definition which a few centuries later was still included in the Suda: οὐτε φύσις οὐτε τε τὸ δίκαιον ἀποδιδοῦσι τοῖς ἀνθρώποις τὰς βασιλείας, ἀλλὰ τοῖς δυναμένοις ἡγεῖσθαι στρατοπέδου καὶ χειρίζειν πράγματα νουνεχῶς (Suda Β 147). Cf. Gehrke 2013. On the sacralization of late Roman imperial rule, cf. Kolb 2001: 63–80, and Meier 2003a: 115–136. Corippus (Gorippus) refers to the imperium sanctum in his panegyric on Justinian’s successor Justin II (In laud. Iust. 3.328 f.). Cf. Clauss 1993. Cf. Meier 2003. The idea that the emperor is legitimized by God is emphasized in particular in the Codex Iustinianus, too: Nutu divino imperiales suscepimus infulas (Cod. Iust. 7.37.3.5). Cf., however, Kaldellis 2004a and 2004b. In my opinion, the arguments put forward by Averil Cameron decades ago for the idea that Procopius was Christian remain more convincing (cf. Cameron 1966). Cf. Whitby 2007. However, when Procopius states in a different passage that the powerful magister militum Aspar was not himself able to become emperor in around 467 because he did not want to abandon his “Arian” faith (Proc. Hist. 3.6.3), this is free from any value judgments. E. g. Proc. Aed. 2.3.1.

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Gelimer, sees Emperor Justinian sitting in state in all his glory at the circus, the former, according to Procopius, repeatedly murmurs vanitas vanitatum (Proc. Hist. 4.9.11),39 and it is obvious that he does not mean his own fate. Thus, divine legitimation, by which Justinian sets such great store, hardly plays a part in the Bella when it comes to assessing rulership. Rather, Procopius emphasizes a different aspect. A remarkable statement is made in connection with the account of the failed project of around 525 CE of the Persian prince Khusro’s adoption by Emperor Justin I:40 Procopius has the quaestor sacri palatii, Proculus,41 state that it is customary with all peoples for the son to inherit the father’s possessions. For this reason, it would be too dangerous for the Augustus to adopt the Sasanian prince, since the latter would gain a claim to imperial rule in this way (Proc. Hist. 1.11.17 f.). There is no indication that Procopius would have disagreed with this view. On the contrary, his introductory statement that, after the death of Anastasius,42 the comes excubitorum Justin had become emperor in 518 by pushing aside the relatives of the deceased (ἀπεληλαμένων αὐτῆς τῶν Ἀναστασίου ξυγγενῶν ἁπάντων) represents a fairly clear commitment to the dynastic principle.43 In view of the circumstance that the historiographer was at least close to the senatorial elite (see below), from whom one would really have expected a forceful claim to having a say in the selection of the new Augustus, this statement is fairly surprising. Constitutionally, as already mentioned, imperial rule was in the sixth century not formally hereditary – contrary to what Proculus says (according to Procopius). It is true that any possible sons of the emperor could not be ignored, at least not without causing bloodshed, but, nevertheless, in the late antique empire, as well, there was in principle no automatic succession, no agnatic seniority and no primogeniture. Justin I was not a usurper.44 Nevertheless, it becomes fairly clear that, in the Bella, Procopius obviously implicitly alleges that Justinian’s dynasty, the members of which had not sought to present themselves as having any family connections with their predecessors, lacked legitimacy. In general, the origins of a ruler appear to be an aspect which was not insignificant to Procopius. Thus, he also gives a very positive outline of Majorian’s indirect successor Anthemius (467 to 472): he was of noble descent, was wealthy and, moreover, a senator (ἄνδρα ἐκ γερουσίας, πλούτῳ τε καὶ γένει μέγαν).45 Justin and his nephew, by contrast, were simple peasants’ sons. 39 40 41 42 43 44 45

Ecc. 1.2. On Justinian’s triumphus over the Vandals in 534 (and Procopius’ distorted representation of events), cf. Börm 2013c. Cf. Börm 2007: 311–317. On Proculus, cf. Pazdernik 2015. On the beginnings of this emperor’s reign, cf. Greatrex 2007. Proc. Hist. 1.11.1. Other sources also show that the fact that the emperor’s nephews were ignored demanded justification: the Anonymus Valesianus II preserves an anecdote which attempts to legitimize this process as a divine decision; cf. Anon. Vales. 13. On the phenomenon of usurpation in Late Antiquity in general, see Szidat 2010. Proc. Hist. 3.6.5. Anthemius did, indeed, come from a powerful family and had even been the son-in-law of Emperor Marcian; cf. PLRE II: 96–98. Unlike in Majorian’s case, Procopius reports Anthemius’ violent death; cf. Proc. Hist. 3.7.1.

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Of the barbarian monarchies, it is above all the Sasanian Empire to which Procopius devotes most attention. In parts he describes the Persian rulers in a thoroughly positive way.46 Only concerning Justinian’s contemporary Khusro I (Chosroes) does Procopius not have a single good word to say.47 Similar to Theodahad,48 he, too, is accused of avarice (φιλοχρηματία) (Proc. Hist. 2.5.28). Furthermore, it is hardly a coincidence that both he (Proc. Hist. 1.23.2) as well as his father Kavadh (Proc. Hist. 1.5.1) are repeatedly criticized for their “innovation mania”.49 In the Bella, Procopius makes it clear that such behavior deprives a monarch of legitimacy. For this reason, both Persian kings have to defend themselves against attempted coups by aristocrats. This conservative position is summarized in a particularly impressive way by the words which Procopius has the afore-mentioned quaestor Proculus say: innovation is the greatest ill because it causes all security (ἀσφάλεια) to be lost (Proc. Hist. 1.11.13).50 The account of the Nika riot in 532 CE is explicitly paralleled with the events in Persia.51 Here, Procopius juxtaposes the uprisings against the rulers in Ctesiphon and Constantinople (Proc. Hist. 1.23.1).52 In doing so, he first describes, with clearly discernible sympathy, the futile revolt of Persian aristocrats against the “innovator” Khusro and condemns the cruel retaliation of the monarch, who continues to treat his subjects as his slaves (δοῦλοι) and has two deserving nobles, Adergudunbades and Mebodes, killed without trial.53 The account of Justinian’s extremely bloody suppression of the Nika riot follows onto this immediately (Proc. Hist. 1.24.1–58). Although, at its core, Procopius’ account of events in Persia is based on facts,54 it was the Sasanian Empire itself, the only true rival of the Imperium Romanum, which offered him the opportunity to make some general remarks on monarchy.55 There are six factors which, according to Procopius, are of significance when choosing a Persian king: election (ψῆφος) by the aristocracy (λόγιμοι), competence at war, physical suitability, designation by his predecessor, dynastic legitimation and primogeniture.56 Although Procopius obviously depicts here, in essence, the

46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56

Cf. Börm 2007: 252 f. Cf. Brodka 1998. Proc. Hist. 5.3.1. It should be noted that this accusation was obviously not unfounded, as, before his accession, Theodahad was, in fact, repeatedly forced to return property which he had acquired unlawfully; cf. Cassiod. var. 4.39; 5.12; 10.4.4. Cf. Kaldellis 2004: 125: “Procopius sets up an unrelenting linkage between Justinian and many Persian kings.” Cf. Signes Codoñer 2003b: 221. Cf. Cameron 1985: 163. On the revolt, see, most recently, Meier 2003b (with references to further secondary literature); I do not, however, share Meier’s thesis that Justinian deliberately provoked this riot in order to be able to eliminate the opposition against his regime. Cf. Rubin 1956: 379, and Kaldellis 2004: 123. Proc. Hist. 1.23.21,27–29. Cf. Börm (forthcoming). There were in fact parallels between late Roman and Sasanian monarchy; cf. Canepa 2009. Cf. Börm 2007: 111–119.

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reality of Sasanian politics,57 the suspicion cannot be avoided that, given what has been said so far, he was by all means also thinking of imperial rule, if not generally all monarchic forms of government. The strategy of turning other dramatis personae into scapegoats and substitutes is structurally similar to a comparison: criticism of such individuals is aimed at the system behind them and, consequently, the emperor. The case of the praefectus praetorio per Orientem, John the Cappadocian,58 suggests that Procopius made use of this technique in the Bella. Two excursuses are devoted to him, and they depict him in a manner which one would more likely expect to find in the Anecdota.59 At first, John is presented as clever and energetic, but at the same time, he is uneducated, unscrupulous and lacks any self-control or ability to control his emotions. He robs the population and ruins entire cities.60 A short time later, Procopius describes his ultimate downfall, allegedly caused by an intrigue orchestrated by the Augusta Theodora. In these passages, further elements are brought into play that signal to any competent reader that the prefect was a tyrant: John develops a paranoid fear of conspiracies and surrounds himself with a large number of bodyguards.61 Furthermore, it is alleged that he had secretly carried out pagan rites62 in order to gain control over Justinian. Having been found guilty of high treason, John is divested of his office but is, to begin with, allowed to remain free and to keep his property. He is merely banished to Cyzicus. Here, however, he, whom Procopius calls the “basest of all demons” (δαιμόνων),63 is accused a little later of having been involved in the murder of Bishop Eusebius.64 A Senate committee makes use of this opportunity for revenge and John, who as patricius, consul ordinarius and praefectus had, after all, once achieved everything it was possible to achieve in the Roman Empire,65 ends his life as a beggar. Procopius sees the work of God’s justice (ἡ τοῦ θεοῦ δίκη) underlying the ultimate downfall of the demonic tyrant.66 Finally, it should be mentioned that Procopius, of course, uses other strategies of veiled criticism in addition to the comparison. The most prominent are probably the many speeches which he integrates into the Bella, following classical tradition. 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

64 65 66

Cf. Börm 2008c: 433–435. PLRE III: 627–635. It has, in fact, been suggested that the passages in question were initially written for the Anecdota but that Procopius integrated them into the Bella shortly before the publication of the first seven books and after John had been toppled from power; cf. Greatrex 1995. Proc. Hist. 1.24.12–15. Proc. Hist. 1.25.6 f The accusation of covert paganism was a popular instrument of character assassination in the sixth century; cf. Rochow 1991. Proc. Hist. 1.25.35. While two of the best manuscripts (cod. Paris. Graec. 1702; cod. Vat. Graec. pars prior 152) read δαιμόνων in this essential passage, the third reads ἀνθρώπων (cod. Vat. Graec. 1001). In preferring δαιμόνων, I follow the Teubner edition (ed. Haury, corr. Wirth); cf. the stemma in Haury 1962: xxviii. Proc. Hist. 1.25.37–39. Proc. Hist. 1.25.40. Is it coincidence that the position of emperor is not mentioned here? Proc. Hist. 1.25.41. On the role of tyche and theos in Procopius, see, generally, Elferink 1967.

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Here, it can be supposed that he uses a third party in order to give himself cover.67 Moreover, although one must be cautious on account of the literary character of the work,68 it is at least certain that the speeches offer an opportunity for Procopius to integrate statements into this work that would otherwise have been impossible. In doing so, he is, in principle, freer in the way he presents things as he does not just have to “work” (that is, arrange his knowledge in a skillful manner) with available material but he can, in Thucydidean tradition (Thuc. 1.22.1), have protagonists say those things which he believes could have appropriately been said.69 This, of course, opens up virtually almost unlimited possibilities to an ancient historian.70 It is, therefore, at least suspicious when Procopius has Goths (Proc. Hist. 2.2.4–11) and Armenians (Proc. Hist. 2.3.32–53) bring forward serious accusations against Justinian at the beginning of the second book.71 The Persian king, Kavadh, repeatedly gives speeches (Proc. Hist. 1.11.7 f.; Proc. Hist. 1.16.4–8), which are not contradicted and which condemn Justin’s and Justinian’s foreign policy.72 It is also remarkable that, in 540, during the Persian invasions of Syria,73 Khusro I holds a derisive speech before Roman delegates concerning the true character of the disguised tributes to the Sasanians and also states that it is not possible to buy lasting peace with a single payment.74 In summary, the following picture emerges: in the Bella, bad rulers are characterized particularly by indecision, avarice, innovation mania, assailment of the aristocracy and a life in the palace removed from reality. As the example of Theodahad illustrates, an excess of scholarliness appears not to be suited to a monarch, either, if this prevents decisive action on his part. Although Procopius may ridicule the allegedly illiterate Justinian in the Anecdota (Proc. An. 6.11–16), too much paideia and too much engagement with philosophy is no better than a lack for education for a ruler in the Bella. The characteristics which Procopius expects of good rulers are hardly surprising: appropriate treatment of their subjects and in particular of the aristocracy are part of these. Above all, however, the monarch should defend his realm against

67

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This is a phenomenon that has, of course, been known for a long time and was already discussed by Felix Dahn (1865: 89–101): “Endlich aber sind manche der Reden und Briefe deshalb merkwürdig, weil Prokop darin häufig Gothen, Vandalen, Perser, Hunnen solche Dinge offen sagen, breit ausführen, kräftig begründen läßt, welche er selbst in eigenem Namen kaum leise anzudeuten wagt” (101). Cf. Signes Codoñer 2003b: 222; Brodka 2004: 63. Pazdernik 2000: 182 is skeptical: “Procopius’ skilled handling (…) cautions one against the unreflective assumption that particular characters in his works serve as spokesmen for the historian’s own views”. Polybius takes a different view, at least ostensibly, in this regard (36.1.7). On the phenomenon of speeches in ancient historiography in general, see the overview in Marincola 2007. Cf. Kruse 2013. It is, incidentally, noteworthy that in Procopius’ work the supposed protagonist of the Bella, Justinian (Proc. Hist. 1.1.1), is nowhere given the opportunity for delivering a speech directly. Cf. Börm 2006. Proc. Hist. 2.10.16–23. Cf. Börm 2008b.

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external enemies vigorously and, as far as possible, in person.75 Procopius is, apparently, also not averse to wars of conquest in the Bella, as it does a true emperor credit to strive for an extension of his sphere of influence as Cyrus or Alexander did.76 Compared to this demand of proving oneself militarily, other characteristics, such as a noble background, preferably that of a ruling family, are of lesser significance. The example of another barbarian king illustrates this: although Theoderic the Great was, according to Procopius, a usurper (τύραννος), he was, in fact, a “true basileus”.77 Procopius gives a brief outline of what this is: he protected his country from his barbaric neighbors, was brave and wise, ruled in a just manner and in accordance with the existing laws and, furthermore, almost never inflicted injustice on his subjects.78 Similarly to the case of Majorian, this description reads like a summary of the virtues of an ideal ruler.79 The ideal of a monarch which it is possible to reconstruct (in part ex negativo) from the Bella really only differs from Justinian’s own understanding of rule in a few points, but these are crucial: on the one hand, religious legitimation is of no significance in the Bella and instead, on the other, the ruler’s personal valor and proof of military ability are particularly important. Furthermore, innovation should be rejected, while old and time-tested practices should be preserved.80 A reader of the Bella who does not know the Anecdota is also able to tell that the emperor did not live up to this image. The Bella manifestly promotes a “soldier emperor” at the head of the empire, as had been typical of the third and fourth centuries, not a palace emperor like Justinian, who gave himself over to theological questions81 and a “Liturgisierung” (Mischa Meier) of state and society82 while he let others fight his wars. In Justinian’s time reality had already been different for 150 years. Moreover, since Procopius’ statements are in part contradictory with regard to the details one should not confuse his description of good and bad rulers with a consistent scheme.

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This demand, of course, corresponds by all means to imperial self-representation: even a palace ruler of the fifth and sixth centuries presented himself as victor omnium gentium; cf. Lee 2007: 21–50. Justinian, for example, laid claim to the following victory epithets at the end of 534: Alamannicus, Gothicus, Francicus, Germanicus, Anticus, Alanicus, Vandalicus, Africanus, victor and triumphator; cf. Cod. Iust. 1.17.2. Proc. Hist. 2.2.14 f. Proc. Hist. 5.1.29. For a very problematic interpretation of Theoderic’s rule as a Principate, see Arnold 2014. Proc. Hist. 5.1.27 f. For a detailed exposition of the image of Theoderic in Procopius, cf. Goltz 2008: 210–267. Goltz rightly notes that Procopius’ Theoderic in the Bella is “in vielen Punkten das genaue Gegenteil Justinians” (254). This is despite the fact that Theoderic ultimately lacks dynastic and formal legitimation, behaves unjustly towards the Senate in the end in connection with the execution of Symmachus and Boethius, confiscates aristocratic property and lends his ear to delatores, a matter for which Procopius condemns him, and meets with an unpleasant end; cf. Proc. Hist. 5.1.32–34. However, Justinian’s chancery did usually try to legitimize reforms, too, by referring to alleged earlier models; cf. Noethlichs 2000. This is an aspect of Justinian that Procopius praises in De aedificiis; Proc. Aed. 1.1.9 Meier 2003a: 640.

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2. “KAISERKRITIK” FROM ARCADIUS TO ANASTASIUS What is the context for Procopius’ Bella, in what tradition does he place himself when he writes about good and bad rulers? “Kaiserkritik” can be observed in texts of very different genres in the Greek east of the late antique Imperium Romanum: be it the basic reproach directed at every ruler, which is expressed from a Christian perspective in the Comparatio Regis et Monachi, traditionally ascribed to John Chrysostom, or be it that found in the work of Synesius of Cyrene, who, in De Regno, calls on the (presumably absent) emperor Arcadius to personally lead his army against the barbarians instead of hiding in the palace.83 The anonymous work De Rebus Bellicis also forms part of this group. Moreover, roughly contemporary with Procopius’ works is the anonymous Neoplatonic dialogue De Politica Scientia (Περὶ πολιτικῆς ἐπιστήμης), a fascinating source, the fragments of which also offer insights into the legitimacy discourse of the time.84 However, these texts will only receive marginal attention here as they do not belong to the genre of classicizing historiography. This also applies to the other large group of sources on late antique imperial rule, that is, the Panegyrici,85 and to affirmative texts, such as, for example, the ἔκθεσις of Agapetus Diaconus.86 They do, it is true, allow supplementary inferences with regard to the way in which imperial rule could be discussed in the Later Roman Empire, but the focus of what follows will emphatically be on secular historiography. In this context, the aim cannot, of course, be to do justice to every author in detail or to strive for completeness. The aim is rather to make use of select examples in order to highlight connecting elements and recurring motifs which characterize the presentation of Roman emperors in late antique Greek historiography of the tradition in which Procopius’ Bella stands. The most significant historian of the Later Roman Empire aside from Procopius, Ammianus Marcellinus, cannot be discussed in an appropriately detailed manner here. This is, on the one hand, due to reasons of space, and, on the other, because he placed himself within the tradition of Latin historiography although he was a Greek from Antioch on the Orontes.87 Moreover, he probably came from a different milieu than most authors who will be referred to here.88 However, brief mention should be made of his concluding tribute to Emperor Constantius II as it contains in a nutshell what Ammianus considers praiseworthy in a ruler and what he criticizes: the virtutes et vitia (Amm. 21.16.1–19). It was, he says, good that Constantius always preserved imperial auctoritas, only granted dignitates sparingly, avoided innovation in the administration and kept the military under control. Only 83 84 85 86 87 88

Synes. de regn. 15,20; cf. Cameron 1993: 109–126; Hagl 1997: 63–102. Cf. Bell 2009: 62–64. Cf. Whitby 1998. Cf. Henry 1967; Bell 2009: 27–49. Cf. Rohrbacher 2002: 14–41; Treadgold 2007: 47–78; Kelly 2008 (with references to further secondary literature). Cf. Kelly 2008: 121 f.

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experienced men rose up through the ranks.89 Despite his stupidity, he was eager to learn and, in addition, chaste and without any personal inclination to luxury or extravagance. Moreover, he was a good soldier.90 On the other hand, it was bad that the emperor was compelled by fear of competition or usurpation to pursue every suspicion, however unfounded it was. In this, he, it is said, exceeded even Caligula, Domitian, Commodus and Gallienus.91 He tried to prove questionable accusations by resorting to torture,92 despite the fact that it was his harshness that was the cause of actual conspiracies and coups in the first place. Although the emperor wanted to give the impression of applying iustitia and clementia, he was, in fact, unjust. Thus, while he defended his position brutally inwardly, he was unsuccessful in his fight against external enemies of the empire93 and had triumphal arches erected and honorific inscriptions made for himself although they were undeserved. Constantius II, it is said, depended to the greatest extent on women and eunuchs, and surrounded himself with yes-men.94 He earned hatred (odium) through the plundering of the provinces by means of excessively high taxes and the greed (rapacitas) of his officials,95 and through his interference in dogmatic questions of Christianity he caused further discord in the empire.96 Thus, although Ammianus, as mentioned above, stands somewhat outside the tradition of Greek secular historiography, many of the elements named occur in the fragments of the works of those eastern Roman authors who do, doubtlessly, belong to the tradition. These “New Classical Historians” (Warren Treadgold) after 395 are united by the fact that, like Procopius, they were educated men who had often risen within the imperial administration and whose writings reflect the perspective of the capital.97 After the civilian elite of the East had consolidated itself after decades of crisis, the demonstration of classical education obviously promised a gain in social capital to these men.98 In as far as the fragmentary state of transmission permits this inference, they appear often to have placed themselves within the tradition of a historia perpetua and to have each in turn followed on to the work of a predecessor – exactly as Agathias was later to do with Procopius’ Bella.99 In the same way as authors such as Tacitus, Herodian and Ammianus before, they appear (with the exception of Olympiodorus) not to have continued their report into the 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99

This motif also occurs in the Panegyrici; cf. Priscian. Pan. 195–203; Proc. Pan. 7. Equitandi et iaculandi, maximeque perite dirigendi sagittas, artiumque armaturae pedestris perquam scientissimus; Amm. 21.16.7. Amm. 21.16.8 f. Hic etiam ficta vel dubia, adigebat videri certissima, vi nimia tormentum; Amm. 21.16.10. Amm. 21.16.15. Amm. 21.16.16. Augebat etiam amaritudinem temporum, flagitatorum rapacitas inexpleta, plus odiorum ei quam pecuniae conferentium; Amm. 21.16.17. Similar accusations are also found regarding Valentinian I (Amm. 30.9.1) and Valens (Amm. 31.14.2). Amm. 21.16.18. Cf. Diefenbach 2015. Cf. Treadgold 2007: 79–120; Woods 2009: 366–369; Potter 2011: 337–341; Mitchell 2015: 25–33. Cf. Cameron 2012: 132; Croke 2014. Cameron 1970 remains essential with regard to Agathias. Cf. Treadgold 2007: 279–290.

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reign of the respective emperor in power at the time – this point will be discussed later on. Only a few years after Ammianus, probably at the beginning of the fifth century CE, Eunapius wrote a history that covered the period up to 404 at the least.100 There are no surprises amongst the points which he criticizes with regard to various emperors of the third and fourth centuries: Carinus, he says, was utterly depraved, sexually abused boys of noble birth, submitted false accusations101 and subsequently acted as an unjust judge himself, and he had countless aristocrats killed.102 Eunapius complains that it is difficult to even obtain reliable information about rulers such as Gratian because they had withdrawn to their palace,103 and he voices strong criticism of Arcadius’ praefectus praetorio, Rufinus, who, he says, was avaricious and unjust and surrounded himself with many flatterers.104 His verdict concerning the Augusta Pulcheria is also strikingly negative. He reproaches her with rampant corruption, legal uncertainty, the purchase of offices and the corruptibility of the judiciary.105 In the eyes of Eunapius, who was not Christian, Julian, on the other hand, was an exemplary ruler,106 who combined justice and auctoritas with regard to internal matters with warlike vigor in external affairs.107 The History of Olympiodorus, who came from Egypt but had evidently had a career in the imperial administration and had served Theodosius II (408 to 450) in particular, it seems, as a diplomat, was probably written some years after Eunapius’ History.108 He also dedicated his work, which is likewise only preserved in fragments, to Theodosius.109 With regard to the surviving passages, it is noticeable that the thematic focus is quite clearly on the western Roman area.110 If the surviving fragments represent his work in principle, then Theodosius II played hardly any role in it. It is of course possible that this is a coincidence relating to the transmission of the work,111 but another explanation is also conceivable: by concentrating on events outside the direct jurisdiction of the eastern Augustus, whom he served and

100 Cf. Rohrbacher 2002: 64–72; Treadgold 2007: 81–89; Hartmann 2014. On the difficult question of dating Eunapius’ History, which, if Photius is to be believed (Phot. Bib. 77.54a), may have existed in an earlier and a later, extended version (νέα ἔκδοσις), cf. Liebeschuetz 2003: 179–187. 101 Procopius of Gaza accuses the emperor Zeno of similar things; Proc. Pan. 5. 102 Eun. fr. 5,1 (Blockley). 103 Eun. fr. 50,1–6 (Blockley). Cf. fr. 66,1 (Blockley). 104 Eun. fr. 62,2 (Blockley) = Suda Ρ 240. Rufinus was killed in November 395, apparently a victim of the rivalry between the two imperial courts. Cf. also Claudian’s invective In Rufinum. 105 Eun. fr. 72,1 (Blockley). 106 On the concept behind the Histories, cf. Stenger 2009: 260–262 and 294 f. 107 Eun. fr. 18 (Blockley). 108 Cf. Gillett 1993; Rohrbacher 2002: 73–75; Treadgold 2004; Baldini 2004; Stickler 2014. 109 Phot. Bib. 80.167. 110 Cf. Matthews 1970. In addition, missions to the Huns and the Blemmyes are described, amongst others. 111 Cf. Treadgold 2007: 92.

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who was still in power when the work was published, it was possible for Olympiodorus to avoid having to comment in any detail on that particular ruler.112 The situation is entirely different for Priscus of Panium, who had also already served Theodosius II, but who did not publish his history until long after the emperor’s death.113 Priscus’ image of the emperor is anything but flattering and it has influenced posterity’s view of Theodosius to this day.114 He claims that Theodosius was basically of good character but that this was corrupted by eunuchs, so that he became weak, cowardly and effeminate.115 The emperor is said to have become jealous of his overly popular praefectus praetorio, Cyrus, and he, therefore, accused him of secretly being a pagan. In this way, he deprived him of his power and made him a priest.116 Instead of fighting wars, it was judged preferable to pay tribute to all barbarians, and this was glossed over by calling the tribute voluntary.117 Moreover, Theodosius was, it is claimed, a spendthrift, who robbed the senators and introduced numerous innovations.118 One of the highlights of the surviving passages is doubtlessly Priscus’ famous account of his journey as an envoy to Attila in 448. The supposed conversation between the historian and an unnamed Greek defector forms part of this extensive fragment.119 Priscus has the defector express fierce criticism of the state of affairs in the Imperium Romanum: Romans are not allowed to carry weapons because of the tyrants (διὰ τοὺς τυράννους) and they are, therefore, defenseless;120 laws do not apply to all Romans in the same way;121 people are robbed of their money through high taxes;122 and, all in all, the Roman political system, which is actually good, has been destroyed by the current potentates.123

112 At a later date, similar consideration may be responsible for Zosimus not having written a contemporary history. 113 Cf. Rohrbacher 2002: 82–92; Treadgold 2007: 96–102; Häuptli 2007. Although, as mentioned, I refer to the edition and numbering of the fragments in Blockley, specific reference should also be made to Carolla 2008. 114 Responsibility for this lies, not least, with Edward Gibbon; cf. Mitchell 2015: 111–117. By contrast, a more positive view is found in Ilski 2005 and Traina 2009: 27–39. 115 Prisc. fr. 3,2 (Blockley) = Suda Θ 145. 116 Prisc. fr. 8 (Blockley). 117 Prisc. fr. 9,3.11–21. This accusation is probably not entirely unfounded as such, as the Romans did indeed try to disguise any tribute they had to pay (cf. Börm 2008b). Whether there was any sensible alternative to the annual payments, which were significantly cheaper than a war, is, however, a different matter; cf. Lee 2007: 119–122. 118 Prisc. fr. 9,3 (Blockley). 119 Prisc. fr. 11,2 (Blockley). 120 Prisc. fr. 11,2.438–441 (Blockley). It is not stated exactly who these “tyrants” are, but to me it stands to reason that they are meant to be the emperors Valentinian III and Theodosius II. Valentinian III and his new colleague Marcian did not decide to dispense with the state monopoly on weapons until later (cf. Nov. Val. 9; Nov. Marc. 8). 121 Prisc. fr. 11,2.445 (Blockley). 122 Prisc. fr. 11,2.442–444 (Blockley). 123 Prisc. fr. 11,2.508–510 (Blockley).

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By contrast to Olympiodorus and Priscus, Malchus,124 who will serve here as the final example of late antique classicizing Greek historiography, does not appear to have served the emperor. The Suda calls him a sophistes and states that he wrote a history of the emperors from Constantine I to Anastasius.125 The surviving fragments allow us to draw inferences regarding Malchus’ presentation of the emperors Leo I, Basilicus and Zeno, and Hans-Ulrich Wiemer has recently demonstrated that the depiction of these rulers is quite predominantly negative: while good emperors are supposed to raise few taxes, only grant honors and offices to those who deserve them, show mildness and not have unjust lawsuits carried out against their subjects, they are supposed to be measured and modest in their personal way of life and, above all, lead the Roman troops to victory in person as their general;126 the afore-mentioned Augusti, in particular Leo “the butcher” (ὁ μακέλλης),127 show themselves to be the complete opposite in every way in Malchus’ work. Of course, the result of this brief synopsis has long become apparent: the inventory of criticism of the emperor as it is found in Procopius’ Bella corresponds in the essential points entirely to what can be observed in the works of his predecessors. The following typical elements of secular criticism of the ruler or of prominent representatives of his administration result from this: exploitation of the subjects;128 false accusations and violence against aristocrats; no legal certainty; no effective protection from barbarians, but at best disgraceful attempts to avoid military conflict by means of tribute; corruption and the purchase of offices; eunuchs and dominant women at court; personal weakness, stupidity and cowardice; inability to control one’s emotions; failure to act as leader of the army; a mania for innovation.129 By contrast, positive figures on the throne are exceptions which, in the texts in question, appear more to serve the purpose of lending further weight to the criticism of the vast majority. In this context, it is remarkable how far back some of these elements can be traced in Greek historiography. The first Greeks who wrote about Roman monarchs already made use of them: thus Dionysius of Halicarnassus, writing under Augustus, falls back on the classical topoi concerning tyrants130 when describing the rex Tarquinius Superbus as a despot who abolishes old laws, introduces new customs 124 Treadgold 2007: 103 f.; Wiemer 2014. 125 Μάλχος, Βυζάντιος, σοφιστής. ἔγραψεν ἱστορίαν ἀπὸ τῆς βασιλείας Κωνσταντίνου καὶ ἕως Ἀναστασίου; Suda Μ 120. It is, therefore, usually assumed that Malchus ended his work with Anastasius’ accession (ἕως); cf. Treadgold 2007: 104; Wiemer 2009: 32; Woods 2009: 367. 126 Cf. Wiemer 2009: 42–45, with references to sources. 127 Leo acquired the epithet “butcher” (Suda Χ 245) in 471 CE, when he had the magister militum and princeps senatus Flavius Aspar murdered and dismembered during an audience; cf. Börm 2010: 161 f. 128 This accusation is virtually omnipresent in late antique historiography; cf. Wiemer 2009: 39 f. 129 Incidentally, modern psychological research confirms that it is exactly statements concerning alleged social misconduct that have a particularly strong effect on the recipient; cf. Pratto/John 1991. 130 In Greek historiography, assailment, in particular, on the aristocracy was already associated with tyrants as early as the time of Herodotus (Hdt. 5.92).

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and disregards the law. The monarch is said to have withdrawn from the public and to have killed, dispossessed and driven out senators.131 Moreover, although the genre of ecclesiastical history will largely be ignored here,132 it should at least be mentioned that many of the aforementioned motifs can also be found there when certain rulers are described. It is true that one of the most obvious differences of such works to secular historiography is the fact that in the writings of authors such as Eusebius, Rufinus or Socrates, one is much more likely to find quite positive depictions of living and dead emperors, too.133 However, Eusebius already betrays the influence of earlier Greek historiography when he tries very hard in his Historia Ecclesiastica to describe Maxentius as the archetypical tyrant: lecherous, bloodthirsty and, in his avarice, above all a persecutor of the senators. Eusebius’ Maxentius finally turns into a revenant of Tarquinius through the story of an unnamed aristocratic lady’s suicide, which is the only way for her of escaping the emperor’s advances.134 In short: the arsenal of motifs concerning the criticism of a ruler – motifs which largely but not solely derived already from classical topoi relating to tyrants – had, by Late Antiquity, been at every author’s disposal for centuries. Is, then, “criticism of the emperor” in late antique Greek historiography simply a collection of topoi? How much “reality” may lie behind accusations against individual rulers is generally impossible to tell. Given the considerable age and great authority of the traditions which Procopius and the others were following, mimesis of literary models doubtlessly played an important role. Furthermore, attacks on emperors are likely not only to have increased the entertainment value of a work, but also to have offered the author the opportunity of demonstrating his bravery and integrity. After all, “truth” (ἀλήθεια) was considered to be a central demand made of a historical work and it was regularly evoked in the prefaces – by Procopius, too (Proc. Hist. 1.1.4).135 It should be taken into consideration, however, that, as the brief overview above already illustrates, criticism was so omnipresent that the question arises as to whether the total sum of attacks on individuals might not ultimately have been an expression of a fundamental aristocratic disquiet in dealing with monarchy. In the eyes of the elite, the emperors appear to have been under the suspicion of being tyrants virtually as a matter of principle in Late Antiquity, too – a circum-

131 Dion. Hal. 4.41 f. Cassius Dio also mentions many of these elements in the famous speech attributed to Maecenas (Cass. Dio 52.14–40). 132 On Christian historiography, see most recently the overview in Whitby 2011. On criticism of Anastasius justified through religious beliefs, and a remarkable case study, cf. Brandes 1997. 133 It had already become evident early on that Christian-monotheistic thought was particularly well-suited in order for supporting a monocrat’s legitimacy; the locus classicus is Tert. ad Scapul. 2.5–7. 134 Eus. HE 8.14. 135 On the problem of the “truthfulness” of ancient historiography in general, cf. Zimmermann 1999: 5–13. Heldmann 2011 offers thoughts from a philological perspective.

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stance which, at times, limited their scope of action considerably136 –, and the transition from continual criticism of individual monarchs to a fundamental criticism of the system is fluid. For it is clear that eastern Roman authors who wrote classicizing historiography in the fifth or sixth centuries belonged to the senatorial elite or, at least, were writing for that group. 3. WHO WAS PROCOPIUS? At this point it is necessary to consider Procopius’ background. Today, most scholars agree in assuming that he was probably born around 500.137 In around 580, Agathias, who continued and admired his work, describes him as rhetor (Agath. Hist. 2.19.1) and in the tenth century the Suda (Π 2479) calls him a rhetor and sophistes. Combined with his occupation as adsessor and consiliarius, this suggests that he had had a legal and rhetorical education.138 Procopius himself names Caesarea Maritima as his hometown. Procopius considered himself to be a Roman and obviously felt connected to the land-owning, conservative and educated aristocracy, as can be seen in various passages in his work.139 It can be assumed that Procopius came from the upper class of his hometown.140 It is true that it has not been possible so far to prove beyond doubt the existence of such an elite of wealthy landowners in late Roman Syria, but it can be regarded as very likely.141 The conjecture, already expressed by Jakob Haury, that Procopius was the son of Flavius Stephanus who was proconsul of the province Palaestina I in 536, is plausible.142 Procopius repeatedly refers to Greek authors whose example he followed with regard to formal, linguistic and stylistic matters and, in part, also with regard to

136 Cf. Börm 2010. 137 On Procopius’ life, cf. Rubin 1956: 296–355; Evans 1972: 12–41; Fatouros 1980; Cameron 1985: 5–12; PLRE III: 1060–1066; Tinnefeld 2001; Börm 2007: 45–49; Treadgold 2007: 176– 192; Whately 2009: 23–56. 138 A few years ago, James Howard-Johnston attacked the communis opinio and suggested that Procopius was not a legal scholar but a hydraulic engineer (Howard-Johnston 2000). This original thesis has its attractions, but for the time being it does not have a firm basis; cf. Greatrex 2003: 58–61. 139 This does not mean that Procopius himself came from a senatorial background and had been a clarissimus from birth. However, given the good and doubtlessly expensive education that he must have had, his family’s membership of the land-owning, educated “sub-elite” (Greatrex 2000a: 227) in the provinces of the empire is, at least, very likely. 140 Felix Dahn, on the other hand, considered Procopius to be a social climber; cf. Dahn 1865: 13. Cf. also Kapitánffy 1976, who states that Procopius was neither an aristocrat nor a social climber but had been part of the “Offizierskorps” (27) and represented its views. However, the fact that the historian moved in military circles for years explains the interest in soldiers and their concerns which Kapitánffy noted. 141 Cf. Sarris 2006: 115–130, and Kennedy 2010. 142 Cf. Haury 1896: 10–19. A thorough discussion of this thesis is found in Greatrex 1996b.

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content.143 Although he doubtlessly had a command of Latin,144 it is generally considered unlikely that he was also familiar with Latin works written in literary language. If anything, he may have had some knowledge of Vergil’s Aeneid (Proc. Hist. 4.10.25) and of Sallust, who is mentioned by name but not quoted (Proc. Hist. 3.2.24). Thus, although Procopius cannot be shown to have referred to the Latin tradition directly, this does not mean that it cannot have had at least an indirect influence on his work: texts such as the dialogue De politica scientia, mentioned above, are evidence that authors such as Cicero were by all means still being received in Justinian’s Constantinople.145 In the sixth century, Latin was still of great importance in the administration, jurisdiction, and army in the Eastern Roman Empire and, at least amongst some of the civilian elites, knowledge of Latin literature was considered as a mark of status.146 It can, therefore, at least not be excluded that Procopius, whom authors such as Agathias praised for his comprehensive learning,147 had such knowledge. However, the character of his works offered little opportunity for possible allusions to Latin authors, and, therefore, such considerations must ultimately remain speculative. According to his own testimony, Procopius became advisor (ξύμβουλος, Proc. Hist. 1.12.24) to the young general Belisarius in 527 probably shortly before the death of Emperor Justin I. Belisarius, the dux Mesopotamiae, was made magister militum per Orientem by Justinian a short time later and the historian spent at least 13 years closely associated with him (Proc. Hist. 1.1.3).148 As magister militum, Belisarius was a vir illustris, and Procopius, as his consiliarius or adsessor, must, therefore, have had at least the rank of a vir spectabilis. He thus belonged to the middle-ranking group of the ordo senatorius.149 However, the Suda, which is usually well informed in such matters, also describes Procopius himself as vir illustris (ἰλλούστριος, Π 2479). Should this information be correct, and there is no indica-

143 Anthony Kaldellis has objected to the established description of late antique historians as “classicizing” (cf. Greatrex 1996a), with regard to Procopius: “He was no shallow classicizer but a classical writer of the first order” (Kaldellis 2004a: 34). A similar view is found in Brodka 2004: 7. This is basically correct, however, I do not use the term “classicizing” in a pejorative sense but simply to state that the historiographical tradition was particularly important for these authors. 144 In addition to a large number (ca. 80) of Latin words, which mostly belong to the administrative and military sphere, Procopius quotes two Sibylline Oracles verbatim: one reads Africa capta Mundus cum nato peribit (Proc. Hist. 5.7.7), the other is a prophecy (Proc. Hist. 5.24.30), the reading of which is, however, uncertain. 145 Cf. Bell 2009: 64–72; Cameron 2009: 30–32. 146 Cf. Cameron 2009. 147 Cf. Kokoszko 2000. 148 On Belisarius, cf. PLRE III: 181–224; Hughes 2009 (with weaknesses); Börm 2013c. Dahn (1865: 18 f.) assumed that the emperor was responsible for appointing the advisors (by contrast, PLRE III: 1060), and surmised that Procopius was Belisarius’ private secretary from around 530; this is also suggested by the Suda (Π 2479), which describes the historian as Belisarius’ ὑπογραφεύς. 149 Cf. PLRE III: 1062.

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tion that it is not,150 then Procopius had a seat in the senate of Constantinople, which was restricted to the illustres under Justinian.151 It is certain that he himself once speaks of ἐμοί τε καὶ τοῖς πολλοῖς ἡμῶν (Proc. An. 12.14) in connection with the senators. In the seventh century, John of Nikiu (92.90) even calls Procopius a patricius and “prefect”. This, combined with a note by John Malalas,152 in which one Procopius is mentioned as prefect (ἔπαρχος) of Constantinople who is said to have investigated a conspiracy against the emperor in 562/3, opens up the possibility that our Procopius may have ultimately held the office of praefectus urbi Constantinopolitanae.153 If this really is the case, he would have achieved the highest honors it was possible for a senator to attain after the consulate had effectively been abolished in 542. But even if the historian should not have risen to such heights – which, at least, he certainly had not done when he was composing his works – it is certain that Procopius had a by all means noteworthy career in the imperial organisation. In any case, he can hardly be described as an “outsider”.154 As already mentioned, three works by Procopius survive – in addition to the Bella and the Anecdota there is also the work on the “Buildings” of Justinian – and one can assume that this represents his entire work as the Historia Ecclesiastica, which had obviously been planned, never appears to have been written.155 The chronology of the works has been a subject of debate for decades. Only in the case of the first seven books of the Bella has scholarship largely come to an agreement on 550/1 as their date of publication. By contrast, there are two different positions concerning the remaining three works, that is the eighth book of the Bella, the “Buildings” and the Anecdota: an early dating and a late dating. This first position,156 which is dominant at present, dates both the eighth book of the Bella and the “Buildings” to the year 553/4 and, given the unfinished nature of the latter, assumes that Procopius died in the mid-550s.157 In the process, the “Secret History” is generally dated to the year 550.158 As Procopius states repeatedly throughout the work that Justinian has been in power for 32 years (e. g. Proc. An. 18.33), only the years 550/1 (if Procopius counts Justin’s reign as part of Justinian’s) and 558/9 are 150 It is attested that Procopius’ contemporary Hesychius of Miletus (Suda Η 611), who also wrote histories, was elevated to the rank of vir illustris by Justinian; cf. Treadgold 2007: 270 f. Incidentally, it is possible that the information on Procopius in the Suda derives, in part, from Hesychius’ Onomatologos, which served as a source for the encylcopedia; cf. Kaldellis 2005. 151 Cf. Szidat 2010: 395–397. 152 Mal. 18.141 (= 427 Thurn). 153 Cf. Wieling 2013: 353. 154 Cf. Greatrex 2000a. 155 Cf. Kaldellis 2009. 156 The usual arguments for this dating are found, for example, in Cameron 1985: 8–12, and summarized once again in Greatrex 1994. On the basis of different arguments, Kaldellis 2009 now also dates the Anecdota to 550. 157 For this view, see, for example, Howard-Johnston 2000: 21, who even surmises that Procopius died as early as 553. 158 As already in Haury 1891: 9–26. The earliest reference to the work, however, is found in the Suda in the tenth century.

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possible at all. James Evans and Michael Whitby, in particular, are among the most important representatives of the second position, the late dating.159 The latter dates the “Buildings” to around 560/1 on account of the reference (Proc. Aed. 5.3.10) to a bridge over the Sangarius, the building of which, following a note in Theophanes Confessor (AM 6052), Whitby assumes to have commenced in 559/60.160 There is agreement, however, that Procopius wrote all his works before Justinian’s death, and most scholars assume that he did not live to see this but instead died probably before 565.161 He was writing about a living Augustus. 4. AUTHENTIC OPPOSITION? THE ANECDOTA The first historians in the imperial period who attempted to write about contemporary history already knew what difficulties and risks were associated with writing about a princeps who was still alive. Seneca the Elder reports that Titus Labienus interrupted himself when reading out his history, skipped some passages, and remarked that the sections in question would not be read until after his death: haec, quae transeo, post mortem meam legentur.162 This demonstrative caution was, of course, a provocation, as Labienus was actually claiming that it was not possible to speak freely under Augustus. Reaction followed promptly: the historian was put on trial by the Senate, his books were burnt and Labienus committed suicide. If there had been men in the Roman Empire before who had really not yet realized that libertas was now restricted – now they knew. This naturally also applied to Late Antiquity. It has, of course, been observed long since that the historians of that period, scarcely any different from their predecessors, as a rule did not aim their criticism at ruling emperors.163 But what was to be done if an author decided to write about his own time after all? While, as has been seen, Procopius generally made use of different techniques in the Bella in order to articulate indirect criticism, the majority of his predecessors expressed their criticism of the emperor quite openly. Although the other Greek historiographers also wrote contemporary history, the emperors and most of the other protagonists on whom their works focus had usually already died at the time 159 Cf. the summary in Evans 1996a, Cataudella 2003: 397–404 and Croke 2005 (who considers the later dating possible but not mandatory). 160 Cf. Whitby 1985: 143. Greatrex (1994b: 110 f.) doubts the reliability of Theophanes’ statement and also dismisses the approach of Scott 1987, who suggests dating the Anecdota to 558 on the basis of a reference to coin debasement. 161 Fatouros 1980: 522 f., on the other hand, assumes that the only possible explanation for the fact that the “Secret History” was transmitted at all is that its author published it himself after the death of the emperor. However, given that none of the authors who followed, not even Agathias or Evagrius Scholasticus, who were very familiar with Procopius’ work, appear to have known about the existence of the Anecdota, it is to be assumed that the work really did remain “secret” for a long time and only became public by some means or other in the middle Byzantine period. 162 Sen. contr. 10 praef. 8. 163 Cf. Tinnefeld 1971. Cf. in general Ahl 1984.

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of publication. Olympiodorus, at most, faced a similar problem to Procopius after him: how does one write classicizing Histories about an Augustus who is still alive? As already mentioned, Olympiodorus may have tried to circumvent these difficulties by primarily writing about that part of the empire in which others were in power. This option was not available to Procopius since western Roman imperial rule no longer existed in the sixth century, regardless of all attempts at reviving it.164 Although in Procopius’ work the elements and categories of this criticism of the emperor may derive for the greatest part from the traditional repertoire, their implementation did differ from that in the works of Procopius’ predecessors: his Bella is characterized by the attempt to write a contemporary work about an emperor who is still in power165 and who proved himself to be annoyingly long-lived – a work which, according to the traditions of Greek and senatorial historiography, simply was unable to transmit an uncritical image of the ruler but that, at the same time, was not permitted to cross certain boundaries because this would have provoked imperial intervention. Why did Procopius subject himself to this? Well, on the one hand, classicizing histories for the period before Justin and Justinian presumably already existed,166 and on the other hand Justinian was already an old man, according to pre-modern standards, when Procopius began to write his work in around 545. He was over sixty and, moreover, probably marked by the plague, which he had contracted in 542.167 It would only have been all too understandable if Procopius, who was about two decades younger, had expected the Augustus to die in the foreseeable future.168 But if this was his assessment, things did not turn out that way. Although the Augusta Theodora died in 548,169 her husband continued to live, and given that Procopius could not wait indefinitely to publish his work, the first seven books of the Bella were published in 550. If the preface of the eighth can be believed, they were

164 Cf. Börm 2008d. 165 It has, of course, been observed already that this is an important key to understanding his work. “He was the sole major historian of the Roman Empire to write about the reign of a living emperor” (Kaldellis 2010a: x). Mention should be made, however, of Velleius Paterculus and Cassius Dio, who each continued their Historiae into their own time. 166 It is not clear what works these may have been. The Lycian Capito (Suda Κ 342; FGrHist 750) appears primarily to have treated the ‘Isaurian War’ fought by Anastasius in around 498. Eustathius of Epiphania’s work (cf. Treadgold 2007: 114–120) appears to have gone only as far as 503 and, as a world chronicle, it was, moreover, only in a limited sense competition to classicizing historiography; it is, thus, hardly a possibility here. It is, however, clear that Procopius, who only names his sources by way of exception, must, for his part, have made use of existing historical works for the period before the mid-520s, the point at which his actual narrative begins. Hesychius also appears to have treated Justin I and the early years of Justinian’s rule but it is not clear when he published his work. 167 Proc. Hist. 2.23.20. 168 Thus also Kaldellis 2010a: xxv. 169 Theodora’s influence was, doubtless, considerable, but it is probably chronically overestimated; cf. Leppin 2000.

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quickly and widely disseminated throughout the Imperium Romanum and are likely to have brought significant prestige to their author. At this point, it is time to draw a short interim conclusion: like his great role models Thucydides and Polybius, as well as other late antique historians, too, such as Ammianus, Olympiodorus, Priscus and Nonnosus,170 Procopius wanted to write about events in which he had, at least to some extent, taken part himself and of which he had first-hand knowledge. But, contrary to what Procopius may have hoped, Justinian did not die before the Bella had been completed. Thus, their author was forced to express the “Kaiserkritik”, which had already been expected of a classicizing history for centuries and which had long since produced a regular catalogue of typical accusations,171 in a particularly careful and subtle way and, above all, to articulate the critical distance to the ruling Augustus indirectly. This is the reason not just for the conspicuous absence of Justinian in an active role, but also, amongst other things, for the ‘prehistories’ which come before the accounts of the wars against the Persians, Vandals and Goths. They allow a smooth transition to contemporary history. In the prehistories, Procopius is able to voice his opinion more freely and can present himself as a critical mind.172 Precursors, if not to say models, for this procedure are represented by authors such as Flavius Josephus and, in the Latin sphere, Sallust (one need only think of the expansive remarks in De coniuratione Catilinae), who used the procedure to develop a narrative of decadence. As mentioned, Procopius knew him by name, at least, and referred to his Historia Romana,173 although that is not to say that he had actually read the work. The detailed analysis of the Bella shows, as presented above, that they contain cautious and indirect criticism of the emperor, which, however, in terms of content can be explained entirely with reference to the historiographic conventions of Late Antiquity, as the comparison with Procopius’ predecessors shows. In and of themselves, the Bella do not, therefore, contain anything that would support the conjecture that Procopius was a staunch enemy of Justinian’s, showing the Augustus nothing but fervent hatred. It is no coincidence that the Anecdota were considered for a long time to be so different from the Bella that there were doubts as to whether the “Secret History” could really be by Procopius.174 The “Kaiserkritik” in the Bella 170 Cf. Treadgold 2007: 256–258. 171 Lucian’s πῶς δεῖ ἱστορίαν συγγράφειν (2nd century CE) summarizes in astonishing clarity (albeit partly with satirical intention) what had been expected of a classicizing work since imperial times. This includes the demand that the historian possess first-hand knowledge (Lucian. de hist. 47) and calls for critical distance and, of course, commitment to “truth” (Lucian. de hist. 44). 172 Thus, A. Kaldellis would like to read the prehistory of the Persian War (Proc. Hist. 1.2–10) as an indirect account of the development from a good monarchy to a tyranny. Kaldellis also offers many appropriate and illuminating observations; he underestimates, however, the extent to which Procopius basically felt bound to the facts known to him; cf. Kaldellis 2004a: 65–93, and Kaldellis 2010b. 173 Proc. Hist. 3.2.24. 174 F. Dahn was an early defendant of their authenticity: “Wenn die ‘Geheimgeschichte’ nicht vom Autor der ‘Historien’ verfasst ist, so ist sie ein Wunder” (Dahn 1865: 50). Ranke (1888: 300 f.) was still a prominent opponent of their authenticity, but since the 1920s, at the latest (cf. Kumanieckie 1927; Haury 1934), their authenticity has generally been accepted.

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can be explained entirely by the requirements of the genre to which they belong – one might even go so far as to wonder whether Procopius was writing more about late antique monarchy in principle than about Justinian –, as well as by the special circumstance that the work was published during the lifetime of the ruler in question. By contrast, an affirmative presentation of imperial rule, especially with regard to a living monarch, was part of a wholly different genre, namely that of panegyric.175 This conclusion is of central importance, because it means relinquishing the assumption that the Bella transmits, in veiled form, the hatred of Justinian that is expressed openly in the Anecdota. The opposite is the case: it is not admissible methodologically to assume that the attacks on Justinian are authentic and reflect Procopius’ ‘genuine opinion’, even if most scholars have succumbed to this temptation.176 There is no good reason why one should not claim the same for the praise that Procopius heaps on the emperor in the “Buildings”. Who says that public praise need always be feigned on principle, but criticism on the other hand must necessarily be honest? We will never find out what Procopius really thought of Justinian. But perhaps it is possible to explain the existence of the Anecdota in a way that makes any speculation regarding their author’s personal loyalties superfluous. Let us take a look first at the central accusations which are found in the Secret History. From the very beginning, the preface (Proc. An. 1.1–10) positively abounds with elements drawn from conventional topoi.177 One finds the established comparisons with supposed terrifying rulers, such as Nero (Proc. An. 1.9) and Domitian, in particular, whose image Justinian is said to share (Proc. An. 8.21). Scheming women, above all Theodora and Antonina, play a central role at court (e. g. Proc. An. 1.13 f.),178 while at the same time Belisarius, above all, is described as an effeminate weakling,179 who is dependent on his wife and a slave to her (Proc. An. 1.24; 4.13–32). The negative representation of powerful eunuchs at court, too, for example Calligonus (Proc. An. 3.2; 5.25), follows conventional lines entirely (Proc. An. 29.13). The same applies to the accusation of sycophancy (Proc. An. 13.8–20), corruption (Proc. An. 5.33) and the purchase of offices (Proc. An. 21.9 f.),180 extravagance181 and the system of informers (Proc. An. 1.2; 11.21). The accusation of 175 Lucian already stressed the sheer insurmountable contrast between historiography and panegyric (Lukian. de hist. 7). Amm. 26.1.1 is an example of the fact that the rules of the genre were, by all means, reflected upon in Late Antiquity, too. 176 Thus, A. Kaldellis also recently supposed that Procopius wrote the Anecdota because he was not able to write “the full truth” in the Bella (Kaldellis 2010a: xxv). 177 Cf. Leppin/Meier 2005: 283. 178 Cf. Fisher 1978; Angold 1996. 179 On “unmanly” behavior as a topos in late antique polemics, cf. Stickler 2007. Cf. Brubaker 2004. 180 It is certain that corruption existed in Late Antiquity. Whether in reality this was necessarily a sign of inefficiency (cf. Schuller 1975), however, is debatable. Daily bribery was probably only considered objectionable if it exceeded a certain measure; cf. Demandt 2007: 300 f. However, Justinian prohibited the suffragium venale in 535 (Nov. Iust. 8). 181 Greed and extravagance are omnipresent motifs in the Anecdota; cf. Leppin/Meier 2005: 324.

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paying tribute to barbarians (Proc. An. 8.5 f; 8.31; 11.5–13; 19.13–16) is also familiar from the work of earlier authors, as is the claim that the emperor neglected the limitanei and thus left the borders exposed.182 His religious policy is said to have caused suffering and discord (Proc. An. 27). Of course, two central motifs of aristocratic criticism of the ruler are not missing, either, and are even positively omnipresent in the Anecdota: the exploitation and maltreatment of senators and other εὐδαίμονες (e. g. Proc. An. 8.9–11; 29.12–25)183 as well as, above all, a ruinous tax policy (Proc. An. 11.30; 18.10), which led to the ruin of the cities and the entire empire (Proc. An. 26.1).184 Any competent reader was, of course, long since familiar with the accusation of innovation mania: the emperor was said to be a νεωτεροποιὸς μάλιστα (Proc. An. 8.26).185 Thus it is obvious, anyway, that all of this was intended to mark Justinian’s rule as an illegitimate regime, but just to be on the safe side, it is also claimed quite explicitly in numerous places that people were living in a tyranny.186 Doubtless not a few of these attacks, some of which are very detailed, related to real events, and research has been able to identify a number of them with more or less convincing results.187 This is hardly surprising. An invective which is completely detached from reality does not develop any force, and a talented writer such as Procopius was, of course, aware of this. But on the other hand, many accusations are so exaggerated, implausible and incorrect that this cannot have failed to escape the notice of the audience of the Anecdota, who necessarily belonged to the elite and in many cases must have known the real conditions.188 The fact that the accusations made simply corresponded to the traditional patterns of classicizing histori182 Cf. Zos. 2.34. The statement that Justinian no longer paid the limitanei of the eastern frontier regions regularly after the “Eternal Peace” of 532 and finally disbanded the troops entirely (Proc. An. 24.12–14) is without question an exaggeration, but is likely to have a core of truth (cf. Casey 1996). Cf. Whately 2013; Greatrex 2014b. 183 According to Procopius, Justinian even had the relatives of the praefectus urbi, Theodotus, tortured (Proc. An. 9.40) and thus violated an old privilege of the honestiores. However, in the case of trials for high treason – and this is what this one appears to have been – it was by all means permitted to subject honestiores, too, to a painful interrogation; cf. Demandt 2007: 325. 184 The “air tax” (ἀερικόν), which Justinian is said to have introduced (Proc. An. 21.2), is probably the most famous; cf. Haldon 1994. 185 Cf. Proc. An. 7.7; 14.1. Cf. Brodka 2004: 120. 186 E. g. Proc. An. 1.6; 7.31; 11.36; 25.1; 29.29. 187 Cf. Kaldellis 2004: 223–228. 188 It would go too far to refer here to all claims in the Anecdota that have been strongly distorted or that are clearly false. Take, as an example, Justinian’s alleged reform of court ceremonial (Proc. An. 30.21–24), which distorts a change which, at most, was minimal to represent it as a radical degradation of the Senators ; cf. Kolb 2001: 120. Addressing the emperor as dominus (δεσπότης) had, of course, also been customary long before Justinian’s time (Aur. Vict. 39.4), unlike the Anecdota claim (Proc. An. 30.26). His interventions in the cursus publicus by no means simply served to cut costs, unlike Procopius suggests (Leppin/Meier 2005: 349). The emperor passed laws (App. Nov. 7.18; cf. Wickham 2005: 75 f.) in order to counter the grievances caused by the coemptio (Proc. An. 23.11–14), and he did not introduce the adiectio (ἐπιβολή) which had, instead, already existed for a long time. In addition, the fact that Justinian by no means allowed buildings to go to ruin (Proc. An. 26.7–11) but instead functioned as one

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ography was as obvious to ancient readers as it is for modern recipients.189 It must, therefore, have been manifest to an audience of insiders that the Anecdota merely purported to be a commentary and an unvarnished corrective to the Bella.190 The fact that many of the elements of “Kaiserkritik” that appear in the Bella are produced as arguments against Justinian in the Anecdota does not mean anything other than that the author of both works made use of the same pool of traditional accusations in different contexts. The key question is, therefore, the following: if the real aim of the text was not to provide additional information, but if, above all, it was, in reality, intended to be a defamation of Justinian’s regime that was to be immediately recognizable as such, what was the actual purpose of the work? The unfinished character of the Anecdota has often been highlighted. Some suppose that it consisted of three originally separate parts,191 and the idea is also considered that the work was actually a sort of “quarry” and originally contained passages which could then still be integrated into the Bella after all. Usually, as already mentioned, the Anecdota are understood as a commentary on the Bella,192 an idea suggested by the remarks of Procopius himself in the preface.193 Finally, there are also approaches that consider the Bella, De aedificiis, Anecdota and the promised Historia Ecclesiastica as an attempt by Procopius to create a complete picture of his times through the sum of very different works.194 These and other suggestions doubtless have their attractions. Nevertheless, they appear to overlook the solution that is, in my view, the simplest, and they seem to miss the core of the problem. Thus, above all, they cannot explain in a satisfactory way why Procopius should have taken the enormous risk of writing the “Secret History” in the first place without having to do so, and, it should be noted, while revealing unambiguous clues to his identity.195 This was no test of courage, this

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of the greatest constructors of all of Roman history is not just obvious from the archaeological record but is also the reason Procopius wrote De aedificiis. Cf. Brubaker 2004: 101: “The Secret History is a successful piece of fiction, a brilliant parody on the imperial panegyric”. See also Constantinou 2013. Whether a text, such as the Anecdota, which mixes reality and invention, can be described as fictional is, in my view, mainly a question of definition. Although it should be conceded that attacks which were evidently absurd and false can also be effective and can be a successful strategy for character assassination. However, that presupposes publication. Cf. Adshead 1993. Cf. Leppin/Meier 2005: 359; Treadgold 2007: 205–213. αἴτιον δὲ, ὅτι δὴ οὐχ οἷόν τε ἦν περιόντων ἔτι τῶν αὐτὰ εἰγρασμένων ὅτῳ δεῖ ἀναγράφεσθαι τρόπῳ (Proc. An. 1.2). Cf. Cameron 1985. According to Cameron, the works actually form “a conceptual unity” (238). However, this thesis is modified in Cameron 2000. Cf. most recently (approvingly) Schäfer 2006: 275 f. Although Procopius does not mention his name in the preface, he identifies himself unambiguously by referring to the Bella and his home town (“my dear Caesarea”, Proc. An. 11.25), and he appears to assume at all times that the reader knows whose text he has in front of him. We do not know whether the author was named in the title, but as the text first became publicly known in the Middle Ages, it must have been possible to assign it to its author beyond doubt: ὅτι τὸ βιβλίον Προκοπίου τὸ καλούμενον Ἀνέκδοτα ψόγους καὶ κωμῳδίαν Ἰουστινιάνου

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was an admission of high treason, and the introduction to the text emphasizes explicitly that the author will be threatened with death if he is found out (Proc. An. 1.2). But this statement, too, has another function, for in claiming that he is not able to speak freely as long as Justinian is alive, Procopius is saying nothing other than the following: if a senator like himself can no longer speak openly, the government represents a tyranny. However, if Procopius had only been concerned with expressing his ‘true opinion’ of Justinian and venting his supposed hatred, he could have done this just as well anonymously, just as the author who attacked Majorian in around 460 (see above). The statements in the preface should, therefore, not simply be accepted as reliable. If they were intended to construct a fiction, this would, at any rate, not be the only such case in late antique literature.196 For this reason, I would like to take up, modify and extend upon an approach developed by Juan Signes Codoñer a few years ago: he suggested that the Anecdota expressed the hope that a change of power in the Roman Empire was approaching and that Procopius hoped that Justinian’s cousin Germanus would shortly accede to the throne.197 In my view, this idea points in the right direction, but the postulated reference to Germanus, who appears to have always been loyal to Justinian, does not seem too convincing.198 It is true that the Anecdota can be most readily explained if Procopius expected a change of regime to be imminent and if he anticipated a possible violent overthrow which would afterwards declare Justinian a tyrant. The fact alone that the emperor refused all his life to settle the question of who was to succeed him made a bloody power struggle likely. But one can hardly imagine Germanus to have made such a radical break with his predecessor – would he have enjoyed being regarded as the cousin of the antichrist (see below)? Many passages in Procopius’ work show that a coup d’état or perhaps even a civil war appeared to be in the air around 550.199 However, in my view it is not possible to say who the person was who was considered capable of overthrowing Justinian. Germanus, at any rate, is an unlikely candidate, and Belisarius, still the positive

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βασιλέως περιέχοι καὶ τῆς αὐτοῦ γυναικὸς Θεοδώρας, ἀλλὰ μὴν καὶ αὐτοῦ Βελισαρίου καὶ τῆς γαμετῆς αὐτοῦ (Suda Π 2479). The Historia Augusta serves as a prominent example of the fact that a text is not necessarily what it claims to be: along with the vast majority of scholars, I assume that the work only purports to have been written by six different authors in around 300, and that it was actually the work of a single author in around 400. Cf. Dessau 1889 and Haake (in this volume). Cf. Signes Codoñer 2003a. Germanus is, indeed, described in very positive terms in the Bella; cf. Proc. Hist. 7.40.9. On Germanus cf. PLRE II: 505–507. The episode, mentioned earlier, concerning the fall of the praefectus praetorio, John (Proc. Hist. 1.25), already illustrates that conspiracies against the emperor were expected. Moreover, Procopius claims in the “Buildings” that men who had been found guilty of planning the overthrow and murder of Justinian were still in possession of their property and even continued to serve as generals (Proc. Aed. 1.1.16). This may refer to the plot which Procopius recounts in the Bella (Proc. Hist. 7.32), as he says there that the conspirators found guilty around Artabanes had been spared (Proc. Hist. 7.32.51), and that Artabanes later served as a general in Sicily (Proc. Hist. 8.24.1). However, this is not certain, as Procopius does not mention any names in De aedificiis.

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hero for large parts of the Bella,200 becomes a figure of ridicule in the Anecdota. Although he was no longer magister militum at this point he could, as a comes sacri stabuli and patricius, still be considered a very influential man despite the dent in his career,201 but he, too, was in all likelihood not the person whom his erstwhile confidant Procopius was expecting to reach for power.202 But perhaps one can go further? For the apparently so obvious view that the Anecdota necessarily provide evidence for Procopius’ hope for a change of power is at least problematic when examined more closely. This is because Procopius was, going on everything that is known about him, by no means a victim of Justinian’s regime. Rather, he owed his career not just to Belisarius but first and foremost, of course, to Justinian himself. Procopius was a beneficiary and perhaps even a representative of this emperor’s rule, regardless of how he may have felt about him. One may well think of men such as Tacitus and Pliny in this context, who first had a Senate career under Domitian and then, after the latter’s assassination, tried as hard as they could to distance themselves from that emperor.203 In short: is it perhaps possible to explain the Anecdota as a senator’s attempt to prepare himself for an anticipated change of regime by crossing the line in an extreme way? If this is correct, the Anecdota were not intended to convince the reader that Justinian was wicked, but, above all, that Procopius was his enemy. For this reason, the credibility of the concrete accusation was as secondary as the question of their author’s “true opinion”.204 This supposition would in itself already explain the unparalleled vehemence of the work as well as the question of why it remained unfinished: the anticipated overthrow did not happen. This would not necessarily have been a cause of distress for Procopius, regardless of the strident tone which dominates the Anecdota. If a regime change had occurred, would it not have meant that delatores would have had a field day with him?205 As a close assistant of Justinian’s most important general, he was without doubt an exponent and beneficiary of the regime which he was attacking so fiercely. Thus, I would surmise that the time at which the Anecdota came into being marks a situation of crisis in which it seemed advisable to distance himself from Justinian prophylactically and, for the time being, secretly. Presumably only few 200 On Belisarius in Procopius cf. Brodka 2004: 115–120. 201 Other sources also bear witness to the fact that the general had lost the emperor’s favor somewhat in the 540s: Belisarius de Oriente evocatus in offensam periculumque incurrens grave et invidiae subiacens rursus remittitur ad Italiam; Marc. Com. ad ann. 545.3. 202 One might rather suppose that an attack by representatives of the Anastasian regime was expected – similarly to the situation in 532 when Hypatius’ hesitant attempt to seize power very nearly succeeded. However, most of these men had probably died by around 550. 203 Cf. Flower 2006: 262–265. 204 The separation between narrator and author is irrelevant in this case, since the text breaks taboos to such an extent that its author would have had to expect severe punishment, regardless of whether the accusations reflected his own opinions. Breaking taboos was the point. 205 Accusing others before the emperor was a widespread practice among the late antique elite, too. The complaint of the patricius Rufinus in around 525 against the magister militum Hypatius, a representative of the previous regime, is an example from Procopius’ own time; cf. Proc. Hist. 1.11.38 f.

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intimates would have had knowledge of this and been allowed to see the hurriedly written pamphlet, which would explain why it survived at all. In this regard it is not of particular importance whether the time in question was in 558, as I still consider possible, or whether it was already in 550 (which is much more likely). In any case, Procopius must have spent years working on the Bella, while the Anecdota were clearly put to paper in rather a hurry.206 Particularly if one does not assume that a change of heart on the part of the author is necessary to explain the “Secret History”, it is just as likely that only a few months passed or that several years did between the publication of the first seven books of the Bella and the writing of the Anecdota.207 Procopius displayed astonishing creativity in this situation, even if we have nothing to compare his work to in order to determine definitively how innovative the “Secret History” really was. For, of course, as already demonstrated, above all, Procopius makes generous use of the reservoir of statements traditionally used in criticizing a ruler, although he carries them to the extreme. But further, new elements are added to this, which have hardly been addressed here so far but which represent an important reason for the fascination that the work exerts to this day. First of all, this is the denigration, which in parts degenerates into the obscene and pornographic, of the Augusta Theodora, who, at that point, had already died.208 The low birth of the empress was no secret and was also circulated by those who described her in positive terms.209 Procopius deliberately turns the reverence for the deceased wife of the ruler210 into its opposite: the saint is turned back into a whore. However, the central attack on Justinian is, of course, even more spectacular. Full of bloodthirstiness (μιαιφονία; Proc. An. 18.27), he allegedly brought death and ruin to millions of people, Romans and non-Romans. The emperor, who, after all, promoted divinely mandated rule more strongly than all of his predecessors and presented himself as Christ’s instrument, is turned into a demonic ruler in the “Secret History” (δαιμόνων ἄρχων; Proc. An. 12.26; 12.32), who haunts the palace headless at night (Proc. An. 12.20 f.) and strives to damage the Imperium Romanum and its inhabitants by all means possible. Even if, on the evidence of the Bella, Procopius was not unfamiliar with a typically late antique belief in miracles and demons,211 his aim in the Anecdota is obviously simply to offer literally a negative version of the emperor’s official self-representation and that of his environment, a

206 Cf. Leppin/Meier 2005: 287. 207 The allusions and parallels between the works (cf. Haury 1936), however, suggest that there is little temporal distance between them. 208 Proc. An. 9 f. Cf. e. g. Fisher 1978; Beck 1986; Angold 1996. 209 Cf. Joh. Eph. Vita 13 (PO 17.189). 210 Theodora evidently served as a stabilising element for Justinian’s rule in particular after her death, not least with regard to the Miaphysites. It is quite reminiscent of the cult surrounding Evita Peron in modern Argentina; cf. Foss 2001. 211 Just to give an example, the Christian ἀνὴρ δίκαιος, Jacobus, works a miracle in around 502 in the face of the Persians’ Hunnish auxiliary forces (Proc. Hist. 1.7.5–11).

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deliberately grotesque reversal into the exact opposite.212 It is a travesty of the sacral legitimation of authority: Justinian, who, like Justin I before him, lacked dynastic legitimation – as Procopius remarks in the Bella (see above) –, laid particularly strong emphasis on the concept of rule ἐκ θεοῦ. The Anecdota in their turn try to turn this intended immunization against criticism into its opposite by presenting the emperor himself as the antichrist.213 As the Augustus claimed in his self-representation to watch over all men like a father214 due to his imitatio Christi and to preserve God’s favor for the entire oikoumene in this way, it is only consistent for the Anecdota conversely to blame him for natural disasters and the plague. Thus, with his self-representation, Justinian himself offers the backdrop against which the most radical attacks against him are made plausible in the first place. It is through these, in turn, that Procopius is able to depict this emperor, in particular, as a terrifying ruler, who is not only part of the same group as the tyrants of the past but who exceeds these with a horror that cannot be surpassed in the future. Incidentally, the reader of the “Secret History” was able to take pleasure in a cross reference to the Bella, here – if the praefectus praetorio, John, was, as mentioned, one of the δαίμονες there, then his lord, Justinian, was quite logically the δαιμόνων ἄρχων in the Anecdota. The attacks in the Anecdota need not be linked to any possible connection of Procopius’ with a Neoplatonic pagan opposition, as has been supposed in recent years,215 for Procopius presents himself as a Christian in the “Secret History”, too.216 Yet it is certain that the identification of an emperor with the antichrist is unparalleled, to my knowledge, in surviving ancient historiography, a tradition within which Procopius places himself on principle in the Anecdota, too.217 There must have been a good reason for this radical step.218 However, the assumption that this reason must be found in the historian’s genuine hatred for the emperor is unfounded.219

212 Cf. Kaldellis 2010a: xl–xlviii, who, however, assumes that the attacks in the Anecdota reflect their author’s authentic criticism. 213 In the gospels, the Antichrist, or rather, Beelzebub, is also described as δαιμόνων ἄρχων; cf. Matt. 9.34; Mark 3.22; Luke 11.15. 214 ὁ μετὰ θεὸν κοινὸς ἅπασι πατήρ (Nov. Iust. 98.2). 215 Cf. Kaldellis 2004b. 216 Cf. Proc. An. 18.3. 217 This is suggested by the preface. However, notwithstanding the unambiguous clues to his identity, the name of the author is not given explicitly, although this had been typical for historiography since Herodotus. 218 I do not deny that religious patterns of explanation and religious sentiments could in principle by all means characterise the actions of individual players in Late Antiquity (too), but it seems to be me to be methodologically very difficult to prove this in concrete cases, particularly as one must always assume a whole range of motives especially with regard to those individuals acting on the political stage. 219 Mischa Meier seems to assume that Procopius’ identification of Justinian with the antichrist was serious; cf. Meier 2003a: 86–89. Leppin 2011: 16 f. is more cautious.

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5. CONCLUSION In my view two factors provide the key to the two works that gave Procopius the reputation of being the last great historian of antiquity, namely the Bella and the Anecdota. First, the tradition of Greek historiography, supplemented by elements of senatorial historiography, play a role that can hardly be overestimated. This is reflected not only in historical method and Atticizing style, but also in the way in which Procopius and other historians address the matter of monocracy. Alongside mimesis of their predecessors, the relationship between the social and political elite and the emperor, always precarious, will have been of significance in this context. This circumstance points already to the second important factor, which, in my opinion, has received far too little attention in scholarship: in Late Antiquity, classicizing historiography was an important vehicle with which members of the upper class could express their view of the world and their self-image.220 “Roman history, Republican or Imperial, is the history of the governing class” (Ronald Syme).221 But as in all periods, the late Roman aristocracy, of which Procopius had at least risen to be a member, was never a homogenous group, either. In a system in which the emperor and his court were the main source of honores and dignitates,222 rivalry for these resources was particularly pronounced among the elite.223 There were always winners and losers, and thus the beginning of Justinian’s dynasty doubtlessly marked the end of the power of a group of men who had made their careers under Justin’s predecessor, Anastasius.224 By contrast, Procopius was one of the winners. Shortly after Justinian had become the sole ruler, the rapid rise of the general Belisarius began, and his adsessor and consiliarius must have also benefitted from this. Although the army leader’s star began to fade after 540, he never fell from favor permanently and was, instead, assigned an important military command as late as 559.225 Procopius decided to begin putting the Bella on paper in around 545. In doing so, he followed such models as Olympiodorus and Priscus, but he had to grapple with the unusual and uncomfortable situation of writing about the times of an emperor who was still in power. The problem of integrating into the work the distance and “Kaiserkritik” required by tradition in a way that did not cause the author to fall from favor demanded considerable narrative skill to solve it. This, combined with the overall fairly great reliability and the literary quality of the Bella, is likely to 220 221 222 223

On the late Roman upper class, cf. most recently Alföldy 2011: 284–293. Syme 1939: 7. Cf. Potter 2006. Cf. Jones 1964: 383. Cf. Noethlichs 1998; Kelly 2004: 64–104. Questions of rank were very important and were regulated by laws; cf. Demandt 2007: 260. 224 John Lydus is likely to have belonged to this group, especially given that his career stalled considerably under John the Cappadocian; cf. PLRE II: 612–615. Kaldellis considers Lydus not to have been Christian; cf. Kaldellis 2003. 225 Cf. Mal. 18.129 (= 421 f. Thurn). It is true that Belisarius was suspected of high treason and placed under house arrest in December 562, but the Anecdota had been written long since by this time. Furthermore, Belisarius was rehabilitated already in July 563; cf. Theoph. AM 6055.

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have contributed to the text’s rapid dissemination. In this context, it should be stressed that, precisely because the “Kaiserkritik” complies entirely with the traditional categories with regard to content, the Bella allows no inference concerning the author’s actual attitude towards Justinian. It appears that Procopius’ careful distancing from the emperor was simply intended to comply with the expectations of the audience,226 who belonged to the educated elite of the Eastern Roman Empire. The idea that he was, in reality, writing for a senatorial opposition of which he was a member and which secretly hated Justinian is ultimately speculation that confuses the narrator of the Bella with its author. To repeat it once again: in my view it is simply impossible to tell from Procopius’ works what his personal attitude towards Justinian was. The fact that Procopius belonged to the senatorial ruling class of Justinianic times,227 then, also finally provides a new suggestion of how to understand the infamous “Secret History”. Up until now, scholarship has mostly taken the remarks in the preface of the work at face value and has thus read it as a secret commentary to the Bella in which Procopius was able to write everything that accorded with his opinion, but which would doubtless have cost him his head if it had been published. However, this idea is not just based on the ultimately unfounded premise that the unpublished pamphlet reflected in principle the ‘true conviction’ of the author,228 but it is also unable to explain why Procopius, if he really was interested in the matter itself, did not choose the tested method of simply publishing his criticism anonymously. Instead he gave unambiguous clues as to the identity of the author, which is why it is no coincidence that the text was always transmitted under his name. As a solution to this problem it has been suggested here that the Anecdota perhaps owe their existence to a particular crisis situation in which the author thought Justinian’s rule was about to come to a violent end. In any case, he must have expected Justinian’s successor to distance himself from his predecessor in a radical way, and the hypothesis is that Procopius wanted to be prepared for that moment. He, the closest colleague of Justinian’s most important general, would have been able to defend himself against potential delatores by referring to the Anecdota and for this he would have accepted the enormous risk that was connected to this work. Of course, this hypothesis, which differs radically from the generally accepted view, is very daring, since it operates with many unknowns – as do, however, all previous attempts at explanation. Thus, doubtlessly not everyone will want to accept the idea that one can dismiss the statements of the text about itself to the extent that I suggest, but instead, one may want to take more seriously ancient historiography’s claim to be recording true events.229 Furthermore, it must be admitted that 226 Cf. Lucian. de hist. 41. 227 On the late antique senatus cf. Szidat 2010: 379–387 (with references to further secondary literature). 228 To exaggerate: the “Secret History” was not a diary. 229 I have elaborated elsewhere on my own view, according to which ancient historiography should be seen within the area of tension between fictional and factual narrative; cf. Börm 2007: 70–74.

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nothing is otherwise known of a concrete plan to overthrow Justinian in around 550 (or 558),230 and one of the other questions that remain unanswered is why Procopius did not dispose of the Anecdota after the putative phase of crisis.231 The explanation suggested here is, therefore, intended above all as a contribution to the debate. I believe that it offers better explanations for some phenomena than earlier suggestions because it asks what the specific function of the text was instead of trying to determine the author’s ‘true opinion’. Procopius wrote the Anecdota hastily and probably soon after the publication of the Bella. In doing so, he adopted a tone which was more strident than anything that had gone before and which incorporated the worst possible accusations that could be levelled at the emperor while, on the other hand, the text, unusually, in effect reveals the author’s identity. Both points support the idea that it was desperation that forced Procopius to take on this enormous risk. Moreover, the fact that the overthrow of Justinian never took place could perhaps explain why there was no revision of the text that owed its existence to a temporary crisis. If this crisis really is to be dated to the year 550/1, Procopius, who published the eighth book of the Bella in 553 at the earliest, survived it – just like his emperor. BIBLIOGRAPHY Adshead, K. 1993. “The Secret History of Procopius and Its Genesis”. Byzantion 63: 5–28. Ahl, F. 1984. “The Art of Safe Criticism in Greece and Rome”. AJPh 105: 174–208. Alföldy, G. 2011. Römische Sozialgeschichte. 4th ed. Stuttgart: Steiner. Angold, M. 1996. “Procopius’ Portrait of Theodora”. In Philhellen. Studies in Honour of Robert Browning, Constantinides, C. ed., 21–34. Venice: Istituto Ellenico di Studi Bizantini e Postbizantini di Venezia. Arnold, J. 2014. Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Baldini, A. 2004. Ricerche di tarda storiografia (da Olimpiodoro di Tebe). Bologna: Pàtron. Barker, E. 1969. Social and Political Thought in Byzantium. Oxford: Clarendon. Beck, H.-G. 1986. Kaiserin Theodora und Prokop. Der Historiker und sein Opfer. Munich: Piper. Bell, P. 2009. Three Political Voices from the Age of Justinian. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Bell, P. 2012. Social Conflict in the Age of Justinian. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bleckmann, B. 2010. “Constantinus tyrannus: Das negative Konstantinsbild in der paganen Historiographie und seine Nuancen”. In Private and Public Lies. The Discourse of Despotism and Deceit in the Graeco-Roman World, Turner, A. et al. eds., 343–354. Leiden: Brill. Blockley, R. ed. 1983. The Fragmentary Classicising Historians of the Later Roman Empire. Liverpool: Cairns. 230 However, given the general incompleteness of our knowledge with regard to events in antiquity – even in the face of a comparatively well-documented phase such as Justinian’s reign – this is a rather weak objection. 231 Perhaps one of the readers to whom Procopius showed the text in confidence kept it against his will? The fact that, as mentioned, there is no reference at all to the work prior to the tenth century argues against Procopius ever having published the Anecdota. Moreover, the text survives in a single manuscript, in contrast, for example, to the Bella.

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Börm, H. 2006. “Der Perserkönig im Imperium Romanum. Chosroes I. und der sasanidische Einfall in das Oströmische Reich 540 n. Chr.” Chiron 36: 299–328. Börm, H. 2007. Prokop und die Perser. Untersuchungen zu den römisch-sasanidischen Kontakten in der ausgehenden Spätantike. Stuttgart: Steiner. Börm, H. 2008a. “Die Herrschaft des Kaisers Maximinus Thrax und das Sechskaiserjahr 238 – der Beginn der Reichskrise?” Gymnasium 115: 69–86. Börm, H. 2008b. “‘Es war allerdings nicht so, dass sie es im Sinne eines Tributes erhielten, wie viele meinten…’ Anlässe und Funktion der persischen Geldforderungen an die Römer”. Historia 57: 327–346. Börm, H. 2008c. “Das Königtum der Sasaniden – Strukturen und Probleme. Bemerkungen aus althistorischer Sicht”. Klio 90: 423–443. Börm, H. 2008d. “Das weströmische Kaisertum nach 476”. In Monumentum et instrumentum inscriptum, Börm, H. / Ehrhardt, N. / Wiesehöfer, J. eds., 47–69. Stuttgart: Steiner. Börm, H. 2010. “Herrscher und Elite in der Spätantike”. In Commutatio et contentio. Studies in the Late Roman, Sasanian, and Early Islamic Near East, Börm, H. / Wiesehöfer, J. eds., 159–198. Düsseldorf: Wellem. Börm, H. 2013a. Westrom. Von Honorius bis Justinian. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Börm, H. 2013b. “Procopius of Caesarea”. In Encyclopaedia Iranica online, Yarshater, E. ed. Börm, H. 2013c. “Justinians Triumph und Belisars Erniedrigung. Überlegungen zum Verhältnis zwischen Kaiser und Militär im späten Römischen Reich”. Chiron 43: 63–91. Börm, H. 2015. “Born to be Emperor. The Principle of Succession and the Roman Monarchy”. In Contested Monarchy, Wienand, J. ed., 239–264. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Börm, H. (forthcoming). “Procopius and the East”. In A Companion to Procopius, Meier, M. ed., Leiden/Boston: Brill. Bornmann, F. 1974. “Motivi tucididei in Procopio”. A&R 19: 140–147. Brandes, W. 1997. “Anastasios ὁ δίκορος. Endzeiterwartung und Kaiserkritik in Byzanz um 500 n. Chr.” ByzZ 90: 24–63. Brandes, W. ed. 2010. Antichrist. Konstruktionen von Feindbildern. Berlin: Akademie. Brodka, D. 1998. “Das Bild des Perserkönigs Chosroes I. in den bella des Prokopios von Kaisareia”. In Studies of Greek and Roman Civilization, Styka, J. ed., 115–124. Cracow: Ksiegarnia Akademicka. Brodka, D. 2004. Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie. Studien zu Prokopios von Kaisareia, Agathias von Myrina und Theophylaktos Simokattes. Frankfurt: Lang. Brodka, D. 2009. “Pragmatismus und Klassizismus im historischen Diskurs des Priskos von Panion”. In Jenseits der Grenzen. Beiträge zur spätantiken und frühmittelalterlichen Geschichtsschreibung, Goltz, A. et al. eds., 11–24. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. Brown, A. 2010. “Justinian, Procopius, and Deception: Literary Lies, Imperial Politics, and the Archaeology of Sixth-Century Greece”. In Private and Public Lies. The Discourse of Despotism and Deceit in the Graeco-Roman World, Turner, A. et. al. eds., 355–370. Leiden: Brill. Brubaker, L. 2004. “Sex, Lies, and Intertextuality. The Secret History of Prokopios and the Rhetoric of Gender in Sixth-Century Byzantium”. In Gender in the Early Medieval World. East and West, 300–900, Brubaker, L. / Smith, J. eds., 83–101. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Buck, D. F. 1998. “The Reign of Arcadius in Eunapius’ Histories.” Byzantion 68: 15–46. Carolla, P. ed. 2008. Priscus Panita. Excerpta et fragmenta. Berlin: De Gruyter. Cameron, Al. 1993. Barbarians and Politics and the Court of Arcadius. Berkeley: University of California Press. Cameron, Av. 1966. “The ‘Scepticism’ of Procopius”. Historia 15: 6–25. Cameron, Av. 1970. Agathias. Oxford: Clarendon. Cameron, Av. 1977. “Early Byzantine Kaiserkritik: Two Case Histories”. BMGS 3: 1–17. Cameron, Av. 1985. Procopius and the Sixth Century. London: Duckworth. Cameron, Av. 1986. “History as Text. Coping with Procopius”. In The Inheritance of Historiography 350–900, Holdsworth, C. / Wiseman, T. eds., 53–66. Exeter: Exeter University Publications.

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CONTRIBUTORS Henning Börm is Akademischer Rat in Ancient History at Konstanz University. Mihály Loránd Dészpa is Akademischer Rat in Ancient History at the Ruprecht-Karls-Universität Heidelberg. Steffen Diefenbach is Juniordozent in Ancient History at Konstanz University. Ulrich Gotter is Professor of Ancient History at Konstanz University. Matthias Haake is Akademischer Rat in Ancient History at the Westfälische Wilhelms-Universität Münster. Ann-Cathrin Harders is Juniorprofessorin of Ancient History at Bielefeld University. Nino Luraghi is D. Magie Professor of Classics at Princeton University. Meron M. Piotrkowski is a postdoctoral researcher at the Hebrew University Jerusalem. Johann Friedrich Quack is Professor of Egyptology at the Ruprecht-Karls-Universität Heidelberg. Federico Russo is a postdoctoral researcher at Vienna University. Hans-Ulrich Wiemer is Professor of Ancient History at the Friedrich-Alexander-Universität Erlangen-Nuremberg. Josef Wiesehöfer is Professor of Ancient History at the Christian-Albrechts-Universität Kiel.

GENERAL INDEX Accius: 160 f. Achaemenids: 14, 45, 47–53, 55, 57–61, 117 Acropolis: 73, 120, 132, 135, 189 Agamemnon: 161 Agathias: 318, 323, 324 Agonippus: 73, 76, 114, 132 Agrippa: 222 f. Aischines: 91–93 Akragas: 72 f., 75, 79 Alcmaeonids: 74, 77 Alexander the Great: 14, 55 f., 73, 85–112, 115, 132, 186, 250, 316 Alexander Jannaeus: 251–256, 263 Alexandria (Egypt): 87 f., 98, 101, 104, 108, 185, 188 f., 192, 194, 198 Amenemhat: 29 Ammianus Marcellinus: 317 f., 328 Amulius: 154–158, 172, 175 Anastasius (emperor): 312, 321 f., 333, 336 Anthemius: 312 Antigonus I Monophthalmus: 87, 118 f., 124, 128 f., 137, 140, 142, 187 Antioch (Orontes): 189, 206, 317 Antiochus I (Commagene): 15 Antiochus III (Seleucid king): 89, 194, 197 Antiochus IV (Seleucid king): 250 Antoninus Pius: 226, 275 f., 278, 290 Apollo: 91, 164, 187 Appian: 184, 185, 187 Arcadius: 317, 319 Archelaus: 259 f. Ardashir I: 56 Aristagoras: 74 Aristobulus I: 252–254, 262 f. Aristobulus II: 258 Aristocracy: 12 f., 15, 18, 55, 56 f., 63, 67–69, 79 f., 105, 113, 169, 182 f., 195 f., 200, 216, 220, 228, 250–253, 256, 258, 265, 293 f., 309, 313, 315 f., 321, 322 f., 336 Aristodemus: 72, 73 Aristogeiton: 16, 185 Aristomachus: 114 Aristotimus: 114 Aristotle: 11, 12, 61, 72 f., 76–78, 81, 94, 102–104, 108, 172, 249, 251 Aristoxenos: 103 f.

Armenia, Armenians: 50, 189, 239, 315 Arrian: 106 Arsacids: 55 f. Artaxerxes I: 51 f. Asia Minor: 12, 14, 58, 67, 86, 89, 184 f., 189, 193, 204, 228 Assurbanipal: 11 Assyria: 11, 25, 46, 53, 59, 62 Athena: 88, 119–122, 128, 135, 137 f., 145, 187 Athenaeus: 96, 118, 127 f., 139 Athens: 12, 16, 58, 67 f., 80, 90–95, 98, 101, 108, 117–128, 130 f., 134–146, 184–187, 189, 192 Augustus (Octavian): 16 f., 184 f., 187 f., 190–199, 200 f., 208, 215–217, 219, 220–223, 228–230, 241–243, 259 f., 275, 287, 280, 293, 306, 321, 326 Auramazda: 47–51, 53 Aurelius Victor: 202, 286, 287 Ausonius: 287 Avesta: 50, 52–54, 57, 62 Babylonia: 46, 49, 50 f., 53, 57, 59, 62, 104, 122, 249 Bacchylides: 79 basileia, basileus: 12, 14, 15, 91, 114, 125, 133, 142, 156, 183, 192, 196, 206, 208, 305, 310, 311 basilissa: 15, 183, 184–209 Belisarius: 307, 324, 329, 332 f., 336 Berenice: 204, 208 Bisutun: 48–52 Caesar (dictator): 16, 173, 184, 191, 194, 196, 207, 215, 223, 237, 270, 291 Caligula: 200, 224, 275, 280, 318 Callisthenes: 98, 86, 94, 96, 101–103, 108 Candidus: 306 Cannae (battle): 162, 164, 167, 168, 175 Caracalla: 192, 202, 290 Carinus: 270, 280, 287, 319 Carneades: 105 Cassander: 87, 90, 118 f., 130 Cassius Dio: 16, 17, 184, 187, 188–192, 195–204, 217, 244, 246, 322, 327 Chaironeia (battle): 90, 95 Christians, Christianity: 19 f., 269, 305, 311, 317 f., 322, 334, 336

350

General Index

Cicero: 100–105, 107, 155, 157, 160 f., 170, 187, 195, 203, 222, 237, 251, 324 Civil war, civil strife: 13, 16, 17, 69, 80 f., 163, 183, 186, 191, 196, 208, 216 f., 220, 222 f., 225, 229, 251, 255, 256, 263, 309, 332 Claudius (emperor): 200–203, 208, 215, 224, 227 f., 238 f., 241, 279 Claudius Gothicus: 275, 278 Cleisthenes of Sikyon: 68 Cleopatra VII: 181–198, 202 f., 205 f., 207 f., 209, 288 Commodus: 215, 223, 226 f., 277, 282, 318 Constantine the Great: 18 f., 270, 278, 281, 293, 306, 321 Constantius I: 278 Constantius II: 270, 317 f. Corcyra: 13, 75 Corinth: 11, 70, 71, 74 f., 120, 165 Coriolanus: 173 Ctesias: 58–60 Curtius Rufus: 85, 99, 102 Cypselids: 11, 70, 78, 165 Cyrus II: 49, 55, 58, 60, 316 damnatio memoriae: 28, 225, 279 Daniel (bible): 34, 51, 253 Darius I: 12, 47 f., 50, 51 f., 60, 62 Darius III: 100, 103 Delphi: 75, 78, 91 f., 120, 122, 125, 129, 163–165, 167, 175 Demetrius I Poliorcetes: 90, 94, 113–147, 187 Demetrius III (Seleucid king): 255 Demetrius of Phalerum: 94, 95, 102, 104 Demochares: 94 f., 127, 135 f., 139–146 Democracy: 12 f., 27, 77, 90, 94 f., 108, 113, 118 f., 129, 141, 144, 251 Demosthenes: 91–93, 95, 105, 108, 142 Demotic Chronicle: 34–39 Didius Julianus: 215, 284 Diocles: 154 Diocletian: 18, 270, 275, 281, 289 f. Diodorus Siculus: 98, 100, 119, 122 Diogenes of Babylon: 104 Diogenes of Sinope: 107 Dionysia: 121 f., 125, 136 f. Dionysius (tyrant): 76, 119, 165 Dionysius of Halicarnassus: 101, 171 f., 321 Dionysus: 87, 96, 97, 99, 122, 125, 129, 146, 186–188, 192, 196 Domitian: 215, 225, 231, 238, 241, 261, 264, 280, 318, 329, 333 Domitius Corbulo: 238 f., 241

drauga: 48, 51–53, 62 Dromocleides: 122, 125, 127, 129 f., 133 Duris of Samos: 101, 122, 126 f., 136, 139–141, 144 Egypt: 10 f., 14, 15, 25–39, 48, 51, 78, 87, 96, 101, 181 f., 189–198, 202–204, 208, 257, 319 Emperor: 16–20, 200 f., 205, 215–246, 261–263, 305 f. Empress: 200–204, 334 Ennius: 153, 156–168, 175 f. Ephesus: 76, 86, 98, 185 Ephippos: 96–98, 108 Eratosthenes: 154 Euergetism: 115, 116, 119, 187, 189 Eunapius: 306, 319 Eunuchs: 60, 182, 192, 195, 198, 205, 257, 283, 289, 290, 318, 320, 321, 329 Euripides: 161 Eurysilaus: 114, 132 Eusebius of Caesarea: 322 Eutropius: 287 Fabius Maximus “Cunctator”: 153–175 Fabius Pictor: 154–158, 163–167, 174–176 Firdausi: 56 Flavian dynasty: 225, 227, 251, 260–263 Flavius Josephus: 249–265, 328 Florus: 192, 195, 241–243, 246 Freedom: 12–17, 30, 58, 62, 94 f., 141 f., 222 Fulvia: 195, 203 Galba: 215, 223, 224 f. Gallienus: 205, 209, 288 f., 318 Gauls: 163, 239 Gelimer: 312 Gordian III: 281, 282–285 Goths: 209, 309 f., 315 Gracchi: 163, 168, 170, 174 Great King: 15, 47–50, 61, 117 Hadrian: 215, 223, 225 f., 228, 236, 243–246, 270, 275 f. Hannibal: 162 f., 166, 170–172 Harmodius: 16, 185 Hasdrubal: 174 f. Hasmoneans: 15, 204, 208, 249–265 Hegesias: 100 f. Heliogabalus, Elagabal: 215, 270, 280, 282, 289 Heraclius: 305 Herakleopolis: 35 Herod the Great: 196, 252, 259 f. Herodotus: 12, 17, 58 f., 71, 74, 76–78, 80, 156, 184, 251, 321, 335

General Index Historia Augusta: 201, 204–206, 225 f., 246, 269–294, 332 Homer: 11, 12, 56, 79, 86 Honorius: 310 f. hybris: 58, 91, 97, 164 f., 167, 194 ignavia: 236–240 inertia: 240–243, 246 Ipuwer: 32 f. Isocrates: 60 f., 113–115 Israel: 10, 39, 265 Italy: 12, 154, 184, 189, 191, 223, 242, 245, 308, 309 Jerusalem: 250, 253, 255, 265 John (usurper): 309 John Hyrcanus: 251–253, 264 John the Cappadocian: 314, 332, 335, 336 Julia Domna: 201 f., 208 Justin I: 312, 324, 327 Justin II: 311 Justinian: 18, 306 f., 310–312, 315 f., 327–338 Kairsu: 29 f. Kaisergeschichte: 287 Kaiserkritik: 216, 293, 306, 308, 317–323, 328, 336 f. Kalanos: 106 Kavadh I: 313, 315 Kayanids: 54–56 Khusro I: 54, 56, 312 f., 315 King’s novel: 27 Kleitarchos: 87, 98–101, 106, 108 kolakeia: 97, 131, 139, 141–144 lex de imperio Vespasiani: 227 Licinius: 281 Livia: 190, 198–201, 203, 208 Livy: 163–167, 170–175, 195, 236 Lucan: 85, 102, 191 Lydia: 11, 67, 73, 75 Macedon: 13, 15, 87, 89 f., 93–86, 100, 119, 121, 125, 140, 143 f., 160, 184, 197 Machiavelli: 235 f. Maecenas: 223, 322 Majorian: 308 f. Malchus: 306, 321 Manetho: 25 Marcus Aurelius: 201, 223, 226, 276 f., 284, 290 Mark Antony: 181–199, 205, 207 f., 224 Maxentius: 281, 322 Maximinus Thrax: 275, 283–286, 305 Memnon: 73 Merikare: 27, 29 Mesopotamia: 45 f., 48, 62, 225

351

Messalina: 202 f., 277 metabole: 140–145 metis: 73–76 Miletus: 73, 74, 142, 325 Minucius Rufus: 166–169 Mithridates VI of Pontus: 186 Myron of Sicyon: 74, 77, 78 Naevius: 154–158, 161, 176 Nectanebo: 35–38 Nero: 200–203, 223–225, 251, 264, 275, 329 Nicolaus of Damascus: 74, 260 Nika riot: 313 Octavia: 181 f., 186–188, 193, 198 f., 202, 207 Odysseus: 11 Olympia: 78 f., 99, 117, 120, 129 Olympiodorus: 209, 309, 319 f., 327 Onesikritos: 86, 99, 105 f. Otho: 225 Paganism: 252, 269, 272, 281, 314, 320, 335 Panaitios: 104 f. Periander: 71, 74–77 Persia: 12, 15, 25, 35, 37, 39, 45–63. 77, 86, 92, 97, 99 f., 102, 107 f., 126, 192, 205, 250, 307, 312 f., 328 Phalaris: 72, 73, 75 Pharaoh: 25–39, 192 f., 197 Pheidon of Argos: 165 Philip II of Macedon: 90, 93, 94, 103–105, 113, 143, 188 Philippi: 184, 197 Philippides: 127, 135–138, 145 Phylarchus: 101 Pindar: 75, 79 Pisistratus: 67, 72–74, 77, 80 Plato: 53, 60, 72, 77, 94, 251 Pliny the Elder: 96, 237 Pliny the Younger: 240–243, 246, 291, 333 Plutarch: 14, 59, 74, 103 f., 107, 113–147, 154, 166, 167–169, 173, 181, 184 f., 189 Polis: 13, 15, 62, 69, 72 f., 89, 97, 101, 108, 113–118, 185, 187, 189 Polybius: 101 f., 108, 172, 174 f., 251, 315, 328 Polycrates: 73 f., 76 Poppaea: 202 f. princeps clausus: 290, 310 f., 319, 321 Principate: 15 f., 199–206, 215–231, 235–246, 278, 280 f., 292, 316 Priscus of Panium: 320 Probus (emperor): 279 f., 287 Procopius of Caesarea: 307–316, 323–326 Proculus (quaestor): 312 f. Propertius: 191, 193, 198, 202

352

General Index

Ptolemy I: 86 f., 119 Ptolemy II: 87, 118, 183 Ptolemy XII: 186 Ptolemy XIV: 188, 196 Ptolemy XV: 188, 196 Pulcheria: 319 Pythagoras of Ephesus: 76 recusatio imperii: 216, 218–220, 228 res publica: 15 f., 164, 183, 191, 194, 196 f., 200 f., 203, 207 f., 223, 238, 251, 280, 288, 291, 306 Rhodes: 73, 95 Rome: 12, 16, 19, 105, 109, 153 f., 158, 162 f., 164, 167 f., 171, 181, 183, 188, 193–198, 204, 206, 217, 219, 224, 225, 244 f., 250, 259 f., 262, 265, 280, 283, 284, 291, 293, 308 Romulus: 153 f., 157 f., 241, 242 f., 280, 291 Ruler cult: 15, 17, 86 f., 93, 95, 113–118, 126–128, 138, 144–147 Sallust: 198, 203, 237 f., 324, 238 Sasanians: 18, 53–56, 63, 279, 284, 307, 312, 313 f., 315 Scipio the Elder: 15, 104, 158, 173 f., 291 Seleucids: 14, 87, 89, 106, 122, 176, 197, 250, 255 Senate: 16, 18, 163, 168 f., 173–175, 185, 188, 191, 196, 200, 202, 207, 217–222, 225 f., 228 f., 245, 261, 276, 283, 284 f., 291, 294, 310, 314, 316, 325 f., 333 Seneca: 85, 102, 160, 224 Septimius Severus: 201, 215, 277, 291, 306 Servius: 155 f., 175 f. Seti: 31 Severus Alexander: 275, 277 f., 281 Sidonius Apollinaris: 308 f. Stratocles: 94, 120, 127 f., 129, 131, 133–138, 145 Suetonius: 200, 215, 218 f., 240, 264, 280, 286 f. Sulla (dictator): 170–172 Synesius: 317 Syracuse: 76, 78, 79, 119, 165, 176

Tacitus: 16, 29, 198, 201–203, 215, 216 f., 219, 238–241, 263, 270, 306, 333 Teias: 309 f. Teispids: 45, 49, 52 Theodahad: 310, 313 Theodora: 307, 314, 327, 329, 334 Theoderic the Great: 310, 316 Theodosius I: 269, 294 Theodosius II: 309, 319 f. Theophrastus: 94, 102–104, 108, 171 Thrasybulus: 73 f. Thucydides: 12, 13, 72, 156, 315, 328 Thyestes: 160 f. Tiberius: 200 f., 208, 215–223, 227 f., 230, 239 f. Timaios: 101 Titus Labienus: 17, 326 Titus Tatius: 153, 155 f., 158 f., 175 Trajan: 223, 225, 228, 236, 240–244, 246, 270, 275, 276, 278 f. Trebellianus: 288 Tyrant, tyranny: 11–13, 67–81, 85, 90 f., 93 f., 97, 103, 108, 113 f., 117, 132 f., 134, 138, 143, 153–156, 158, 161, 163, 165, 167 f., 171–176, 254, 259–264, 282–286, 293, 314, 321 Usurper, usurpation: 15, 17, 38, 51, 62, 69, 156, 158, 204 f., 209, 215, 239, 269 f., 279–281, 286–289, 309, 312, 316, 318 Valentinian I: 318 Valentinian III: 309, 320 Valerian: 275, 279 f., 287 Vandals: 308, 311 f. Velleius Paterculus: 221–223, 327 Vespasian: 225, 227 f., 275 Vitellius: 225 wa-na-ka: 11 Xenophanes: 58 Xenophon: 13, 60, 114, 181, 192 Xerxes: 49–52, 59 f. Zenobia: 188 f., 204–206, 209 Zeus: 86, 106, 120, 137

When analyzing the character of monar­ chic regimes and their strategies for crea­ ting obedience and acceptance, the focus usually lies on the ruler ideology and the self­representation of the individual monarch. However, the contributions to the present volume try to approach the matter from the angle of the – real or me­ rely anticipated – criticism against the background of which monarchic legitimi­ zation was expressed: what conditions,

what elements, and what strategies were characteristic of a critical discussion of monocracy in antiquity, and to what extent was the relationship between ruler ideology and antimonarchic sentiment marked by mutual dependence? What significance did the eternal background noise possess which as a contre-discourse compelled rulers in Egypt, Persia, Judea, Greece and Rome to justify themselves again and again?

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ISBN 978-3-515-11095-2

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